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shera-dnd · 6 months ago

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I have decided against my better judgement to be weird about the Dawntrail MSQ

and we can't talk about an expansion set in the fantasy americas without talking about

COLONIALISM

oh yeah, we're going there baby

So disclaimer that I may be brazilian, but my ass is white as hell, so take everything I say with a grain of salt. Also if any native americans have made posts on this please let me know so I can boost their analysis as well

Also also I'm more than happy to delete this post if I mess up. I'm genuinely trying to make a thoughtful analysis, so if I fuck up just say the word and this thing is gone from this website

Oh also also also, Dawntrail MSQ spoilers ahead!

So FFXIV has had a... messy relationship with colonialism over the years

The fact that the major antagonists for the first half of A Realm Reborn a literally called "beast man tribes" is absolutely not a good start to this story

Add to that the fact that The Twelve (Eorzea's gods) are shown to be kind all powerful deities, while the Primals (the tribal gods) are evil spirits summoned to bring destruction to the world

and yeah no ARR is not good with that shit. It's EXTREMELY not good. If I hadn't been told it got better later on I would have dropped this shit before I got to Titan

But they have been taking steps to unfuck things. First we're shown that even the "civilized societies" (in this case the catholic elves) can summon Primals, then that Primal summoning isn't an actual native custom but was introduced by foreigners with malicious intent, and that not all "beast man" practice that

Then they changed the names of the "Beast Man Tribe Quests" to "Tribal Quests" and then finally to "Allied Society Quest"

Which would have been an empty gesture had like half of the post-Shadowbringer patches, as well a lot of Endwalker, not been about forming alliances with those people and working together with them, recognizing that they have as much right to the land and to life as any Eorzean, this all culminating on the Primals being summoned with the express purpose of helping you protect the world you all share

I guess they realized that they couldn't have their big bad for most of the game be the evil expansionist empire, if they didn't like actually reflect in their own imperialist fantasies they were propagating

Then the teaser trailer for Dawntrail drops and everyone in the fandom is like "wait... are we gonna do a colonialism?"

And memes were abound of how all those lessons from before don't apply to the "New World" of Tural

THANKFULLY the actual questline leading to Dawntrail helped to settle some of those worries

We're not going to Tural to explore a new uncharted land, but are actually being invited over by the local royalty in order to aid them with their right of succession. We get introduced to the nation of Tuliyollal and how it's a thriving land with its own culture and not just a "terra nil" waiting to be colonized

Still there are some worries that this is gonna turn out poorly and that we're just gonna end up being white saviors

But I think they managed to avoid that pretty well

For starters neither the Scions nor the Warrior of Light are the protagonists of this story. You're all simply supporting character's in Wuk Lamat's story

A story that centers her people, her culture, and her family

And it's not even one culture. They don't portray Tuliyollal as this monolithic mish mash of every single native american culture

No, the lands of Tural are in fact comprised of multiple different people's and nations, each of them with their own customs and traditions which are informed by their history and the lands they live in

In fact learning about their cultures and partaking in their customs is the whole point of the Rite of Succession. It's all set up so that the next Dawnservant would be someone who understands and respects each of the peoples that comprise Tural

(I could, and probably will, write about what Dawntrail has to say about what makes a good ruler)

And our girl, Wuk Lamat, is shown to be the rightful heir because she really goes out of her way to understand each of the nations and show her appreciation for their customs

Putting her well above her Sharlyaboo brother Koana, The King of Unresolved Daddy Issues Zoral Ja, and whatever the fuck is going on with Bakool Ja Ja

(I joke, I love my two headed traumatized dumbass)

Tho I will admit that this does end up giving the tribes a somewhat "planet of the hats" vibe. Like their named NPCs are diverse and interesting, but you can just assume that most random NPCs of any given people are gonna act according to the stereotype

Which is unfortunate, but I have hopes that with the next few patches and the addition of Dawntrail's own Allied Society Quests, we'll get to see more to them

But that... is only up to lvl95 and the end of the Yok'Tural (southern Tural) segment

because then we get to Xak'Tural (northern Tural) and holy shit does it feel like they drop the ball there

Like they really COULDN'T keep themselves from making Shaaloani a fucking Wild West map

Instead of doing anything with the actual cultures and histories of Native North American people, they just do wild fucking west

Because there's ceruleum in them thar hills! And apparently Koana turned most of the region into Sharlyaboos too

So we get a bunch of Wild West frontier towns mixed with native american tribes and mud brick cities. We have trains and guns and a sheriff and a duel at high noon, but now everyone got native american names

At least there's one group off to the northern side of the map who seems to stick to tradition and live in harmony with nature, and that group is shown respect by the other people of the region

so we at the very least avoid the "cowboys vs indians" crap, but my god does that region just feel bad compared to everything else they had done so far

Then we get to the big twist: THE CYBERPUNK PORTION OF THE GAME

because yes, we go full fucking cyberpunk

so turns out that a whole segment of Xak'Tural got colonized by the kingdom of Alexandria, including the lands of the Shetona (Erenville's people)

And I feel like this is the most poignant section of the MSQ when it comes to colonialism

Because here we have Alexandria, an empire that has reached the limit of what it can do sustain itself on its own world, and so has decided to spread out and colonize others in order to gain resources

We see the Shetona and other natives of the region being separated from their families and kept in isolation from the rest of their people

And tho Queen Sphene is shown to be a kind and caring ruler who gives people a choice when it comes to joining the empire, WELL SHE'S STILL THE QUEEN OF A FUCKING EMPIRE

Like her form of kindness and just stagnant peace is put in stark contrast with Wuk Lamat's own love for her people and more proactive pursuit of happiness and harmony

(again with the "what makes a ruler theme")

Also the people that choose to be assimilated into the Alexandrian Empire? Yeah, they're doing so because Alexandria has advanced medical technology and you can only receive their aid if you're a citizen

Not only that, but you have to be a working citizen. We see later on a character being denied medical aid, because he lost his job, thanks to the King's decision and at no fault of his own

yeah this is cyberpunk, not just sci-fi

ALSO can we talk about how the technology used for that medical aid and the little gizmo they give you to signify you're now a citizen, will literally erase the memory of the people you lost

So the Turali who are assimilated into Alexandrian culture not only lose ties to their culture and their loved ones, but are not allowed to grieve their loss, because what they once had is slowly being erased

How their choices add up to survive on their own OR be assimilated

How this all takes place IN NORTH FUCKING AMERICA!

THE CYBERPUNK CITY IS LITERALLY SET IN THIS WORLD'S EQUIVALENT TO THE UNITED STATES

So yeah, I don't think is is accidental. I genuinely thing that they're making a point about the realities of imperialism and colonialism, as well as taking some shots at the US while they're at it

Of course this part is still centered around Wuk Lamat, and instead of having a moment of "the only ones who can stop the evil white europeans are the GOOD white europeans", we have Wuk Lamat be the one to save the day, defeat Sphene, and save her people from the colonizing empire

So I would like to argue that everything that happens from lvl97 onwards is them picking up the ball again and making a real point

buuuut that comes at the cost of us being unable to engage with the native peoples of Xak'Tural outside of the context of colonialism

Which genuinely fucking sucks, and I hope it will be remedied with the post-Dawntrail patches

As well as handling the whole shared land situation they ended up with and how this might end up in a Land Back sort of movement, and oh boy can they mess shit up royally there

So in conclusion FFXIV has had a messy relationship with colonialism and imperialist fantasies and tropes, but the devs seem to be making a concerted effort to undo their mistakes and show respect in their depictions of american natives

They still fuck up

boy do they

but they're at least trying, and I'd say Dawntrail so far has been quite well executed

so yeah, look forward to more insane rambles like this one I guess

#dawntrail #ffxiv dawntrail #dawntrail spoilers #ffxiv spoilers #wuk lamat #tural #sphene #solution 9 #media analysis

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transbookoftheday · 13 days ago

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Trans Rites by The Dionysian Public Library

The Dionysian Public Library is thrilled (and chilled) to present our first anthology, Trans Rites: An Anthology of Genderfucked Horror, for publication in print and digital. This collection features a bazaar of eleven bizarre tales of transition and transformation, beastliness and becoming: A bloody rebirth in the woods. A deadly game of consumption and corruption. A scientist putting the pieces of himself together. A patient becoming more and more like the china dolls she admires. A room with no exit except oblivion. A museum in a town renowned for its cryptids. These terrors and more await within.

To embody transness is to change shape, to become something else. The theorist Judith Butler refers to the construction of gender as a process of ritual and naturalization. Hear our screams, our howls, our primal gibbering, our moonlight dances and our bleeding guts.

