#MY HUNGER CANNOT BE SATED

[shenzi-hemlock]

There is going to be warm, fresh bread that has taken me hours to prepare and I’m sitting here like

[lamortwrites]

What the fuck use is a god anyway? Humanity creates our own holiness. Did we get permission to make music? Did we ask before reaching our great grubby hands into the sky? Did we stop to check it was allowed before attempting to sate our unending hunger?

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

i gotta admit i would be equally unsurprised if the way the lasting trauma shook out re: meat is that arthur has internalized "this is the Only Food that provides satisfactory sustenance when i'm hungry" (because it was the only thing breaking his fast for several months) and will go apeshit on a rare steak, and it's john who wants to puke whenever he brings this up

[cat-appreciator]

I need new book recommendations, are book recs a thing on Tumblr? I just got done rereading Garth Nix’s Old Kingdom series (and I don’t think I noticed the compulsory heterosexuality back when I was a teen!) plus a bunch of Azula-centric ATLA fanfic and I’m in the mood for more traditional fantasy - wizards! Quests! Badass ladies! - but most of the new stuff I’ve been reading lately has been weird queer SF. Which I love, but it’s not exactly (the same sort of) comfort food.

Feel free to recommend your faves I guess?

[lastoneout]

As someone who struggles with disordered eating thoughts a lot I will forever appreciate Dungeon Meshi for giving me the scene where Laios kicks Toshiro's ass before saying outloud that the reason he won is because he's been eating(and resting) and Toshiro hasn't.

In a world that is so fatphobic it absolutely demonizes needing to eat to the point we have whole entire adult humans who think being hungry is a sign you're addicted to food it means everything to me to have a show say "cooking and eating is not only fun, rewarding, and a way to bond and share/preserve our cultures, it is a necessary part of life that makes your body stronger, you cannot save yourself or others if you're starving, you gain nothing from denying yourself food" like...Dunmeshi is such a breath of fresh air. No fat jokes, no "oh tee hee I gotta watch my weight" comments, no fucking moralizing any type of food as bad or unhealthy, fatty meats and fried foods and carbs being shown as just as nutritious and valuable and necessary as vegetables and salads, the show even having a part talking about how eating isn't just about being full and you can still enjoy food even if you aren't doing it for nutrition or to sate hunger, and Laios literally proving that there is nothing noble in starvation and denial of our base needs....goddamn. I love this story so fucking much.

[leatherbookmark]

thoroughly disappointed and embittered that there's... not really a way to precisely look for ear kink things on ao3. whether you use "ear kink" or "ear fetish", clicking those just leads to the general tag "ears", which is chock-full of animal ears, hybrids etc. the more specific tags of "ear play" and "ear licking" "have not been marked common yet", so even though you have a list of all fics that have used these tags, it's very unhelpful. hmpf! no offense to anthro enthusiasts, but humans also have ears! and where are they! where are they, i ask! nowhere! barely an afterthought! ╚(•⌂•)╝

[bloodiedrogue]

IN MY VEINS

SUMMARY: After disobeying Astarion's request, you find yourself in an interesting position.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 2,501

WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, dom/sub dynamics, shameless knife kink, blood drinking, finger sucking, fingering, orgasm denial, begging, basically just the most depraved thing my mind could think of apparently. Also big ascended Astarion vibes??? But not actually because I cannot ascend him, sorry.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, I guess I'll see y'all in hell for this one. Also in case you've missed it, this is definitely NOT apart of the Lover's Folly universe.

MASTERLIST

-

All at once you feel a cold blade and a hot hand, both of them targeting your throat with quickened calculation. Slightly lower than the blade, the hand shifts tightly against your skin, prompting a low groan of surprise to push through your lips, causing the voice behind you to speak.

“What do you think you're doing here?”

Lightly it flutters against your ear. Sounding like a mixture of whiskey and honey, it piques an interest within your mind that almost immediately forces you to do a double take, attempting to look at Astarion’s face, wondering if that usual scowl of his is on full display.

“Just came to say hi.”

He quietly snorts before moving his torso against your back, pulling you closer. “Hi.”

Swallowing hard, you force your teeth to hit your bottom lip, suppressing the urge to groan again when he pushes the blade closer. 

“What no hi back?” 

In response, you let out a plume of air and try to angle your neck away from the knife, only to be met with rough hands that pull you back in, pricking your skin ever so slightly. As it happens, you close your eyes, releasing your lips from your teeth to let out a soft hi Astarion. One that has him chuckling in your ear without warning. 

“Hello, darling.” Gently, he places a quick kiss to your temple then loosens his hold ever so slightly, allowing you to breathe and remember the small slice now present across your neck. 

“I’m sure the gang will love to see your handiwork in the morning,” you joke, but Astarion doesn’t laugh. Instead, he just continues to kiss your temple, gently dragging his teeth across your skin as he lowers his mouth, moving to the edge of your jaw. 

It leaves you breathless where you stand —frozen from the feeling of different temperatures exploring your outsides. On one end, his hands feel surprisingly warm; big and soft but rough in their ministrations as he clutches the front of your throat. However, on the other, there’s the threatening reminder of the knife. How one wrong move could result in the laceration of your poor esophagus. 

You have to force yourself not to protest at the position you find yourself in. Stuck beneath his hold; your back pressed firmly against his front with little room for movement, all you can do is stare forward and hope he’s quick. That his hunger for flesh can be sated before the lust kicks in. 

Having been on the road together for so long, you’ve experienced both sides of such a spectrum. Happily feeding his fill, you’ve offered over blood and sex in various ways and combinations. And if you’re honest you’re favourite is when he eats and then fucks you. 

“I thought I told you to stay put while I’m hunting.” 

His teeth move to nibble at your ear, an action that has you rearing slightly back, remembering his command. The way he cupped your chin as you sat inside his tent, frowning at the prospect of having to wait. Back then, you had every intention of listening. Of patiently waiting with bated breath as he hunted for dinner before returning to you to claim desert. But then you grew bored. Restless at the hands of time itself and decided quickly that defiance was the proper answer. 

“You were taking too long.”

It comes out like a whine, making you slightly cringe, hearing the desperation in your voice. Realizing just how sickly hopeless he makes you feel over the simplest things. 

“And now I’m going to take even longer, aren’t I?”

You can practically feel the grin that graces his lips. The way it pulls up on either end, revealing two pointed canines ready to strike. You can’t see them but you know they’re itching for flesh, his tongue moving along their points as he stares down at your pulsing neck, wondering if he should drink you now or later or perhaps at all.

Deep down, you know he doesn’t have much restraint for the latter. On more than one occasion he’s expressed that the taste of you is infectious. A delight so utterly consuming he often thinks about keeping you even after this is all over.

You’ve never admitted it but there’s a part of you that wants that too. To allow him the comfort of always feeling fed. As the days go on, you tend to dwell on the idea more often than not, imagining a life where you'd be bound by his hand, forever forced to serve his hunger and lust. 

It’s a tempting future. One that has you standing with anticipation, feeling Astarion lightly kick the base of your calves, motioning for you to move. 

Slowly, you step through the clearing, straining your eyes to look at the ground below for signs of obstruction. Considering one misstep could mean your end, you try your best not to move while simultaneously showing no signs of struggling —wanting to look brave. 

“You’re lucky I wasn’t in the middle of something.”

His voice is distracting. The way it hits your face in heavy, angered puffs makes you blink and step a little far, resulting in the buckling of your leg, prompting him to humorously hum and steady your frame. 

“Be careful, my dear. Wouldn’t want you slipping on my blade, now would we?” 

Immediately, you let out a nervous laugh and continue as if nothing happened, moving until you’re in the middle of a grouping of trees that seclude you from the rest of the world. 

Once there, Astarion’s grasp slips away, your throat feeling instantly soothed by the amount of air you’re suddenly able to pull in, even if with the knife still present. 

“Sorry for bothering you —just missed you is all,” you tell him, hearing him chuckle under his breath, telling you he knows. 

“You always miss me,” he teases then, circling around to finally face you at the same time his blade trails up your skin, nicking your chin with a quick flick of his wrist, resulting in the tiniest cut.

For a moment it stings but then it’s soothed by the pressing of his thumb, reaching forward to swipe away the bit of blood that collects before forcing it towards your closed mouth. “Open.”

Your stomach twists with reluctance but regardless you do as he says, feeling the pad move to the back of your throat and slowly slide down, pulling your bottom lip down in the process. 

“Ah, so you are still capable of obedience, my mistake.” Raising his brow, his thumb continues its descent, your lip bouncing back into place as his other fingers move to grip your chin, pulling you in —feeling his blade slip between your torsos without warning, the tip pressing against your ribcage. “Or perhaps your mistake?” 

A short gasp falls between you as you struggle not to move further. Against your skin, the blade sits snugly at your centre, threatening to sink if you so much as shiver. 

Across his face, Astarion adorns a wicked grin that has you secretly cursing his name for denying you his touch, especially when you know he wants it just as much. 

“Now, are you going to be good or are we going to continue to have this little—“ he stops to clench his jaw, poking through the leathers of your vest so that you can taste a bit of pain that may or may not come, “—problem.” 

Without hesitation you give him a nod, signalling your immediate obedience just as he pulls back the knife, and yanks you forward by your belt loops. 

“Good. Cause I rather like you, despite the attitude.” 

You’re tempted to laugh but refuse to so much as breathe as you move your hands cautiously to his chest, testing out the waters. 

Thankfully they’re not as choppy as before. Instead, they’re slow and steady, allowing you to grip the collar of his shirt and grin, carefully pulling him down to press your outstretched neck against his teeth.

“I’m sorry for leaving.” 

His tongue laps at your flesh almost instantly. Then, following behind, his lips suction themselves into the crook, making you inhale deeply, tightening the hold you have on his head. Feeling that bloom of contentment resurface once you hear the dropping of his knife and feel the softness of his touch start to roam. 

It lasts only for a couple of seconds before you’re led towards the ground, back shoved forcibly against the dirt. It knocks the wind right out of you, prompting a choked-out gasp to sound just before he drags his teeth along the outside of your artery, but you hardly care. Every sensation after that comes and goes in quick succession, sending you into that familiar space of servitude that has you clutching the roots of his hair, trying to coast. 

At first, the pain of his teeth descending into your veins takes over. Two pinpricks that remind you of the knives he often uses to keep you in line. Every inch of their movement makes you choke on your own spit, the sudden force of it pushing through each layer making you cry. Then you feel his tongue again. The way it ebbs and flows across the freshly made wound, sucking down every drop that’s presented. 

At that point, the pain begins to subside a little. Replacing it, a newfound euphoria floats around your head with an almost cold emptiness, resulting in a slackness that has you barely holding onto Astarion’s hair as you softly moan.

Which makes him laugh against your throat. The reverb of his verbal torment only making things worse when you feel that final lick, watching as he comes back up for air. Your eyes are barely open then as you sleepily reach up and brush away a bit of blood from his cheek, feeling it collect at the tips before he’s fully popping your finger into his mouth. Then all you can focus on is the movement of his tongue again, how it swirls along your skin, teasing your mind with thoughts of it moving elsewhere. 

After that, it’s all you can think about. Even after he’s relinquished your hand to rest against his cheek. Your thoughts fill with visions of him pressed between your thighs, sinking his tongue into your cunt. Drinking you up like the starving man you know him to be. Allowing his greed to take over in the form of a pleasure you know you don’t deserve. 

That doesn’t stop you from trying to earn it though.

“Astarion.” Your hand drags him gently down again, focusing on the blood that still coats his lips. Smelling the iron tang of your life’s liquid tainted across his skin. “Can you—“

He already knows what you’re asking before you can finish. In the time you’ve been together, he’s tended to your every need just as you’ve done to him, so he’s already well aware of your desires. Of the desperation that coats your features when he begins to slip down carefully, already making work of his hands.

Before you know it you’re naked from the hips down, the cool air wafting along your skin before he settles in, laying on the forest floor with your thighs atop his shoulders. Then the warmth of his breath coasts along your cunt, causing you to twitch.

“So pretty,” he coos, a small laugh following suit once he feels the tightness of your thighs, wrapping around the sides of his head. Gently, he then readjusts his hand to the press against your entrance, ever so gently swiping up and down with two of his fingers. “And wet.” 

You snort, quietly, feeling a bit embarrassed despite how many times you’ve done this. “Only for you, love.”

“Of course. No other man could render you so useless.” His fingers curl so that it’s his knuckles that are grazing you, pushing you slightly apart as he moves them up and down. “I’ve barely touched you and you’re already—“

His fingers twist, his thumb pressing against your clit, sending your back upwards. 

Your reaction makes him chuckle and return to his previous ministrations, this time even slower than before, forcing you to groan, knowing it’s your own fault. If you had just listened you wouldn’t have to deal with the teasing. The endless game you know is just beginning, feeling the way he languidly moves, grinning all the while.

“Is something the matter, darling?”

His breath is ghosting the spot you want him to fuck. His fingers are moving but not at all at the pace you need them to be, and frankly, you’re desperate. A mess of regret and lust all mixed together, rising throughout your chest. 

“Astarion, please.” 

You’re not above begging. You’ve done it loads of times before but considering your current lack patience, it’s hard not to think about the barely there veil of composure he knows he’s able to exploit in the most delicious of ways.

“I’m sorry, I can’t quite hear you, love. It’s a bit noisy down here with all the… wetness.” 

You resist the urge to groan at his terrible joke, feeling a finger dip between your folds for just a moment before it’s gone again. “Please.”

“Please? Oh, my darling, whatever could you be pleasing me about?” He raises his head to grin, causing you to notice that your blood is still very much coated on his lips, drying as the seconds pass. 