This collection features the following stories, as well as lyrics and poetry from folk musician Skeleton Drive (Dillon Rae Oliver)

Birthday Suit by Lennox Rex

Fresh Meat by Thea Maeve

Death Taught Me How to Live by Alicia Hilton

Seen by Ju Collins

The Moss Witch of the Cascade Mountains by Mave Goren

Wolformation by Michelle Jacklyn Miller

Fly by Madeleine Varley

Figs for Thistles by E. B. Novetti

Bleed For Your Wishes by R.S. Saha

Frozen Charlotte by Mildred Faintly

Dr. Frankenstein Dabbles in Self-Discovery by C.C. Rayne

#trans rites #the dionysian public library #trans book of the day #trans books #queer books #booklr #bookblr

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raayllum · 23 days ago

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today on TDP's consistent re-contextualization: the Sunfire elf tribunal in 4x06 (because I was rewatching and noticed some interesting set up / parallels for S7)

1) The dispute being a mourning ritual at all, since arc 2 (like the rest of the show) has an emphasis on grief. This is particularly evident since S7 is going to focus on bringing the dead back into the land of the living and affirming that life-death theme (whereas in S1, we didn't get any funeral rituals outside of S1 in Katolis; S4 comparatively shows two funeral rites)

2) Death being seen as "the dark night" (Aaravos wants to bring about eternal night / is a fate worse than death) and light guiding the spirit through said darkness till it be unified wholly with its primal / the light. Don't even think I gotta include the 6x06 screencaps for that, or the fact that Aaravos has corrupted both the moon and the sun Nexuses in an attempt to solidify an eternal night of literal death.

3) Aaravos saying that his years with Leola couldn't hold a candle to deeper mysteries; Callum refusing to snuff out his Light (Rayla) and therefore not being truly permanently Lost to begin with, no matter what may happen to him with dark magic. This is also interwoven with N'than in the same episode offering to help the group not get lost on the Path of Despair, which... yeah, hi metaphor for depression and hopelessness amid grief.

The fact that possession equals being dead or already dead, as well as dark magic's associations with death... vs light and life. Yeah. Yeah.

4) The emphasis on cruel punishment / rashness in the name of the greater good even when that means tearing a family further apart or the punishment being unnecessary (all around) and the victim(s) not being listened to no matter how much you begged, bargained, or pleaded (looking at you 1x03 Rayla and Runaan as well).

5) The application of accountability as well as the cruel motif rearing its head for the first time in arc 2, as it will become a mainstay

She had every opportunity to consider the pain she could cause. And she did not. She was callous. She was careless. She was cruel.

6) Both Aaravos (whose name means between light and dark) and Lucia (whose name means light) are involved in the trials we see in 4x06 and 6x06 respectively. Because Lucia is not killed and is shown mercy and compassion, she's able to contribute positively as a member of society in a way that also addresses her initial concerns; she takes on a positive purpose after the harm she's caused. She is tasked with rebuilding. Because Aaravos is not shown true mercy, and his daughter is brutally executed, he grows to no longer care about any harm caused, and his life takes on a negative purpose. He tasks himself with destruction. Also typical TDP emphasis on Choices throughout.

7) The contrast of "She is not innocent" being true in Lucia's case and untrue in Leola's case work together to set up Rayla's trial in S7. They also bode well for Callum's character arc. If he does dark magic again, he may not be 'innocent' on that level, but that doesn't matter; he still deserves life and love and to be saved / spared ("I'm not going to kill you"). The same could be true on Claudia's level (and was true for Viren, as he was imprisoned rather than executed).

#tdp #the dragon prince #tdp meta #s4 #4x06 #s4 is my best friend #analysis series #analysis #parallels #light and darkness motif #arc 2 #6x09 #s4 s7 sister seasons

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literaryvein-reblogs · 3 months ago

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Writing Notes: Elements of the 10 Story Genres

by Blake Snyder

The 3 elements of a BUDDY LOVE story

An incomplete hero who is missing something physical, ethical, or spiritual; (s)he needs another to be whole.

A counterpart who makes that completion come about or has qualities the hero needs.

A complication, be it a misunderstanding, personal or ethical viewpoint, epic historical event, or the prudish disapproval of society.

DUDE WITH A PROBLEM

An innocent hero who is dragged into a mess without asking for it—or even aware of how he got involved.

A sudden event that thrusts our innocent(s) into the world of hurt—and it comes without warning.

A life or death battle is at stake—and the continued existence of an individual, family, group, or society is in question.

FOOL TRIUMPHANT

A fool whose innocence is his strength and whose gentle manner makes him likely to be ignored—by all but a jealous “Insider” who knows too well.

An establishment, the people or group a fool comes up against, either within his midst, or after being sent to a new place in which he does not fit—at first.

A transmutation in which the fool becomes someone or something new, often including a “name change” that’s taken on either by accident or as a disguise.

GOLDEN FLEECE

A road spanning oceans, time—or across the street—so long as it demarcates growth. It often includes a “Road Apple” that stops the trip cold.

A team or a buddy the hero needs to be guided along the way. Usually, it’s those who represent the things the hero doesn’t have: skill, experience, or attitude.

A prize that’s sought and is something primal: going home, securing a treasure, or re-gaining a birthright.

INSTITUTIONALIZED

Every story in this category is about a group—a family, an organization, or a business that is unique.

The story is a choice, the ongoing conflict pitting a “Brando” or “Naif” vs. the system’s “Company Man.”

Finally, a sacrifice must be made and you get three endings: join, burn it down… or commit “suicide.”

MONSTER IN THE HOUSE

A monster that is supernatural in its powers—even if its strength derives from insanity—and “evil” at its core.

A house, meaning an enclosed space that can include a family unit, an entire town, or even “the world.”

A sin. Someone is guilty of bringing the monster in the house… a transgression that can include ignorance.

OUT OF THE BOTTLE

A wish asked for by the hero or another, and the clearly seen need to be delivered from the ordinary.

A spell, which we must make logical by upholding “The Rules.”

A lesson: Be careful what you wish for! It’s the running theme in all OOTB’s. Life is good as it is.

RITES OF PASSAGE

A life problem: from puberty to midlife to death—these are the universal passages we all understand.

A wrong way to attack the mysterious problem, usually a diversion from confronting the pain.

A solution that involves acceptance of a hard truth the hero has been fighting, and the knowledge it’s the hero that must change, not the world around him.

SUPERHERO

The hero of your tale must have a special power—even if it’s just a mission to be great or do good.

The hero must be opposed by a nemesis of equal or greater force, who is the “self-made” version of the hero.

There must be a curse for the hero that he either surmounts or succumbs to as the price for who he is.

WHYDUNIT

The detective does not change, we do; yet he can be any kind of gumshoe—from pro to amateur to imaginary.

The secret of the case is so strong it overwhelms the worldly lures of money, sex, power, or fame. We gots to know! And so does the Whydunit hero.

Finally, the dark turn shows that in pursuit of the secret, the detective will break the rules, even his own — often ones he has relied on for years to keep him safe. The pull of the secret is too great.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

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witchofthesouls · 1 month ago

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I can't believe you did an alternative TF One Sentinel who became a Charlemagne or William the Conqueror because he did conquer the whole set of Prime valve, and then later spite/hate-fucked his canon self to keep that 100% achievement run.

The myths that Cybertron must have on Sentinel down the line must have been dramatically hyped and utterly impressive.

Yep. He's a sore loser, a poor winner, and a complete menace for achievement runs. He most definitely took the kids from his selfcest venture and rears them with the rest of their siblings.

That Sentinel will be happily buried under hundreds of sparklings and later thousands of grandkids and great-grandkids. It will get to the point that nearly all Cybertronians-by-carriage could claim spark lineage to him as Sentinel was the primary sire or a significant code donor.

In that world, that is how Sentinel became a Prime in the far future. Cybertronians, after many generations, couldn't believe a mere mortal had that kind of virility, and the Thirteen basically formed Conjunx rites among their own kind, so there was a shift in the records on how Sentinel was portrayed from a secretary to Primal Consort ('Sentinel of the Primes,' since he basically was a stud for all of them and stayed with them until his end) to Sentinel Prime. Future theologians, mythologists, historians, and anthropologists get into deep, vicious debates over the 'true' status of Sentinel.

Some of the more eclectic sects believe that his spike was blessed straight from Primus, or he was a kind of reproductive spirit to help bolster the Primes, so he has some very risqué iconography and artwork dedicated to his spike and is a considered a patron of fertility, abundance, and fatherhood.

Even in the afterlife, he's still getting manhandled by large frames and crushed by Prime valve because the Thirteen aren't letting go of their piss-baby secretary that they trained considerably. He's like the universe's angriest energizer bunny attached to the most horniest spike with never-ending transfluid production. Sure, he had traitorous plans, but that all fell wayside with sex, bitties, and a lot of pampering.