“I swear to g—“

Before you can defy further, he tuts menacingly, staring you down, forcing your mouth to close. “Don’t make me grab the knife.” 

Immediately, you swallow your words and just nod your head, allowing yourself a moment to recuperate just as he chuckles and, without warning, presses his mouth to your clit, sending you closer to the edge.

It only lasts a second but it’s enough to have you fully committing, your voice loud and proud, verbally repeating your wants and needs without breath. Telling him how much you want him to touch you. To draw his tongue up and down your folds as he buries his face deep inside. 

By the end of your spiel, you’re almost breathless and staring, your chest heaving up and down at the prospect of him finally giving in. Quickly, your eyes wander, exploring his features as his tongue pokes out to lick his bottom lip, forcing you to bite your own, wondering if he’ll do it. If he’ll finally grant you the release you so desperately need.

Looking between you and the one place you want him to focus his attention on, you see him smirk and sink three fingers in, pushing with little regard for the force that works against him. 

“Do you truly think you’ve earned such a gift?” he asks, allowing his lips to split to reveal his bloodied teeth before they plunge themselves into the plush of your inner thigh, forcing you to cry as he denies you of your pleasure time and time again.

-

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[effervescentcvnt]

the protector of the forest - part 1

cw: dubcon, dendrophilia

it was just supposed to be a relaxing walk in the forest. adventuring is hard work, and honestly, all you want right now is some peace and quiet. it's a wonderful midsummer's day, birds are chirping, the sun is shining softly through the leaves, the entire forest seems to be in bloom. eventually, you stumble upon a clearing in the woods; in the middle of it grows an odd-looking plant - or, really, more of a massive pile of tangled tendrils and roots with the most beautiful, huge yellow flowers you've ever seen. there seems to be some pollen floating about in the air; it almost seems to glimmer in the sun.

you step closer cautiously, the place feels serene, almost sacred. there are tendrils covering the ground, too, and you're trying your best not to step on any of them. accidentally, though, your foot catches on a tendril, and you fall forwards onto your hands and knees. as you try to get back up, you feel the tendril wrapping around your ankle. above you, the strange plant awakens like an ancient forest god from their slumber.

the plant unfurls itself and bristles as if it's trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. it extends its roots and tendrils towards you as you try to yank your leg free. however, the plant proves to be far stronger than you, quickly overpowering you and before you know it, you're dangling mid-air, being held in place by the plant. desperately, you attempt to break free, but to no avail. then, you hear it: a voice, genderless and seemingly sourceless, until you realise that the plant itself is speaking to you inside of your head.

cease your struggle, sweet mortal. i will not hurt you.

some of the tendrils that aren't holding you softly caress your legs and arms in an attempt to soothe you. hesitantly, you steady yourself.

"what are you? why are you doing this?" you whisper to the plant, your voice laced with fear. you've encountered all sorts of creatures on your travels, but never anything quite like this.

i am the protector of this forest. i have been sleeping for so long, but you have awakened me. i hunger, though; will you help me sate my hunger?

your mouth falls open in bewilderment as you take in the plant's words. "you aren't going to eat me, are you?" you squeak, your voice rising in panic.

of course not, you silly thing. as i said, you will come to no harm. there's just something i need from you.

"and what's that?" you ask, after being assured you won't be devoured, you feel slightly less terrified, yet you cannot believe that your leisurely afternoon stroll has taken such a turn.

i feed on the pleasure of the creatures that i lure in with my flowers - creatures just like you. no one has found me in such a long time, though, and i feel quite... starved. will you be a dear and help me?

every word that the plant utters makes you feel more and more perplexed but the tendrils stroking you feel comforting, and as one of them gently caresses your cheek, you lean into it without even thinking. as the plant awaits your answer and continues its ministrations, there is another sensation as well; you feel a familiar heat starting to pulse between your legs.

i should mention that the pollen you've been inhaling all this time has quite an effect on humans; i use it to heighten the pleasure of those i've lured in. can you feel it already?

you certainly can, you realise, and the notion is as jarring as it is thrilling. your cunt is starting to grow wet and your thoughts are becoming slower, as if your head was filled with something sweet and sticky. you try to close your legs or perhaps rub your thighs together but the plant is firmly holding them apart. the heat in your cunt is starting to spread and intensify, and you desperately want to touch yourself to relieve some of it, but your hands are trapped. all you can do is hang there like a fly caught in a spider's web.

"i will help you...," you whisper.

thank you. you won't regret this.

----------

// thank you for reading <3 part 2 is coming soon!! it'll be quite a bit smuttier hehe

[ryttu3k]

So I got up to the Mystra scene in my Gale Origin run and I have A Lot of thoughts, most of them boiled down to "FIGHT ME, MYSTRA", but also a theory on Mystra orchestrating the whole thing with the Orb. Few too many caps to post all of them, so I've typed them up. My comments in parentheses.

Narrator: "Just as Elminster promised, you stand before no ordinary idol. Beneath the silent stone surges a relentless current of purest Weave. A summoning channel, the kind commanded by Mystra herself. How many times have you dreamed of this moment? An audience with the goddess who loved you. Who abandoned you. All you have to do is reach for it…"

(Shift of expression here - from fear to determination.)

Halsin: "Speak your mind, Gale. Let go of that weight you have been carrying for Mystra."

(I loved Halsin speaking up here! Unsure if it's a romance-only line but it felt very sweet and appropriate.)

Reach out. Go to Mystra.

(Expression of dread. He looks like he's being sent to the gallows.)

Mystra: "Gale of Waterdeep. You look well."

Gale: "You break up with me, cut me off from the Weave, leave me to die, and that's all you have to say? You look well?"

(First response to seeing Mystra after a full year of pain and suffering. He looks anguished seeing her again, and how... dismissive her response is.)

Mystra: "I did not come here to suffer a mortal's admonitions. Certainly not yours. I've been watching your journey here. Your triumphs. Your temptations. Your doubts. You discovered what lies at the Heart of the Absolute - the Crown of Karsus - and you disobeyed my instruction. Why?"

(1. The 'certainly not yours' feels especially callous. 2. The way she phrases this implies that she knew what it was already. She wasn't sending Gale to kill himself to destroy a new god, she was sending Gale to kill himself to destroy an elder brain wearing a Crown that has previously threatened her personally.)

Gale: "Because my life isn't yours to throw away. You had no right to ask that of me."

Mystra: "You were my lover, my Chosen, yet still you know so little of me. I hoped hindsight would help you see what you could not perceive before. Do you understand why I severed our connection?"

(The hell is hindsight supposed to do? This one one of the biggest things that gets to me with the whole Orb thing - how was he supposed to know?)

Gale: "I let you down. I was a fool, and fools don't deserve the love of a goddess."

(Expression - he looks so hurt here. He absolutely blames himself.)