#ask #transformers #the primes' rooster #transformers one #sentinel prime #sentinel #bitlets #sparklings #all primes have pregnancy kink #religious imagery #cybertronian culture #maccadam #my writing #my thoughts #valveplug #this au of TFOne sentinel is probably living every sentinel's dream.#imagine if this guy was either the sire or grandsire of Orion and D-16 via Prima and Megatronus respectively lol #if this guy ever met bayverse sentinel ooooooh the screaming that will be had. steals that sentinel's kids too

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ffxivxd · 19 days ago

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The Gnath hive mind's chief deity, Ravana is in the form of a combat god. As he believes in the rite of combat to be sacred, the Primal Ravana revels in battle with worthy opponents while wielding Chandrahas, his legendary blades of moonlight.

#ff14 #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #ffxivxd #final fantasy 14

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violetsiren90 · 10 months ago

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Evergreen | Bang Chan/Reader

Pairing: wolf hybrid!Bang Chan x human!f!Reader

(A Nothing But You universe fic)

Genre: hybrid AU; one-shot; established relationship; domestic fluff; slice of life; mountain living; pregnancy

Word Count: 1689

Summary: Seasons change, life moves on - but some things stay the same.

Content Warning: PG-13 for themes but my page and all its content are 18+ (minors, dni); wolf hybrid rut; mentions of knotting and marking; mentions of rut symptoms that include insomnia and lack of appetite; deep emotions; the use of "your" and "belonging" in the sense of committed love NOT ownership; pregnancy; mentions of different states of undress; domesticity and shared domestic responsibility; homesteading; Chris being the sweetest and most caring 😭💕; Chris chopping wood 😳; mentions of food and eating; implications of sexual intimacy, parenthood

Author's Note: I guess I went and fell in love with these two. This is a companion one-shot to Nothing But You. This one-shot is a different flavor, not as soft and cozy all the way through - there are more notes here, I think. Some sweeter, some sharper, but in the end, it's still them. I wanted to peek into their lives and see how they lived and loved. 🥰

If no one has told you yet today, please know that you are so loved, and so worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

~January~

Snow burdens the branches of the pines, the bitter North wind whistling between the trees, through the darkness, and over the blanket of fresh powder shrouding the forest floor. The mountains are sleeping, but your wolf is awake.

He nearly collapses, sinking to his knees as he shuts the cabin door. You spring up from your place by the fire to rush to him, but he holds up a hand, a growl rumbling low in his chest. You freeze. Panting, he slowly raises his face. Snowflakes cling to his lashes and dust over his head and shoulders. The dusky circles under his brown eyes speak of weariness, yet their expression is dark and wild. His nose is flushed from the chill. Beads of sweat quiver on his brow.

The fever still hasn't broken.

It appeared two days ago, with other sudden changes. Christopher has grown restless and short-tempered, and won't sleep in your bed. He smells intoxicatingly of cedar wood and amber.

You've been through it all before, his annual rut at the end of winter - four days of watching him endure the throes of primal agony. He would steal away at night, to hunt, your proximity far too overwhelming for his heightened senses and desires. Unchecked he would fail to stop himself. He would take you, mark you, knot you.

He hadn't in the four years you'd shared a bed and the comfort of the other's flesh. You'd spoken of the mating rites, but he always held off, afraid to break you. So protective of you always, and without a second a thought to himself.

You respected his space, his wishes, attempting to help him navigate the torment of his natural longings as best you could.

But this year it had taken him like a wild fire. The fever wouldn't break. He wouldn't sleep or eat. And now, here he was, half frozen and shivering on the floor.

No more.

You slowly cross to pull him up against his weak protesting. You peel away his frost-damp clothes and drag his heavy frame to rest upon the bed. With his last strength he tries to push you away, but you slip under the blankets beside him, pulling him into your arms.

His eyes flutter shut as he curls against you and nuzzles into your neck, whimpering that when he wakes it will be too hard for him to hold back.

You tell him not to try.

You tell him that you need him, want him - all of him. This part too, with all the others. You assure him softly that you're not afraid, nor should he fear to make you his...you already belong to one another, after all.

You whisper that you love him.

Christopher exhales, tears trickling down his cheeks to mingle with the sweat and melted snow. You hold him to your breast, brushing soft kisses into his hair.

Cedar wood and amber.

~April~

You shake out a flannel shirt, crinkled and bunched from wringing to hang it on the line that stretches from the side of the cabin to a young yellow birch within the clearing. You smile as you fasten it with clips. He had worn it on the first day he visited the diner. It was faded then, and it has grown more timeworn still. But the fabric is thick, the seams hand-sewn, and if the dye has begun to abandon the thread it is only ever the softer.

Strong and soft, like him.

The warblers are singing in the branches of the white pines as they busily fashion their nests. You stroke a hand down over the little bump of your belly, musing over the nesting that has started to change the trappings of your own little home. There's still plenty of time, but Christopher's excitement has poured forth in the form of hard work, and you're certain that when your time comes he'll have stored by enough for the next three winters yet.

You hear the rumbling of his truck a ways off. He left in the wee hours, the bed loaded down with wares to sell to suppliers in town. By the time you've strung up the last piece of washing he's already at the mouth of the trail, his arms laden with flowers and parcels wrapped in brown paper. The light wash of his denim shirt brings out the early kisses of the spring sunshine on his honeyed skin.

You follow him into the house where he puts your wildflowers into a vase and insists that you sit while he tends to lunch. Unwrapping the brown paper packages you find a set of pretty maternity pajamas, a box of chocolates, and the goat's milk soap you like.

He's already eaten half his sandwich when he sets yours down, and you tug his wrist, pulling him into a chair to prevent him from setting out to work yet again.

When the dishes are cleared you won't let him leave. He'd work every second of every day and well into many nights if you let him. But today you want him to rest. It's a mild and lovely afternoon and the chores are done. Other things can wait.

You sit across his lap on the porch swing he built two summers before. Your arms encircle one of his as you rest your head on his shoulder.

His lips brush your forehead as his thumb caresses the little curved scar where the slope of your shoulder meets your neck. The one that means you belong to him and no one else.

The birds sing and the swing creaks. 

~July~

He calls you from around the other side of the house. You draw an arm over your dripping brow and struggle up from where you're crouched to spread a batch of plump, ripe blackberries between the screens of the drying rack. There are still so many. Some you'll turn into jam. Christopher will eat the rest. He loves them. You rest the colander still half-full with berries against the full swell of your belly, wrapping an arm about the rim to keep it in place.

You're hot and uncomfortable these days. But, when the morning's work is through, you'll go down to the lake together to shed the day's heat in the cool, still waters. You'd been every afternoon that week. Christopher was a strong swimmer, and would stay in far longer while you sat on the shady bank with a book. When he finally quit the water yesterday, he'd never found his clothes - instead he'd pressed you back into the lush green grass and made you sigh his name.

As you round the far side of the cabin your eyes catch his form. He stands under the sweltering sun, stripped down to pair of fitted khaki work pants and thick suede boots. His muscular chest is slicked with sweat and he stands, panting, with his weight pressed into his right hip. He holds an axe in his hand.

His mouth pulls up at the corner and his tail swishes at the site of you. You tuck yourself against him wrapping your free arm around his damp waist. Oh how you want to swim. To hold his strong body in the dark water.

He gestures with the axe at what he's fitted together with stripped pieces of soft pine. A little cradle. He nudges it with his foot, setting it to rock. You bring a blackberry to his lips and he accepts it.

You kiss him.

Salty skin and summer fruit. 

~October~

Your eyes flutter open to the sound of little cries. You sit up and stretch, blinking in the softness of the early autumn light.

You inhale deeply. Cinnamon and hickory smoke.

Outside the air is growing crisp and the leaves of the deciduous trees are blushing and abandoning their hosts, covering the floor of the wood in their pageantry. Fruit and game have begun to grow scarce as the forest prepares to enter the long slumber of the colder months. Nights require fires more often than not.

There is a small fire crackling now. A little black cauldron hangs over the flames, and you can smell the porridge simmering within. The man you love sits in a rocking chair near the warmth, a little bundle in his arms. He looks up at you as you rise and he smiles. He's been all smiles lately. In fact, you don't think the little dimple has left his cheek since he met the tiny she-wolf in his arms two weeks ago.

He says she looks like you, but all you see in her beautiful little features is Christopher. She has two tiny fuzzy ears and a darling little tale.

You reach down to stroke her fat cheek and your heart aches.

It aches from love, so much of it.

When the doctor placed her in your arms a part of your heart that you hadn't known existed burst to beating. You thought you loved the man who had knitted her inside you as much as you were able, but you had been ignorant in that respect as well. When he took your daughter in his arms and looked down on her face you thought that there wasn't room in your chest for things so vast, so deep.

You named her Hannah, for the sister her father had lost. It meant "grace".

So fitting, you think.

You move your fingers into Christopher's curls and he looks up at you. His brown eyes are soft and warm. The lovely eyes you saw that first day at the general store - the same through every changing season.

The maple and the birch will wax and wane, but not the cedar, not the pine.

Some things will remain.

And he is evergreen. 