Mystra: "The past cannot be undone with self-pity, nor can a future be forged. Only with the truth will you see the way ahead. The fragment of magic you tried to return to me was not of my creation. It was the Karsite Weave. It is a corrupted, half-born magic wrought in the brief moment Karsus ascended to godhood. It hungers for power just as he did, and it can never be sated. You unleashed something that would consume all magic in existence, and yet you thought only of preserving yourself."

(So she blames him for unleashing the Orb. Again, how was he supposed to know? Probably the only ones who know about Karsite Weave were Karsus himself, Mystra, and probably Ao. How was a thirty-four-year-old mortal human dude supposed to know of a completely new and unknown form of magic that existed for the approximately six and a half seconds Karsus was a god for? Elminster points out at one point that Mystra is omniscient. Gale is not. How was he supposed to know? Second, 'you thought only of preserving yourself'. She left him to die! And the minor issue of if he did die, he'd take out Waterdeep in the process!)

Gale: "I never intended to do harm. Only to prove myself worthy of you."

Mystra: "You were already worthy. What you lacked was patience, and it cost you dearly. When the Karsite Weave entered your body, your gifts were the first things it consumed. The only reason the 'orb' sleeps is because I have allowed it to feed on the true Weave - a temporary measure, but one that will not be enough to save us. With each day that passes, the elder brain threatens to become a new kind of god, its worshippers a scourge of soulless illithids. If you will not use the orb to end this abomination, then you must find a way to separate Crown and host. When you've done this, you must surrender the Crown to me. Perform this service, and I will see you cured. You will be forgiven."

(1. 'Your gifts were the first things it consumed'. Sorcerer Gale, natch. 2. So that more or less implies that she could have stablised the Orb at any time. Even if she couldn't - for whatever the reason - warn him about it ahead of time, she could have still prevented the year he spent in pain, the year he spent weakened, desperate, isolated, and depressed, the year he spent thinking that one wrong move would not only kill him but destroy all of Waterdeep with him! She didn't just risk him out of spite, she risked a two-million strong population!)

Gale: "You're the mother of all magic, the Weave incarnate. Can't you just destroy the Crown yourself?"

(His expression is downcast for most of the conversation. Here, he finally looks up. Beseeching. Not just, "Why couldn't you do this?", but also, "Why couldn't you prevent this?")

Mystra: "It is not my place to destroy another god's creation, however temporarily he joined the pantheon. It must be you, Gale. You are the one who carries Karsus' power within you. You are the only one who can."

(But of course, it's entirely her place for her Chosen to do it for her. Will get back to this point in a moment.)

Gale: "Very well. The next time we meet, I'll be bringing you the Crown."

Mystra: "Thank you. May the Weave's light guide your purpose, and its wisdom guide your hand. The future of magic rests on your shoulders, Gale of Waterdeep. I promise you - it is a burden you are strong enough to bear."

(Yeah, the Weave's guided him great so far. No pressure!)

So, there's a couple of questions here.

First, what did Gale believe he was doing?

He believed he was restoring a fragment of Mystra's lost Weave to her. He knows that Karsus' Folly was the crux of it, but all he knows - all he possibly can know, at this point - is that magic was restored except for one fragment. He wanted to be seen to be worthy of Mystra, and so believed that restoring that fragment to her would be both a symbol of love and devotion, and also something that'd be of tangible help to her.

Indeed, he thought he was carrying out her mission. "The goal of Mystra's faithful is simple: that magic be preserved and promulgated throughout the Realms." Was it perhaps a sliiight sign of hubris that he wanted to do it to prove himself worthy of her love and admiration? A little, yeah, but what else did she expect? He had been groomed since childhood to be the greatest wizard he possibly could. He was thirty-four, he was Mystra's Chosen and lover, he knows mortals can be elevated to higher powers. This very incarnation of Mystra only became so in 1358, after being one of Mystra's followers!

Ambitious, yes. But he never wanted to supplant her. He wanted to be seen as worthy and perhaps achieve apotheosis, which is exactly what she did herself.

Second, though, and more importantly, is what did Mystra see Gale doing?

She is, per Elminster, omniscient. She can sense any magic being used. She knows when Gale just reads the Annals of Karsus. She had to have known that what her Chosen was about to unleash was Karsite Weave, and...

She opted to do nothing, let Gale nearly be killed by the orb, let him suffer for a year, then tell him to fix it by killing himself, only when the Crown itself came back into play.

Think of it from Mystra's perspective. The year is 1491 DR. She's spent a good chunk of her actual godhood dead and has only relatively recently been restored, although she has, at this point, indeed been fully restored to all her powers. One of her Chosen is a young human wizard named Gale, who she's also taken as her lover. Gale is ambitious - of course he is, he's an insanely talented Chosen wizard - and actively wants to please her.

The Crown of Karsus is sealed away in Mephistopheles' vaults. The Orb of Karsus is sealed away in a book. (Who knows where the Sceptre is.) She knows it's a threat, but one that's currently under control.

She sees her Chosen approach the book the Orb is sealed in. She must realise that her Chosen has no idea what's in it, because she's well aware he's never read the Annals of Karsus, and he certainly wasn't there at the time. What's the more logical response here?

Tell your Chosen that what's sealed in the book is an extremely dangerous form of anti-magic that is an immediate threat to you, to him, and to everyone around him, and that if he isn't willing to just leave it alone, he should instead destroy it for you, or

Let your Chosen unleash it without warning him, nearly killing him and posing a very real threat to two million people until it's stabilised, which you can do at any time but don't?

She must have been thrilled when the Crown was stolen, right around the same time. Suddenly, she has a way to rid herself of the blight of Karsus - use one artefact to destroy the other! Never mind that one of those artefacts is currently lodged in the chest of her Chosen and doing so would kill him and a great many others, she's got rid of a greater threat.

The Crown was stolen and Gale was hit by the Orb around the same time, a year before the game. Which came first? What if the Crown was stolen first, what if Mystra grew worried about it because look at what happened last time, and, knowing that one of the only things strong enough to destroy the Crown would be another of Karsus' artefacts, she deliberately guided Gale to it? What if she intentionally abandoned him in order to prime him to want to do anything he could to gain her forgiveness, which she could conveniently grant if only he used the Orb to destroy the Crown?

Either way, it was cruel. If it was just sheer neglect that saw her fail to warn him, it was also stupid. She's omniscient. She could have warned Gale any time. She could have stablised the Orb at any time. Why leave him to suffer? Was it petty sadism, or did she always intend to use him as a tool to destroy the Crown, and never mind the consequences?

She's already willing to sacrifice half the Sword Coast to an illithid invasion if it means getting rid of the Crown. What's one more life?

Hashtag fight me Mystra, hashtag Gale deserves better.