-Fin-

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genshinimpactresources · 2 days ago

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Genshin Impact | Playstation JPN Blog Version 5.3 Images

#genshin impact #version update artworks #screenshots #playstation blog #character artworks #enemy artworks #bosses #weekly bosses #lord of eroded primal fire #mavuika #aether #capitano #gifs #citlali #lan yan #natlan #liyue #hu tao #lantern rite

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sillymickel · 3 months ago

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"“Dance of the Seven Veils I” offers readers a comprehensive understanding of reality and the self." How to acquire free copies of Adzema's massive & detailed exposition of primal psychology.…

*Dance of the Seven Veils I: Primal/Identity Psychology, Mythology and Your Real Self*

by Michael Adzema (2017) is free September 30th thru October 4th, 2024, and again, Jaunuary 6th thru 10th, 2025. Get your ebook-kindle copy then at Amazon. At anytime, however, see that the entire book is copied below. You may read it that way … on this page, in this blog. Or notice that there is…

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 2 months ago

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Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 28: Blurred Lines

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.3k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

The world tilts as Astarion’s grip slackens, and you’re weightless, teetering at the edge of oblivion. Your heart—a dead, useless thing—manages to throb with phantom desperation as you realize he might actually do it.

He might actually let you fall.

The Styx churns below like a living wound. The current writhes, eager to claim another victim, and the sound it makes—a low, insidious hiss—finds its way beneath your skin. An acrid smell rises from the waters, promising agony, devoting to strip you of every piece of yourself that you’ve managed to hold onto.

Even if you wanted to fight, even if you had some clever plan tucked behind your teeth, there’s nothing you can do against the inevitability of gravity.

Against the inevitability of him.

Your mind scrambles through memories, trying to find some hint, a sign that you missed. You think of your time together, the fire that burns between you—sometimes love, sometimes hatred—always a dalliance with danger. You think of the quiet moments, the words unsaid between touches. They meant something, right?

What if it never meant anything at all? Maybe it really was all just a game to him, as he has claimed innumerable times. Now, here you are, the fool pensile on the precipice of obliteration, thinking you could somehow reach him again and pry out the remnants of the man you love from the hollow, heartless shell that’s taken his place.

What will it take? Astarion's grip loosens further, and you can almost feel the moment you slip through his fingers—the moment where everything ends, where everything is erased. Will you forget him, forget all of this, if the waters take you? Would that be a mercy? Would that be the release you’ve been chasing?

No. A primal terror flares in your chest, burning hotter than the infernal winds that scorch Avernus. You don't want to forget. You don't want to lose everything that makes you... you. The memories, the pain, the love—they're all I have left. A broken, twisted part of you still clings to hope and believes there’s a way out of this. There has to be. You didn’t survive the mind-flayer tadpoles, the Absolute, the Netherbrain, and everything in between just to lose everything now.

Did you?

And yet... there’s that other voice whispering insidiously in the back of your mind. What if this is all that’s left? What if you’re just clinging to a ghost, a delusion that died long before you had the courage to admit it?

The panic wraps around your thoughts like a clamp, and your hands claw at Astarion's wrist and arm, but his strength is unwavering. Your vision blurs as you look up at him, seeing that dangerous glint in his eyes—a hunger, a power, a cruelty that you thought you understood, but maybe you never really did.

It’s funny, in the bleakest way, that after all you’ve endured, it’s this that undoes you. Not a battle or a blade, but his indifference. A choice he could make without a second thought, or maybe he’s thought of nothing else. You can’t even tell anymore.

Astarion's grip loosens an unbearable fraction. Every inch of you rebels against the plunge into nothingness below, and you pull your legs up, toes curling with the instinctive, useless urge to find purchase, but there’s no ledge, no handhold, nothing except the awaiting maw of the river.

You look around wildly, your gaze snagging on mirages that aren’t there, desperate to conjure someone—anyone—who might wrench you away from this declivity. There’s no rescue waiting, no ally in the depths, or salvation in the heights. It’s just you and Astarion, and the narrow bridge of his fingers wrapped around your neck.

“Just... just do it, Astarion.” It’s a ragged demand, desperate and raw, slipping through clenched teeth.

You’re not even sure what you’re asking for. To end this? To make it quick? To make him prove that he truly doesn’t care?

He says nothing, his expression a mask of cruel delight, revelling in your surrender. The silence stretches until his grip shifts again—just barely, just enough to make your stomach lurch, to send you one heartbeat closer to that waiting crimson maw.

And you swear you’re actually falling.

Astarion’s grip disappears as he pulls you back with a violent jerk, sending you tumbling like a discarded plaything. You skid across the jagged terrain of Avernus, rocks biting into your skin as the impact jars your bones. You scramble to right yourself, only to find him standing there, staring down at his own hands as if they belong to someone else entirely.

“What the fuck was that?” he mutters, turning his arms over as though searching for answers hidden in his flesh. “You think this is some kind of game?” he snaps icily. “You provoke me, push me, and then expect what? Mercy? Compassion? A bloody saviour?”

You try to interject, but his words drown you out. “You’re utterly foolish, you know that? Like a moth flitting towards a flame, completely unaware you’ll get burned. It’s astonishing, really. How many times do you need to learn this lesson?”

“You’re making this far too easy for me,” he continues, more to himself than you. “Do you want to be erased? Is that what you crave? I can certainly oblige, darling. You toy with my emotions, and cling to this pathetic hope that I still love you.” His voice falters, falling over the words with none of his typical eloquence.

Astarion’s rage swells, turning him into a whirlwind of motion as he paces back and forth. His elegant frame moves with a predatory grace. “You truly are insufferable!” he growls, gesturing wildly as if the very air around him is to blame for your audacity. “Do you ever stop to think, even for a moment? Or is your brain too muddled with delusions of grandeur?”

He whirls to face you, eyes flashing with a treacherous light. “What do you expect from me? Do you honestly believe I care enough to save you from your own stupidity? You’re acting like a child, and it’s frankly exhausting. Yet, here I am,” he continues, a hint of self-loathing creeping into his tone.

His pacing quickens, and he runs a hand through his tousled hair, frustration spilling from him like water from a cracked vessel. “You’re so godsdamned desperate for affection, clawing at me with all the grace of a rabid animal. If I were any less inclined to humour your whims, I’d have dropped you into the Styx ages ago. It’s a bloody miracle I haven’t.” He pauses, and the anger temporarily melts away. “But I cannot quite bring myself to do it, can I?”

The silence that follows is rife with tension, fury, and an odd kind of tenderness coalescing that neither of you can quite grasp.

Astarion’s harsh, mocking laughter rings out. “I thought I was finally making progress with you, my lovely little plaything. I had you right where I wanted, didn’t I? Seducing you into betraying your precious husband.”

You can’t help but bristle at his taunts. “You are my husband, Astarion. A part of him anyway.”

Astarion’s response is immediate—a laugh that drips with disdain. “Oh, please. I would never marry my spawn. The very thought is laughable.”

“Was it all a manipulation?” You press, eyes narrowing as you meet his gaze head-on.

He answers with a whetted, unapologetic, “Yes. That’s what I do, isn’t it? Seduce, manipulate, use sex as a noose to pull the unsuspecting closer, and you, my dear, are no exception. I’ve spent centuries honing this talent. You’re just another pawn on my elaborate little chessboard.”

The satisfaction in his voice sends a chill racing down your spine, but you refuse to let him see how much his admission wounds you. “I don’t believe you,” you challenge.

“The lines blur, don’t they?” he concedes. “Between manipulation and desire, between power and something resembling care.”

It’s an admission, raw and unexpected, and it leaves you disarmed. “Then why push me away? Why not let yourself feel?”

He looks at you with an inscrutable expression, and you can’t quite decipher what it means. “I’m not built for softness, love. It’s easier to break things than to mend them.”

“Maybe that’s your choice,” you retort, emboldened. “But it doesn’t have to be mine.”

The compulsion slams into you like a wall—undeniable, unforgiving. His voice is cold and commanding, barely glancing your way as he snaps, “Follow. Don’t talk—I need to think.”

The order thrums through you, forcing you to fall into step behind him, trailing at his heels like an obedient pet. Every inch of you aches to resist, but your limbs obey without question, each step landing in sync with his own. Each one sends a pleasurable trill through you as if he’s put his hand directly in your brain and is caressing the pleasure center.

He paces along the Styx’s edge, his eyes fixed ahead, occasionally darting down to the murky depths. He mutters, a haphazard string of paranoia, sometimes biting, sometimes distant. You catch fragments, but you cannot make any sense of them.

Eventually, he stops, and you nearly bump into him, managing to halt just before your nose collides with his back. A rickety structure of warped wood and iron-bound posts juts into the dark, viscous river. An old dock, but in such a state of disrepair that it’s hardly recognizable as one any longer.

“Do you know how to call on the Ferryman?” He demands, sounding like he’s barely holding onto his temper.