[avocado-writing]

I will forfeit all my worldly possessions for some gortash nsfw, you’re amazing keep up the good work!

cws: hate sex. gn!reader x gortash. enjoy!

you fucking hate him. oh, you hate him.

you make sure he knows it every time you run your nails down his back, rake them, really; leaving hot red welts in their wake. you want him to cry out in pain. instead he hisses in pleasure and buries himself in your further.

it is delicious. it is torture. it is heavenly.

when he’d suggested you’d work together, you’d swallowed your pride and done it for the good of baldur’s gate. the people loved him after all, even if it was all due to his campaign of faux grandeur. ‘a man of the people’. as if. if he was in a lineup and you had to choose the person who you thought had crawled out of the hells, you’d pick him every single time.

but still, despite it all, despite his devilish upbringing and baneite loyalties, there was a bigger enemy to face, and he was a powerful ally.

so ally you did.

it started off innocent enough, him calling meetings with you, just you. strategising, he reasoned. no point in not sharing information. you looked at him with disdain over his map of the city, he just arched a brow.

you hated yourself for having a reaction to it, burning white hot in the pit of your stomach. a mix of rage and lust. when everyone was asleep that night at the elfsong, you shoved your hand between your legs to ease the pressure he had built up, cursing him as you came.

his honeyed words dripped on you. dulled your senses to the lurid colours of his purulent personality. he was evil. viciously so. no good to be next to in the long run.

yet when he hooked the finger of his gauntlet under your chin and brought you in for a kiss, you did not pull away. you met his challenge head on. you teethed at his tongue when it slipped between your lips. you wanted him to know you’d take what you needed from him and hate him as you went. he wanted you to know he didn’t care and would enjoy it anyway.

and now: this.

his hand slipping up your thigh during your meeting until he cups your sex. you near-snarling in return and ripping at his fine clothes, hungering for the meat of his body. you are no aesthete. there is no use in pretending you care about what your tear away - he surely has the best tailors in this city at his beck and call, and it goes some way to soothing your wounded ego when his gown is in scraps from your ardour.

and it is wounded, of course, because you debase yourself like this.

he sits you on top of the map of the city, lays you out over it, and fucks you. there’s a poetry to your bodies combining on top of your shared home. he thrusts and you growl in the back of your throat, smothering his smug smile by forcing him into a near-violent kiss. hate him. you hate him.

his cock slides into your body, thick and hard, and despite your better judgement there is a little thrill in knowing that you get this powerful man to have such a reaction. that the roseate of his cheeks and heave of his chest is because he desires you with his whole being. you purr when his head dips between your legs and he ravishes you with his tongue, just as clever when it fucks as it is when he speaks.

you want to take him apart piece by piece. as he thrusts down into you, dark and dangerous eyes boring into yours without missing a beat, you know he wants to do the exact same in return. reduce you both to parts. jigsaw them together and let the combination of the two of you rule this city, rule the brain, rule the world.

every time you couple, you let yourself get lost in the idea of it for just a moment. the idea of him. the idea of him and you.

but when it is over and you are both sated, your mind and sense return. you cannot trust this man, even after he has been inside of you, when he knows the most intimate etchings of your soul.

so you bid him goodnight, and no more. he is once again an enemy held as close as a friend.

“until next time,” says Gortash with an easy smile, and you want to tell him there will be no ‘next time’ - but it would be a lie neither of you would believe.

[comatosebunny09]

“your body is immaculate, darling,” astarion huffs into the junction of your shoulder, earning a most delectable sound from your lips.

he roots his nose against your carotid, inhaling slowly. you smell of earth and sweet things that make his head fill with static. he shuts his eyes against a rush of endorphins. against the gentle thrum of your blood in your veins. wears a grin of all teeth, making several expeditions over the swell of your waist with his hands. tender whilst he brands your neck with exalting kisses.

a hunger that cannot be sated by the ichor flowing through your body alone curdles in his belly.

he wants you. craves you in a way that borders animalistic. you’ve made him wait so long. made him sit pretty whilst you brushed off his blatant attempts at bedding you. made the chase all the more riveting, and for months, astarion could only dream of how wonderful you’d feel—how heavenly you’d sound—whilst he pumped himself into the cold clench of his fist, wishing it were you. praying to whatever power above that you’d catch him mid-stroke as your name slinked from his lips. praying that you would join him in his pursuit of pleasure.

but now. oh-ho-ho, now, he’s worn you down. unlatched the bindings of your armor and poured himself into the little cracks and chasms of your heart. wheedled his way beneath your skin and filled your mind with him and only him—tadpoles be damned.

the notching of your hips against his serves as a gauge for your own desire. you smile ever so big, melting like honey into his palms. reach behind to tangle your fingers in his snowy thatch of hair, drawing him impossibly closer. need to feel him any and everywhere you can.

astarion needs no further goading, taking to nipping your neck with pointed canines, careful not to break skin. your satisfied purr choruses alongside the chirp of the crickets outside. rivals the occasional flap of his tent in the breeze, and if his heart still beat, it would be the loudest thing around. thrumming like his cock in his breeches, twitching against the curve of your ass.

“my love,” he lauds. desperation swims in the underbelly of his voice, mirroring the sudden urgency of his touch. “my darling. my sweet. my princess.” and he’s breathy, hands roving over your body, scrambling to feel the suppleness of your flesh beneath them. pulling at your tunic, clawing at your breeches.

it’s as if the gods forged you just to ruin him.

“let me have you. let me make love to you. please.”

[pursuitseternal]

“Bites in the Night:” a series of Astarion x Reader drabbles from the days on the road…

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Part 1: “Go back to sleep, darling…”

Astarion x Fem!Reader | M | 1.4K of Romance

Summary: you’ve been fed on before, but you cannot deny how much you are the one who now hungers for it…

CW: consensual biting, blood kink, flirtation, a bit… angsty? First kiss

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No more bites in the night, he had promised. True to his word, Astarion always waited for your invitation now. Just a little offer thrown his way with increasing frequency. You can feed on me tonight.

You can’t help it, how addicting it is, waking with just that little ache in your body, watching the way he smiles at you, knowingly, as you sit and eat whatever breakfast your other companions had thrown together. It makes a pool of heat settle in your belly, as if you are the one now full to bursting and yet not sated. As if you are the one cursed with eternal hunger.

He always fights so beautifully those days after he drinks of your blood, almost dancing as he pounces and stalks and rips out throats like the true predator he is. You can almost feel it after, however, the expenditure of the limited power you grant him each time he feeds.

Soon, those ashen pools would settle beneath his eyes again, his movements slowing the longer into the day you journey.

The same happens today, that lethargy visible as the sun begins to set. So tonight, as you make camp, you find a reason to hesitate by Astarion’s tent. He is busy setting up the colored canvas of his structure. You see his hands are shaking as he bends down to tie and fasten the tether to the stake in the ground.

“I’m… gathering firewood,” you stop shy of his crouching body.

His head snaps as he looks up at you, brows furrowed in confusion. “And?” he snips. Perhaps the efforts he expended today took a greater toll on him that the grey in his skin even tells you. He sneers, clearly exasperated and annoyed. “I’m busy if you’re asking for my commonly-sought-for and usually riveting company.”