You know exactly who he’s talking about—the knowledge picked up during those long, restless nights studying the twisted ways of the Hells, but you find your lips glued shut, your body rigid and unyielding. Your glare is the only answer you can muster, a withering look you hope conveys all the words he’s barred you from speaking.

Astarion's brows pinch, and then he lets out a huff, rolling his eyes. “Oh, giving me the silent treatment now, are we? How very mature.” He scoffs, seemingly unaware that he’s the one who’s forced this quiet upon you. “Honestly, it’s a little childish, even for you.”

He resumes his pace along the river’s edge, clearly irked by your lack of response. “I mean, do you even grasp what we’re up against here? Or are you too busy brooding to be of any use?” You try to will your mouth open, to force your voice past the invisible restraints he’s placed, but the compulsion holds you fast.

“Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one doing any real thinking here,” he mumbles, half to himself, half to you. “It’s all theatrics with you, isn’t it? Little games and… glares.” He narrows his eyes, shooting you an annoyed glance. “But, at least, I can always rely on that death stare of yours. Really, it’s about all you contribute some days.”

“This insufferable silence of yours—do you think it’s clever?” He lets out a scathingly sour laugh. “Honestly, it’s nigh on impressive how you manage to contribute less and less every day.”

You might roll your eyes if you had control of them. It’s both supremely irritating and oddly amusing. He’s the one who’s bound you to silence, and yet here he is, working himself into an absolutely fine rage, about your lack of response. He’s so self-absorbed, so utterly unaware that it would be laughable if you could invoke even the smallest hiss.

Finally, Astarion turns on you, and his patience fully snaps. He storms over, grabbing you by the shoulders, his fingers digging into your arms with a bruising intensity. “Enough of this!” he barks, shaking you slightly as if he might dislodge an answer from you by force.

You remain as stiff as stone by the very compulsion he’s forgotten he imposed. His eyes narrow as he studies you, his anger gradually morphing into confusion as you remain stubbornly, infuriatingly unresponsive. The realization dawns on him, and he spouts a series of low, irritated curses under his breath. The invisible bindings are cleaved, and you stumble slightly, blinking against the sudden freedom.

A laugh bursts from your lips. “You absolute idiot,” you taunt.

He crosses his arms, his brows pinching together as he glowers at you. “Careful,” he warns menacingly, though the confidence in his tone is maddeningly firm. “I could toss you back over the Styx anytime I like, and this time, I would not hesitate.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with a cruel glint. “Though, perhaps, you enjoy tempting fate?”

“Oh, do go on,” you reply, lifting your chin to meet his gaze, feigning a sweet innocence you know he loathes. “For all your bluster, here I am—perfectly unscathed.” You take a single, daring step closer, crossing your own arms in mockery. “What’s stopping you?”

He snorts, shaking his head with a sneer. “Absolutely, nothing. You would do well to remember that, pet. Do you know how to summon the Ferryman or not?”

You grin, savouring the upper hand, if only briefly. “I do, actually. Be warned, there’s a cost. Nothing’s free in the Hells.”

Astarion rolls his eyes, exuding the kind of casual arrogance that makes you itch to wipe the smirk right off his face. “Do I look like someone concerned with petty tolls?”

“Fine then.” You gesture at him with a dismissive wave. “If you’re so unconcerned, use those fancy ascended powers and summon a werewolf. We’ll need to give the Styx something… lively.”

His eyes blaze, igniting in that baleful scarlet glow. He takes a step toward you, as if to see if you’ll flinch, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. Shadows converge, pooling on the ground, twisting together until a werewolf emerges from the inky pit.

Before the beast can even fully realize its predicament, Astarion shoves it with a careless hand, sending it tumbling headfirst into the river. The werewolf’s struggles cease within an eye blink; the waters swallow it whole with a miserable howl.

Charon heeds your call. His boat materializes out of the mist, the vessel itself a thing of twisted, shadowed wood, seeming both ancient and unbreakable. Lanterns hang from the prow, casting a sickly green light, illuminating the hooded figure standing on the deck, his skeletal face hidden beneath layers of ragged cloth. Hollow eyes stare back at you, empty yet somehow penetrating, as though he’s peeling back your flesh to see what’s left of your soul.

Charon’s ancient voice scrapes against the air like a dare for the foolish to press their luck. “Who disturbs my waters?”

Astarion straightens, stepping forward with a grin that borders on insolent. “We need to travel to Abriymoch.”

You start to nod but pause, frowning as you turn to Astarion. “Abriymoch? Why Abriymoch, when the goal is Cania?”

Astarion’s gaze threshes with annoyance, as if the answer should be painfully obvious. “Cania is cold, dearest,” he snaps with a seemingly endless supply of condescension. “I doubt you would survive more than a second, or have you forgotten what bitter cold does to fragile, little creatures like yourself?”

“Payment,” Charon intones while outstretching his hand.

Charon’s long, skeletal finger points expectantly at the coin purse on Astarion's belt. When Astarion upends it, the coins that fall into Charon’s palm are woefully insufficient. The ferryman’s hollow gaze shifts from Astarion’s hopeful grin to the pathetic stack of coin. You’re not quite sure how he does it, given that his face is hidden, set deep into the hood of his robes, but somehow he still manages to convey that he’s clearly unimpressed.

Astarion’s face twists in vexation for a second before he pastes on a charming, winning smile, speaking in that too-smooth tone that he’s perfected over centuries. “Now, now,” he begins in a timbre of molten caramel, “Surely we could arrange a little... discount?" Think of the potential business lost.”

You snort, earning a glare. He clearly has no clue who he’s dealing with. Charm, to Charon, is about as useful as a torch in broad daylight, and your smile only widens as the silence drags. Until Charon’s skull shifts, the hollow sockets locking onto you with that unreadable yet thoroughly unsettling stare.

Without hesitation, Astarion sidesteps in front of you, arms crossed, his voice suddenly much sharper. “She’s off limits.” His tone is clipped, ice sliding into his words as his stance shifts, protective in a way you’re sure he’d deny if questioned.

Charon’s hand turns to you, bony fingers stretching forward. “The quarterstaff,” he rasps. “Your only weapon.”

The weight of his demand settles on you. The staff may not be essential to your magic, but it is far from useless. Crafted with centuries-old enchantments, it heightens your power, steadies your aim, and forms a formidable buffer against hostile spells and attacks. Without it, you’ll face Mephistopheles with only raw magic—far less than what you'd need against a devil of his calibre.

You reach behind your head, fingers curling around the polished wood. You hesitate, running your thumb along its smooth surface, feeling the faint pulse of the magic woven through it. The thought of surrendering it here on this cursed voyage makes you feel more vulnerable somehow, but the price has been set.

With a sigh, you lock eyes with Charon as you make your request. “For both our tolls. It should cover the both of us.”

Charon tilts his head, an eerie slowness to the movement, as though he’s testing the limits of his joints. “Your toll,” he grates, “has been paid. The quarterstaff is for him.” He gestures to Astarion, his fleshless hand clenching over your staff as you release it, and the very bones in his fingers seem to absorb it whole, leaving nothing in his palm.

A shiver of dread slithers down your spine. Someone has paid your toll already, but who? For what purpose? You feel the cold press of a debt that hasn’t yet been named, lurking in the shadows of the future, waiting to demand payment at the worst possible occasion. Whoever or whatever wants you to descend further into the Hells is watching, and the motives they harbour are anything but benign.

“Well, lovely,” you mutter, shaking off the creeping unease. “You owe me a bloody quarterstaff when we get back.”

Astarion gives you a sidelong glance. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage to 'repay’ you somehow. Really, though, such a fuss over a stick.” He smirks, gesturing for you to board with smug self-assurance. “Don’t fret, pet. If anything happens, I’ll protect you,” he taunts with that annoyingly, adorable shimmy of his shoulders.

Stepping onto Charon’s boat, you try to shake off the lingering foreboding. The journey ahead feels heavier now, as if the very air knows there’s more to come—more than Astarion’s schemes, more than the unforgiving path before you. As the boat begins to drift away, you find yourself wondering, once more, just how many prices are yet to be paid before this journey’s end.

The boat sways gently, a sickening lilt over the Styx, far too quiet, save for the occasional slosh and the sighing rasp of Charon’s oar cutting through the murk. The vessel itself is small, built only for the ferryman and the unfortunate souls he transports. Despite the lack of space, you do your best to keep away from Astarion, tucking yourself into a corner like a shadow clinging to the edges. Thinking is hard enough without him leeching the air from your lungs with his presence.

You press your forehead to your knees, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to block out the Styx’s ghastly presence—the stench of decaying flesh wafting up from the water, the whispering howl that rushes past your ears, sounding far too much like tortured souls crying out from the depths. You concentrate to stop the insistent, absurd habit of breathing, one left over from life that your body clings to out of muscle memory.