“No,” you force a easy laugh. “No I’m capable on my own, thank you.”

That earns another, deeper furrow of his brows, his fist clutching around the handle of his hammer now. “Then what do you want?” he purrs.

“You… didn’t happen to notice if there was anything that looked promising on the way here?”

Standing slowly, his face quirks into that familiar smirk, those brows now canting as he looks down at you. Crimson eyes flicker over your face, finally resting on the lingering marks of his fangs from last night. “Oh, I never stray my gaze far from the most promising things, but as for firewood? No.” He cocks his head, eyes heavy lidded as he scans your whole form now. “No, I was perhaps too… distracted to search my surroundings for something so mundane.”

You shrug. “Nevermind then,” you toss casually, ignoring the way your heart is rapping against your ribs.

“I… don’t think you wish me to nevermind,” he comments with equal indifference. Even as he slides one step into your path. “What did you really wish to say, darling?”

The words bubble from your throat before you can make them seem dispassionate. “You can feed on me tonight.”

His smirk tweaks just a hint higher. “I was hoping you would offer, darling…” He leans back, as if he is out of your way. “See you tonight, even if you won’t see me, my sweet.” You push past him, your hand accidentally brushing past his own arm, the chill of his body sending a little shiver through your frame. “Good luck,” he purrs as you enter into the brush and trees at the edge of camp.

Your evening passes with little event. Your pulse never slows, even as you lay in your bedroll, the soft crackle of fire unsuccessful at lulling you into any sleep deeper than a soft breathing with sweat-covered thoughts that grip your mind and body. Not dreams. No, you lay on your side in semi-consciousness, facing towards the dying embers of the fire. That’s how you hear the almost imperceptible tread of a foot in the dirt.

It’s slight, just a soft rustle and a gentle scuttle in the dirt beside you. But then you feel his breath, cold on your neck. Easily mistaken for a night breeze, except you have waited to feel it all night.

For a man who drips with sex, his very voice meant to make you tremble with need, he does not creep too close. His hand rests on your shoulder with uncertainty. The other gently sweeps back the stray strands of your hair from your neck.

His touch is reserved, hesitant, only brushing your body where necessary. Beneath that shell of seduction, you feel the self-doubt, the nerves worn to a shred from 200 years of abuse. And for as much as you long to turn and wrap your arms around him and his suffering soul, you fight the urge. You shut your eyes tighter, counting the second of your every inhale and exhale to make them sound sleepy.

Then comes his bite. That delicious puncture of your skin that hurts for a second, quickly tenderly cared for with soft laps of his tongue as he drinks from you. You try not to twitch, try not to lean your body against him as he crouches. He must think himself so stealthy, and you wouldn’t want to take that from your rogue.

All too soon he withdraws, but you feel the mass of his body lingering. You can almost hear his head twist as he observes you. “Go back to sleep, darling,” he whispers. “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me…”

“How…?” you begin, shifting in your bed to look up at him. His hair luminous in the starlight, his skin as pale as the moon.

That smirk only widens, a trickle of your blood runs from the elevated corner of his lips. “Please,” he gives a little chuckle, bending down to whisper right into the curves of your ear, “two-hundred years, and I know the dance of a sleeping heart… and the beat of one who just can’t get enough of me being so near them.”

You turn your head, looking right into those crimson eyes, now glowing a bit with his renewed strength.

“Next time you wish to do this again awake, you have but to ask, darling…” his lips purse as he finishes his words. But you notice that ripple of hesitation again. “I’m eager for any and all your suggestions, my dear.”

Now you hesitate, your eyes flicker between the way his long, dexterous fingers rest on his bent knee to the way his lips still are stained with your blood. You breathe, “Will you…” You swallow, unable to get the last words from your dry throat.

“Yes?” he encourages you, his voice barely more than a rasp.

“Will you… kiss me?” You feel your stomach drop in horror at your boldness.

But your daring earns you a smile that flashes his brilliant white teeth at you. “I thought you would never ask, darling…” he purrs, lowering his mouth once more. It is quick, well, quicker than you would like. His lips press softly on yours, the coppery taste of your blood touching your tongue. He begins to withdraw, but you aren’t done, your heart races again. Your hand flies into his silver hair, holding gently at the base of his neck, trying to hang on for one more moment. You feel his muscles soften, relaxing as he feels your want. That you invite him closer. His own hand moves similarly, tenderly lifting your chin, his lips beginning to move almost imperceptibly between yours.

You taste yourself more on his mouth, the slow languorous way he works into yours, sharing that flavor bit by bit.

Until he pulls back. You let him. Careful not to push, or tug him. Not to break his trust, for as much as he begs you for yours.

“So much for no more bites in the night,” he laughs quietly. “I… do like that, you know. It is ever so much more fun when you are awake.”

You say nothing. No coherent words can form on your tongue or in your mind. So instead you nod, you smile, your hand trying to grab the twisted blanket to fit back around you.

But his pale hands reach for it first. “Go back to sleep, darling,” he repeats, quieter than before as he pulls the woolen wrap to cover your body.

You feel sleep tugging you under at last, the soft throb of your neck almost as sweet as the ghost of his kiss on your lips.

And as you close your eyes, you breathe, almost feeling that powerful, glowing gaze watching you from his tent. Watching over you until the light of dawn.

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My other Astarion x Reader fics:

“The Rogue You Were:” part 1–Welcome me (NSFW)

“The Rogue You Were:” part 2-Cleanse me (NSFW)

“Just A Drop:” drabble as he turns Tav

[henrietta-ghast]

I think people recently have been forgetting that Dan isn’t a halfa anymore he’s like 200% ghost or something. At minimum he’s like 100% ghost if we decide that Phantom And Plasmius WITHOUT Danny and Vlad count as only 50% ghost even separated from their human halves. He will not look human or like Danny all the way and Danny will not look like Dan when he gets older because Dan is Also Plasmius. I keep seeing fics where people talk about aged down Dan having black hair and blue eyes and generally looking like a human child which he would not and can never be. not properly, unless you want to play with like reincarnation.

obviously do whatever you want forever but the angst and comedy of having one weirdo guy who CANNOT pretend to be human hanging out with a bunch of people who are like "regular guys" like tell me about how freaky it is to see Mr. Flaming hair green skin hanging out with three normal looking teens. I want to know how people react to that and when people don’t acknowledge that he’s full ghost I assume they’ve simply forgotten and tbh I’m gonna start hijacking shit to sate my hunger soon.

[reallyhatethiswebsite]

blame @ultrakatua for this raphael eats tav's heart (she's into it lol)

Read on AO3

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“I heard an interesting saying once,” says the devil. Soft, slow, murmured like a gentle prayer by a devout at church. “You mortals are so terribly fond of those.”

“What saying,” says the mouse. Hushed, fast, words pushed through cracked dry lips licked one-too-many times by a tongue that cannot lay still. Impatient, but obedient.

“That the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” says the devil. “Quite the allegory. Don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” says the mouse.

The devil circles her. Stares, eyes dark and glittering. Calm, controlled, despite the yawning hunger so clearly written all over his handsome face. He is always hungry. Gluts upon the things he covets: souls, power, subservience. Her. Men like him cannot be sated. He will consume everything she offers and everything she doesn’t, for eternity. What a thrilling thought.

“I wonder,” says the devil. “What is the quickest way to your heart?”

He drags one sharp and solitary black claw along her bare flesh. Displayed so sweetly for him. Damp with sweat. Muscles quiver beneath her fragile skin that does not break, not yet, not until he wills it. Blood flows close to the surface yearning to be spilled. Her little baby hairs all stand on end.

“Raphael,” the mouse whispers. There is the gentle, ominous chime of a grandfather clock from somewhere.

“Beloved,” the devil croons. Smiles. Reaches between her legs to rub two fingers through her mons. She gasps, hips jerking when he nudges her swollen clit, but all he’s looking for is to coat himself in her warm slick. “A meal as fine as this should be savoured.” He holds those wet fingers up to her lips. “Open.”

The taste of her cunt is tart, earthy. Underneath it is purely him: cherries, smoke and magic. Reverently she sucks his digits clean. Bites them, thrilled by his quiet groan, the expanding of his pupils, the swish of his tail. Violence is a devil’s love language, after all. When he frees his fingers from the moist prison of her mouth, her teeth catch on his knuckles. He leaves twin trails of spit down her chin and throat as he lazily lets his huge paw rest between her breasts. She grows breathless with anticipation.

He doesn’t need a blade. The singular claw that earlier teased her with terrible promise is enough. He draws a division from the hollow of her clavicle to the end of her sternum, a division of red that blooms and blossoms into an incision, splitting skin and fat and muscle tissue like bursting fruit. She arches up off the table where he had her present herself, as all choice cuts should. The noise she releases is guttural, both agony and ecstasy. His first slice is always the deepest.

“Such beautiful sounds you make,” the devil purrs, voice tight. “Sweeter than all the music of the Hells. Let me hear more.”

Of course she obliges. Screams and whimpers and sobs even as her hands help him widen the wound further, pulling skin and meat slippery with gushing blood apart from the stained ivory of her ribs. It’s pain indescribable and pleasure inexplicable. The exposing of her true and tender self to the man who she wants to tear her apart. What he seeks, what she yearns to offer him, is protected behind a cage of bone. If he gave her a hammer, she would smash it open herself.

“Oh, my sweet pet. My darling little mouse,” the devil growls. His composure unravels the more she suffers. He is a monster below his veneer of charm and decorum, a monster excited and aroused. “You are exquisite.”

“Raphael…!” The mouse weeps.

He answers her call. Strokes her face, smearing it with crimson. His fine clothes splattered with blood. His hard cock strains in his trousers. He breathes through his mouth, fangs shining, pupils so large his eyes are abysses sunk into his deep sockets.

“Just a little more,” the devil promises.

Together they pry away her ribs, snapping them like dry twigs, and at last she can watch him reach into her chest, reach into her very being, and wrench out the thing that will always belong to him. Her heart beats loud and fast, torn valves spurting bright red arterial blood everywhere, as he holds it in his palm like a treasured jewel. Stares with insidious desire. She feels nothing but depraved satisfaction.

“Eat it,” the mouse chokes. “It’s for you. It’s yours.”

He feasts. Sinks his teeth into her heart as easy as a man eating an overripe peach. Rips pieces of rubbery muscle apart and swallows them whole. Pieces of her sliding down his gullet. All of the twisted, consuming emotions he makes her feel, the dark things about herself she could never escape – everything she is, was, and ever will be, contained in that bloody mass, and he is devouring it. Such sick rapture, to be destroyed by someone who wants you that much. Now she’ll be a part of him forever.

[laurasimonsdaughter]

How do you feel about the idea of vampires using blood bags and donor blood to sate their bloodthirst rather than drinking directly from living people? Cause its seen in a lot of more recent vampire stories as a “ethical/safer” alternative to feeding on people directly to make the vampire characters seem more sympathetic cause their “not hurting someone directly”. Personally i see it as horrid idea, a “road to hell pathed in good intentions” kinda thing. Bringing up awhole lotta ethical dilemmas around how this blood is acquired and used. Cheifly in that this blood could be used to save human lives rather then sate vampires hunger. Among several other ethical and logistical issues which could probably make interesting stories of their own.

I think that depends completely on the kind of world the vampire operates in.

Is this a world in which it is possible for the vampire to explain to an open-minded human what the situation is and obtain their informed consent to be bitten and fed on? And is it possible to do so safely and without (permanently) harming them? In that case doing that would probably be the most ethical solution to the need for blood.

But if its a world in which a vampire’s two options are “steal blood that has been collected from humans” or “attack and overpower a human to feed on them (even non-fatally)” then I honestly cannot fathom how the latter would ever be seen as the more ethical choice. How could taking (even stealing) something freely donated to be given to those in need of blood ever be worse than the violent assault of another person?

Of course, the traditional idea of a vampire is that they are monsters, parasites, their entire existence and need for blood is meant to be unnatural and, I guess, unethical. But stories that introduce the “drink bottled blood” solution are usually showing vampires trying not to harm people. The logistics and ethics of that solution are usually also a subject of debate. From the questionable: in Only Lovers Left Alive the vampires bribe a blood bank employee who is clearly making a lot of money off of them. To the horrific: in Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines the blood bank is run by the ghoul of a powerful vampire and it turns out he tops up the supply by kidnapping people off the street.

But if we think of a normal blood bank ran by normal medical professionals, who have dedicated their time and effort to helping people. Why would they not want to help someone with a permanent dependence on blood? I do not think for a moment they wouldn't notice if blood suddenly went missing without explanation. Of course they’d notice. And they probably wouldn’t be pleased. But I also think they would infinitely prefer their blood supply being stolen, to having to use it in emergency transfusions on a slew of traumatised, terrified people bleeding profusely from the neck after being dragged into a dark alley by an unseen assailant.

Now, if you ask me what would be the most ethical thing to do? Strike a deal with a blood bank or hospital to get the blood they are going to have to dispose of. In general the medical world is always eager for more blood donors, not because there is never enough, but because blood does not store well. Sadly, a lot of it goes off before it can be used. So why not make sure it fulfills its intended purpose to help and heal anyway?

But even if none of that was possible, if vampires had to remain in the shadows, and the blood bags had to be stolen. I would personally prefer to donate my blood and have it stolen, than be dragged into the dark.

[dreadfutures]

alright im up at an egregious hour what about solas getting overstimulated and partially shapeshifting. givin him that sloppy toppy and you look up and he's got 6 eyes and fangs and claws and his limbs are too long and he's whining like a dog

Finally delivering on some hardcore monsterfucking Solavellan lol.

for @dadrunkwriting featuring my backup Solavellan Inquisitor, Salina.