Your fingers drift to the cold, metal band circling your finger, tracing the familiar shape of your wedding ring. It’s oddly grounding here in this place of perpetual suffering and loss. Astarion still doesn’t know that you agreed to kill Mephistopheles. No, he wouldn’t understand, or he’d laugh, or worse, he’d start plotting ways to use it against you. What in the Nine Hells were you thinking? Killing an archdevil? The very notion teeters on the fringes of madness, a suicide mission that all but guarantees your annihilation.

But what choice do you have? You need your husband back, the real Astarion, not this corrupt echo, who looms at the edge of his memories, seemingly more intent on tearing down what little is left of who he once was.

Would this version help you, or would he truly try to sell you for a taste of power or some useless, momentary prestige? Or is his aim far worse, perhaps, to entirely erase the part of himself that loves you? It’s an exhausting riddle, one that seems pointless to try and solve, yet you can’t help but turn it over, sifting through the fragments for a clue. You bite back a scoff directed at yourself. How many times will you wager your life for the slim hope of bringing him back?

A soft scrape pulls you from your thoughts; Astarion shifts, his gaze flitting your way, cool and calculating. It’s a look that would have cut you once—a knife glinting with contempt—but now it barely scratches the surface.

You meet his gaze, unflinching, letting whatever spark of defiance you have left answer him in silence, and then you look away, back into the ichor waters swirling beneath the boat, wondering if the Styx itself has answers for impossible questions.

The thump of a hovering heartbeat cuts through your thoughts. Before you have a chance to shore up your defences, Astarion drops down beside you, his assessing gaze surveying your expression. Typical. He never seems to tire of prodding at your vulnerabilities, but godsdamn him if it’s not infuriatingly familiar.

“Looking a bit peaky, aren’t we?” He leers, almost playfully. “Must be absolutely famished for blood by now. I’m impressed, really. When I was a fledgling spawn, I couldn’t go more than a day before I was tearing at anything that moved.”

It’s rare and unsettling to hear him talk about his past like that—the spawn he was. He usually keeps that part buried under layers of sneers and silences, as if even acknowledging it gives it some hold over him. You’re tempted to dig deeper, to pry a little more of his history loose, but you fear it would only serve to provoke him.

You meet his gaze. “Are you volunteering, then? Because I can assure you, I’d be delighted to take you up on that.”

His lip curls instantly. “Don’t flatter yourself.” A breathy scoff escapes him, his gaze returning to the Styx’s grim horizon. “As if I’d willingly offer you a single drop of my precious blood. I've got better things to do than play juice box to the likes of you.”

A nagging unease tugs at you, a quiet dissonance that’s hard to ignore. You should be hungry, ravenous even. By now, your muscles should be cramping, your stomach an insatiable pit of bloodlust clawing for relief. But instead? Nothing. No gnawing hunger, no pain, no pulsing ache for sustenance.

The realization hits like a frozen blade slipping between your ribs. Shit. It had been him, your Astarion, who’d woven the compulsion to dampen your hunger on the day you married. You’d asked him, pleaded even, for a reprieve, so you wouldn’t use Shadowheart as a chew toy… again.

He’d agreed hesitantly, binding the compulsion tightly, giving you peace. This version wouldn’t know. He couldn’t. You pray to whatever gods may still listen that it stays that way.

A blessing, yes, but a curse all the same. If that compulsion is lifted—should he ever discover it and decide to sever it—there’s no question in your mind what will happen. You’ll become little more than a wild, unhinged beast.

This Astarion can’t know about it, not if you want even a hope of holding onto whatever tattered fragments of control you have left. His suspicious eyes rake over you, probing for answers. He’s too close already, picking up on the smallest tremor of unease. There’s no choice but to bury it, shoving the truth into a corner and throwing up a veil of sardonic humour.

“Oh, please,” you say with a feigned, dramatic sigh, “is it so hard for you to believe that I simply have an iron will? Not all of us lose our minds after a day without blood, you know. Some of us have restraint.”

He scoffs, one elegant brow arching. “Restraint? You? How delightfully unbelievable, but I suppose even delusions can be entertaining in moderation.”

You shrug. “Believe what you like, darling.”

His eyes narrow, lips twisting in a wicked smirk as he leans in closer. “I know you are hiding something,” he murmurs dangerously. “And, just like any little secret, it’ll reveal itself sooner or later. They always do.”

Your heart clenches, but you force a laugh, flicking him a dismissive gesture of your hand as if it might distract him. “Please. As if there’s anything left that you don’t know already. I’m not that interesting.”

“Not that interesting?” He clicks his tongue in feigned disappointment. “Pity. I thought I’d married a woman with more… substance.”

The barb slides off your skin easily, his attempts to dig through your defensesces meeting only laughter and barbed retorts. He leans in closer, his gaze drilling into yours with a relentless edge. You keep his focus on the banter, his questions pinging off you like arrows against steel. He tries again, baiting you with sly insinuations, but each time, you deflect to keep the true answer buried.

After a while, he sighs with frustration, muttering something, and you—you just keep smiling, hoping he’ll grow tired of the game before he sees through the cracks.

“When we reach Abriymoch, you will stay at my side at every moment. You will not wander off. You will not do anything that could get you—or more importantly, me—killed.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but it’s that lack of compulsion that tempts you to prod, just a little, testing his limits.

“Is that an order or a plea?” you ask, with feigned sweetness, watching his eyes narrow. “Or are you just that desperate to keep me close?”

He sneers, his patience peeling away. “Desperate? If anything, I would relish some peace and quiet. The only reason I’m keeping you tethered to my side is to prevent you from running off and making an absolute mess of things.” He leans closer, his gaze gleaming like a blade in the dark. “I will not have you ruining my plans with your foolish bravado.”

“Good to know I’m just the sidekick in this little venture.”

He scoffs, the sound colder than any rejection. “That is giving yourself too much credit. Sidekick? More like a leashed pet. A liability. Don’t fool yourself—you are not here because I need you. You’re here because I allow it.”

“Is that so?” You lift an eyebrow, refusing to look away, fingers tapping your lips as if contemplating. “Does it help you sleep at night, reassuring yourself you’ve got me on a leash?”

He laughs humorlessly. “If you so much as think of straying too far in Abriymoch, I’ll find you and drag you back like the disobedient creature you are, and believe me,” his gaze dips, cruel pleasure filling his eyes, “you will regret testing me.”

The words hang between you like a drawn blade, and yet you refuse to drop your grin. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Keep up the attitude, my sweet, sweet spawn, and you might get exactly what you’re asking for.”

You bask in the strange exhilaration that comes with losing your fear of him. There was a time when you would have trembled at the thought of Astarion's wrath, certain he would seize any opportunity to end you, but he hasn’t acted on his never-ending festivity of threats. Not once.

It’s intoxicatingly liberating, this absence of dread. Is it bravery or mere folly? Is this newfound audacity a testament to your strength, or simply the product of your own stupidity? Love or compulsion?

As you mull it over, Astarion’s laughter pierces your reverie. “Oh, do tell. I’d love to know what grand notions are swirling about in that lovely head of yours.” He leans in closer, crimson eyes bleeding malice and amusement. “Or are you merely concocting yet another excuse for your impending doom?”

You narrow your gaze at him. “I’m sure you’d love that, wouldn’t you? A tragic ending to the tale of us. Such a deliciously dark story.”

He smirks, tilting his head with mock innocence. “I live for tragic endings, my treasure, but I’d prefer you to survive a little longer—if only to entertain me.” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, as though sharing a secret meant for your ears alone. “After all, it would be terribly dull without your delightful, little insights. I must admit, your attempts at defiance are more amusing than I anticipated.”

You roll your eyes, both flattered and frustrated. “Awe, Astarion! You think I’m entertaining? Or just a distraction?”

“Can it not be both?” He straightens, feigning a serious demeanorur, but the mischief is palpable. “Your company has its charms, more than you think, though I do wish you would stop moping about your fate like a sullen child. It’s rather unbecoming.”

“Funny coming from you, of all people,” you retort. “You seem to enjoy playing the tragic villain, parading about with your dramatic flair.”

Astarion chuckles richly with sardonic undertones. “Ah, but that’s the beauty of it! I am both the villain and the narrative’s most charming rogue. Quite the duality, wouldn’t you say?”

You can’t help but wonder if the thrill is merely an illusion, a temporary reprieve before the inevitable plunge. You glance at the swirling waters of the Styx, feeling a strange sense of kinship with the murky depths. After all, you are both trapped in this twisted narrative.

“What is it, love? You seem awfully lost in thought.”

“I’m trying to decide how best to navigate this mess,” you say, forcing a lightness into your tone.

“Oh, come now,” he coaxes, his voice silky smooth. “You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little excited. The peril, the uncertainty—how could that not pique your interest?”

“It’s hard to be excited when I’m not sure whether you’ll save me or throw me to the wolves.”

Astarion leans closer, his breath ghosting against your skin. “Perhaps a little of both, depending on my mood.”