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She may no longer be the Inquisitor, and she was never truly anyone's Herald, and she is no longer anyone's Keeper--but Salina is still a woman through and through. And it has been a long time since anyone has made her feel like it.

She drags herself through the day to day, iron in her spine and ice in her eyes, but in her dreams there is nothing but heat. She dreams of the sun-baked shores outside of Markham, where the cold water is as refreshing and luxurious as a lover's embrace. She dreams of Antivan humidity and how sweat tastes on another's skin. And when she is feeling particularly deprived, she dreams of the quiet, unrelenting heat of the Silent Plains, and how desperately one can be left wanting.

It is often in those parched dreams that she hears him howl: He Who Hunts Alone.

Sometimes, she will call back, lonesome and angry like a falcon's cry. He will then fall silent, though she knows he remains near. That knowledge fuels her hurt, her hunger, her hunt.

Tonight was a cold one in dreary, empty Skyhold. Her sheets cannot seem to hold the warmth of her body alone, and she falls asleep longing for the heat of the sun. When she finds herself in a desert dream once again, she still cannot find a warmth that sticks; the imagined sun beats down on her golden hair oppressively, yet it runs off of her skin like water before it can seep in. Her bones are cold with a craving that demands to be sated.

When she hears his cry, she does not call back. Instead, she goes on the prowl.

It is a dream; she knows this, and she is no Dreamer. If this land belongs to anyone, it belongs to him. But he belongs to her the way the air belongs to the sky, and on this rare occasion, she is determined to remind him of it.

Salina Lavellan sets out across the desert sands, searching. She imbues the dream with heat thousandfold, with thirst. She demands that he share in her hunger, or flee as her prey.

When he melts out of the watery air before her, she knows she has succeeded.

He wears strange armor, and the metal scalds her palms when she touches it. He wears no wolf pelt, yet she can feel fur against her cheek when they embrace. He is a lean, gaunt creature in the cage of her arms, and in her he seems determined to find his fill. Teeth, tongue, hot and sharp, sharp and hot, prick her mind with delicious pain. Her lips taste of iron and acid.

Her fingers are talons, ripping through any protests he might offer (he doesn't), clawing through his armor to join his skin to hers (solid, real, more satisfying than water could ever be). His presence is a feast, and she is a woman starved.

In the dream, her vision is obscured by the wavering air, melted by the sun like rippled glass. She digs her nails in deeper, determined to keep him close, lest he slink away as a mirage. But he is a god, her god, and there is no violence she can inflict that would hinder his flight.

A different tact, then, before sense catches up to him and breaks through the heady intoxication of their share desire.

When she takes him in her mouth, he makes a sound like a hound caught by the scruff. His hands tangle in her hair hopelessly, and at first he has no demands. His touch is adoration, reverence, almost timid; buried in her thick braids, he is well and thoroughly trapped. He can't seem to bring himself to care. What he wants is what she desires; her desires are his. The sounds she makes as she takes him into her throat are unmistakable as anything other than the richest pleasure, and after denying her for so long--denying himself for even longer--he is tormented by the thought of ever leaving her mouth.

Her eyes prick with the same sentiment: euphoria mixed with a certainty of grief. She never wants him to leave, either. If she could entwine them, swallow him in soul, she would.

Tears meet the saliva that drips from her chin and onto his thighs.

His grip on her head shifts. A wolf in a cage will rebel, and he has always tested his chains, even when they are as beloved as the golden threads of her hair. She braces herself against his thighs to face the onslaught of his cock, stinging in the back of her throat with every purposeful thrust, and she could not escape even if she wanted to. Somehow this shift in intention changes everything: he is thicker, longer, more musk against her nose and tongue; his panting breaths above her are deeper and ragged in a way that draws her eye--and she chokes on him when she sees his transformation.

More eyes than she can count through the haze of lust- and dream-filled air. His mouth gapes open with every breath, sticky drool dripping from fangs that could rip her throat from its home, were it not otherwise preoccupied. She cannot tell if what she holds on to is a man or a monster--but that is no different than in the light of day, she realizes. Is it his thought or hers that turns him into a beast to be feared, rather than a man to be fucked? There may be no answer. Salina knows one thing only now: she wants to be fucked by him either way.

She deserves it, either way.

He rips his swollen cock from her mouth. Before she can get a look at him, she is lost in an ocean of pain and pleasure. This dream is his, and he is the dream, as vast as the sky at her back. The Dread Wolf buries his cock in her, claws digging into her shoulders, and fucks her like a beast. Like she has wanted all along.

Teeth close around her neck--it is a kiss, it is violence. He steals her breath and her blood but it is a dream, and what she really gives him is her body to be devoured whole. His fingers twine with hers, even though she can feel claws tear at the skin of her hips. Blood and cum leave burning trails down her thighs, she knows; it is dizzying to feel her body going up like a kindled offering to a god who pushes deeper inside her with every thrust.

She has a vision in the teary pools forming beneath her cheek, of her body prostrated before one of Fen'Harel's own statues, an offering for the one who betrayed her. She cries out in agonized ecstasy, cumming even when he snarls in her ear that he is not a god to make offerings to.

Perhaps not. But he is a wolf. He is a monster. It is in his nature to take what is offered.

Her world spins, and she sees his fearsome face framed against the brilliant green sky. Lyrium-blue magic pours from his gaping maw and his many uncanny eyes, like Pride, like she knew they would; he laughs at what she sees in him, without humor, for though she sees him as a monster--as himself--she still reaches up to ensnare his face in her desperate hands.

There is no mouth to kiss. She digs her nails into his jaw and drags him close, forehead to forehead, feeling the scales and fur that scratch against her face. She begs him in his own name to take what he needs from her.

Fen'Harel's jaws close around her throat to silence her heresy before she can speak it. Her whole body rails against him, but she is thoroughly speared on his knot, and the teeth of his magic are deep in her body--even now, after he has taken the Anchor from her, the pain remains.

Pain is all he can give her. In the dream, belief makes it so.

Pain is her pleasure. She will take it all, as long as it is his to give.

--

Salina wakes sticky and bruised. Her throat aches, every breath rasping and raw, and when she later looks in her mirror she finds many pinpricks of violent red turning purple on her skin--the familiar imprint of a wolf's bite adorning her throat like a necklace.

Despite her morbid hope, the dream has left her feeling more empty than ever. Her bed is even colder. Her anger burns hot, and she curses him through his empty castle, a promise that became a trap she cannot escape.

But she must, she decides, when she returns from an outing to find a familiar jawbone necklace lying neatly on her bed. She knows he has given it to her to cut himself free, like Fen'Harel always must. But she knows too that what he has given her is his downfall.

He has tied himself to her more than a necklace could ever signify. Fingers in her hair, her blood on his lips, her name in his thoughts. He will never be rid of her.

He may be a wolf, but she is an eagle with a talon ready for each of his many eyes.