You’re not sure if you should feel exhilarated or terrified by that, but a wicked resolve blooms. Fuck this. Fuck fear. Fuck his threats and, most importantly, fuck him. Maybe you’ll turn this chaotic situation into a thrill ride before he sells you off, or you end up dead trying to save him. With a playful determination, you crawl into his lap, relishing the surprised expression on his face.

Astarion’s eyes widen, an amalgamation of bewilderment and indignation. “What in the Hells do you think you’re doing?” he protests, an incredulous edge to his voice. Yet, despite his protests, he doesn’t push you away. Instead, he shifts to accommodate your unexpected move.

“Just getting comfortable,” you say, settling into his lap with exaggerated drama, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Astarion’s protests continue, his voice rising with a mock outrage. “This is ridiculous! You cannot just—” He stops, a flicker that looks suspiciously like mirth crossing his face. “What makes you think you can crawl into my lap like some—some pet?” He narrows his eyes, but you can see the way his lips twitch upward despite himself. “You do realize you’re playing with fire, don’t you? I could toss you into the Styx without a second thought.”

You nod. “I’m well aware, but isn’t that the best part?”

“No, it’s not,” he retorts, but even as he says it, his arms wrap around you, drawing you closer as if to shield you. “You think this is a game, don’t you? This reckless behaviorur—”

“Hush now,” you coo, your fingers playfully clamping over his lips, silencing him mid-rant. “Let’s not ruin this with your whingeing. We should rest while we can before we reach Abriymoch.”

You let your eyes fall shut, perhaps idiotically placing trust in him that he hasn’t earned or deserves.

He tips his head, and you shudder involuntarily as his lips brush over your ear, a tantalizing whisper carried on his breath. “I’m far too excited for that,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, a deep chuckle vibrating against your skin.

Astarion bucks his hips into you boldly, pressing his growing arousal into your backside. You tut him, shaking your head playfully. “You can keep your excitement to yourself. You stink.”

He feigns indignation, drawing back as if you’ve slapped him. “What in the Hells do you mean by that?”

You goad him further. “Oh, I forgot! There haven’t been any mirrors for you to admire yourself in lately. But honestly, you’re terribly dirty and smelly. It’s quite a shame, really.”

A chuckle escapes him in a huff, almost as if he were trying to hold it back. “And you, my dear, aren’t in much better shape yourself. One could hardly mistake you for an ethereal beauty right now.”

You lift your chin defiantly, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “I did not hear any complaints when you were putting your mouth all over me.”

His eyes round with surprise, intrigue frolicking around in his irises. “Ah, but you see, that’s where you’re mistaken. My tastes are quite refined, but I assure you, I can overlook a certain... foulness for the right incentives.”

“Oh, really?” You challenge, your intonation teasing. “What exactly qualifies as the right incentive, Astarion?”

He raises an eyebrow, a sly smile curling on his lips. “Why, the allure of your blood, for one. It’s a shame I can’t indulge in that right now, but rest assured, the moment I can, I won’t be distracted by such trifles as your unfortunate aroma.”

You laugh lightly, the sound mingling with the ominous whispers of the Styx, creating a strange harmony. “How positively noble of you. I’ll be sure to clean up for you the next time you wish to drain me dry then.”

Astarion rolls his eyes dramatically. “Oh, please. I wouldn’t want you to exhaust yourself with such trivialities. Besides, there’s something delightfully raw about you right now.”

“Raw? That’s one way to put it,” you snort. “More like I’ve just crawled out of a hellish pit.”

Astarion arches an eyebrow, his lips curling into that infuriatingly charming simper. “So, tell me,” he asks suggestively, “what would you award me with should I locate the hellish version of an inn in Abriymoch? One with a bathtub and a real bed, perhaps?”

You tilt your head teasingly. “Maybe nothing, maybe everything. You’ll just have to find one and find out.”

He slides an elegant finger beneath your chin, tilting your gaze upward to meet his. An electric current crackles between you as his eyes bore into yours, searching. You can’t remember a time he has looked at you quite like this.

“Perhaps you’ll make it worth my while,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper, laced with a sweetness that feels almost foreign.

Then, before you can fully process what’s happening, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a tentative kiss. It’s soft, hesitant at first, a whispered caress of silk against your skin as if he’s trying to learn how to be gentle. The wind’s mournful howl quiets into the background as the warmth of his mouth envelops you. The taste of him is faintly sweet, albeit tinged with a perilous promise.

As his kiss deepens, it transforms into urgency yet undeniably delicate, a frisk of warmth and hunger that sends a shiver cascading down your spine. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing gently against your cheeks. It’s a contrast to the jagged edge of his usual countenance, revealing a tenderness that leaves you breathless and confused. When he finally pulls away, his eyes flutter open, and you catch a glimpse of the shifting within them—flickering like the last embers of a dying fire. It dims quickly as he seems to wince, squeezing his eyes shut with a sharp intake of breath.

You think you even hear a faint whimper, or perhaps a whine, but the wind whips it away before you can grasp it fully. The raw vulnerability in that sends a rush of concern through you, an instinct to reach out and soothe whatever pain he’s hiding.

As if propelled by some force beyond your understanding, you whisper the words before you can stop yourself. “I love you.”

Astarion’s eyes anchor to you. He doesn’t reply—not that you expected him to, but he doesn’t rebuke you either. He shifts slightly, pulling you closer, so your head rests comfortably beneath his chin. His breaths heave and shutter, fingers digging into your arms with a grip that feels protective, possessive, perhaps a blend of both.

The chaos of the Hells continues to unfurl around you, grotesque and magnificent, swirling shades of crimson and obsidian merging like an artist's palette gone awry. Astarion's hold on you is firm, and the rhythmic beating of his heart—so wonderfully alive—thumps against your ear. It’s a reassuring reminder of the life that flows within him, the life you helped return to him, and you find yourself momentarily lost in the sound.

In this surreal blend of desolation and intimacy, you finally allow yourself to relax, surrendering to the strange safety of his embrace. As the boat drifts further toward Abriymoch, fate—whether toward doom or salvation—awaits you.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

- Oh, thank fuck he didn't drop her. - So, how is everybody enjoying the Hells thus far?

#astarion fanfic #astarion x reader #bg3 #ascended astarion #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion smut #fangs and fractured hearts #astarion baldurs gate #astarion bg3 #astarion fic #astarion ancunin #astarion ascended

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devi1sange1 · 6 months ago

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If sjm is truly planning on Gwynriel, she dropped the ball because…

Will NEVER be—

But Azriel asked softly, “What about Elain?”

From the shadows near the entrance to the tent, Azriel said, as if in answer to some unspoken debate, “I’m getting her back.” Nesta slid her gaze to the shadowsinger. Azriel’s eyes glowed golden in the shadows. Nesta said, “Then you will die.” Azriel only repeated, rage glazing that stare, “I’m getting her back.”

I stood. Met Azriel’s wrathful stare.

Azriel was honing Truth-Teller with relentless focus…

Azriel’s shadow hand grasped my own, tugging me closer. His rage rippled off his invisible form.

Azriel gently removed the gag from her mouth, “Are you hurt?” She shook her head, devouring the sight of him as if not quite believing it. “You came for me.” The shadowsinger only inclined his head.

And no, I’m not even talking about the fact that Azriel risked his life to save Elain, because sure, it was illegal to save Gwyn in the rite (it’s not like he’s incredibly defiant and doesn’t gaf about the Illyrians but sure). It’s the complete lack of reaction. A common argument I see is, “Well we don’t have Azriel’s point of view of the BR.” But… we don’t have his pov of the Elain rescue either. You guys know you can still convey a characters feelings without their pov right?

Notice how when Elain was taken, Feyre repeatedly mentions Azriel’s rage, his wrath, his precise focus and determination on rescuing Elain. And she’s not even his supposed mate. You can’t include any of that at all when his supposed mate is kidnapped by the same people that abused and bullied him? Notice how easy it was to include how enraged Azriel was at the idea of Elain being hurt. Do you know how easy it would have been to include similar language when the Valkyries were taken?

Listen I’m no writer, but just spit ballin here (forgive me this feels like a crime):

Azriel said tightly, “My spies got word that Eris has been captured by Briallyn. She sent his remaining soldiers after him while he was out hunting with his hounds. They grabbed him and somehow, they were all winnowed back to her palace. I’m guessing using Koschei’s power.” […] Az said, “We have to get him out.” Cassian drew up short. “We?” Cassian could tell by the look on Azriel’s face, by the cold rage that practically seeped from the shadowsinger like his shadows, that Azriel liked this plan just about as much as he did. The sheer determination that Azriel usually possessed when given a mission gone, his focus, his mind, somewhere else entirely. The spymaster mirrored Cassian’s own feelings right back at him: pain, rage, and something else he couldn’t quite place.

Or…

“There are plenty of other unspeakable things that could be happening to her, Cassian said, voice thickening, “To Emerie and Gwyn.” The shadows deepened around Azriel, his siphons gleaming like cobalt fire. “You— we trained them well Cassian. Trust in that. It’s all we can do.” But Cassian could tell that something was off with his brother, in the way he spoke. He couldn’t tell if Azriel was trying to convince him of this matter, or if he was more trying to convince himself. Azriel’s focus drifted, and Cassian saw it then, the rage in his eyes, in his demeanor… it was the same as his own. And Cassian wondered if Azriel, too, felt like a piece of him was missing, if he understood how this waiting game was gnawing at some primal part of him, a part that was aching to be unleashed.

AND ITS THAT EASY!

Like seriously this is the “mating bond” people fight tooth and nail to defend? Is this truly the couple that SJM is trying to get us to fall in love with in preparation for the next book? Because she honestly did a poor job if that’s the case. So which is it? Are they not endgame/mates or are they another drop in the ‘poorly written by sjm’ bucket?

#Elriel #anyways I’m off to read some Elriel fanfic #bc I feel like *i* just wrote some GA fanfic

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theegemini92 · 3 days ago

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CALANMAI: Spring Court 🌸🪷🌺

I feel like everyone loves to form these think pieces on only the Night court and it’s only the night court that has lores and traditions. Basically sjm as put everything there that it makes all other courts less attractive, less important and less appealing, which I think is not fair. Im tired of all the in CC connections to the night court or ToG connected to Rhys etc. it gets boring and stagnant and I’m over it. I want something new and fresh. So I chose the next one in ACOTAR that at least we have some incline of which is Calanmai 🌝

I know it’s brushed off because of how Tamlin is hated, but besides the spring court we don’t know much about the others. Ok….

Calanmai isn’t actually a spring festival if we are going to use the welsh explanation. Basically it marks the beginning of summer. But some of the key features of this rite were reimagined in ACOTAR: fire rituals to honor the sun, fertility celebrations (the sexy time ☺️) to honor the earth and sky, dancing to promote unity with other courts, the use of flowers and greenery.

So here are my two scents on Calanmai

It’s presented as a sacred rite tied deeply to the magic, fertility, and prosperity of the Spring Court and, by extension, all of Prythian. I say prythian because it was stated that all HLs participate in this rite.

Lucien says:

“It's the Great Rite, Cauldron boil me! Didn't anyone tell you what it is? [...] Fire Night signals the official start of spring-in Prythian, as well as in the mortal world.

Side thought Did spring offer majority of their land to the humans? Which means they could’ve had so much land as the night court before??? Thoughts?

Continue:

I...] Here, our crops depend upon the magic we regenerate on Calanmai-tonight. [...] We do this by conducting the Great Rite. Each of the seven High Lords of Prythian performs this every year, since their magic comes from the earth and returns to it at the end-it's a give and take."

Lucien then goes on to explain how Tamlin will have magic going through him, etc.

So if it’s a give and take, the crown that ferret wanted so badly, what is she GIVING? The HLs all serve prythian so what has ferret done in other courts? 😂

So Not only is the spring court important it depends on the spring court to put food on everyone’s table aka rhysie goosie and ferret. I bet she doesn’t know where her food comes from.

Also the question of Rhys not taking part in this rite last time is always questioned. Lucien tells Feyre that after Tamlin believed Feyre had been abducted in the Night Court at the time of Calanmai, he refused to perform the Great Rite. Lucien took his place, taking lanthe, the most powerful Fae female in the court at that moment, (tam can’t catch a break with These powerful females 🤣) into the cave and performing the Rite even though he hated her. Which means that many HLs can send people in their courts who are powerful like ianthe to take their place when they cant make it.

The HL being power itself are CONDUITS, without them the magic may faulter because we as readers don’t even know HOW THE HLs came to be. Tamlin, as High Lord of the Spring Court, channels the primal magic of the season to renew the land’s fertility and magic. During this rite, Tamlin temporarily surrenders himself to the raw, ancient forces of Spring Magic, ensuring the continued abundance and balance of his court’s lands and its people. See him surrendering and coming all the way back to bite ferret… I wish that was me‼️🤣🤣🤣🤣 I’d surrender too…

Anyway… 😄Here are some of my theories on how the Calanmai rite at the spring court benefits Tamlin, the spring court and all of prythian:

• as HL, it reaffirms Tamlins Role as a Conduit of Magic. he solidifies his bond with the land and its magic, strengthening his power as a protector and ruler. This part is important because his court’s health is tied to his ability to serve, not just rule.

• maintains balance to the magic of the land and prythian as a whole.

• a very important detail here that people seem to miss, Calanmai is TRADITION AND RESPONSIBILITY! In a time of political tension, it could reinforce Tamlins role as a leader aligned with the natural order. Hopefully in his pov those who deserted him in his court as well as the other courts cannot by pass him if something is to happen to the land without the rites performed. He will be needed. He cannot stay cooped up forever.

• I think it’s fairly obvious that this rite ensures fertility and growth. Lush vegetation, bountiful harvest etc, I think that’s where the sex part comes him 😄

• so I think Calanmai also is a rite performed to reinforce the warding spells and protection barriers surrounding the Spring Court, safeguarding it from external threats and maintaining the balance of power within Prythian. It makes sense because after the Asteri came and caused interruptions, the HLs wanted something that could protect them when another alien came. And it makes sense that velaris is still strong with all its barrier intact (pretty prison)

• I love this part…. The rite Maintaining connections to old magic 🪄 old primal magic that existed before even the HLs. As much as ferret spits on fae tradtions, old magic is not tamed, it goes no where and will always need the old ways to satiate it. The tradition preserves the court’s unique identity and ensures its magic does not wane over time. (And just because people’s tradtions are different from yours doesn’t mean you should not respect it. *coughs* feyre🙃)

• Without Calanmai, the ripple effect of unchecked or stagnant spring magic could destabilize the balance across courts. Each court in Prythian is tied to its respective season, and The Spring Court serves as the starting point of the cycle of growth, fertility, and rebirth that sustains all of Prythian’s lands.

• the HLs participations also brings unity, they aren’t secluding themselves, they don’t forget why they are HLs and also one people. I’m thinking over the millennia they have forgotten so some choose not to take part in it. I guess. But these should be the times their alliances formed and become stronger… 🤦🏾‍♀️

Calanmai is not merely a ceremonial event in my opinion , it is a magical and political necessity as I said before and For Tamlin, it reinforces his strength and bond with the Spring Court. For the Spring Court, it guarantees fertility, protection, and prosperity. For Prythian, it ensures that the cycle of life and magic continues unbroken. Participating in Calanmai is both a privilege and a responsibility.

A little side thought: As someone who is heavily into spirituality, I believe that the nature courts deal more with the physical and the celestial courts deal with the spiritual eg. Spring provides food for the physical body, night provides dreams and nightmares for the astral body. (If this makes sense?) 😄

#acotar #tamlin #anti rhysand #pro tamlin #anti feysand #feyre acotar #sjm critical #feyre archeron #a court of thorns and roses #acotar tv show #Calanmai #ACOTAR Calanmai #ACOTAR traditions #always pro tamlin #pro tamlin acotar #pro lucien vanserra #pro elain #pro nesta archeron #pro nesta

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iibonniee · 1 year ago

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Mine, all Mine

Pairing: Lee Hoseok x Reader

Genre: Smut

Warnings: werewolf!wonho, mating, unprotected sex, creampie

Rating: R

Word Count: 3k

Summary: Hoseok knew you were always the one for him. Always the one to call his mate

Masterlist | Tags: @beautifulworldandmore @kyunnielove @iamkyunie @doveslittlekpoparchive @dessianna1

Hoseok, a distinctive character straddling the line between ordinary man and supernatural entity, had always known Y/N was the one. She was his essence, his soulmate. In the cosmos’ grand interplay during the mating season, supernatural beings and humans coexisted and mingled within blurred boundaries. However, the key distinctions brought a unique dynamism to their world.

In their most primal essence, wolves embodied raw energy and family bonding. Their unwavering sense of loyalty set them apart. On the other hand, vampires represented passionate yet restrained entities, meticulously threading the fine line between sensual charm and predator instinct. Witches, time-enduring sage women, were the bridges, weaving seamlessly between the human realm’s mundanity and the supernatural’s flamboyance. Their elevated senses gave them access to magic’s unseen, uncharted territories.

Humans added grounded reality to this mystical spectrum. Being ordinary amongst the extraordinary, they symbolize resilience and audacity. Their willingness to adapt is what makes them unique. Yet the roles fluctuate, and the ordinary can also embody the extraordinary.

Just as Hoseok, who straddled the realms of man and wolf, embodied extraordinary love for Y/N, time and again, it wasn’t the power that marked destiny but the profound sense of belonging that transcended the boundaries between different beings. After all, amid the chaos of wolves, vampires, witches, and humans, love proved to be the most transcendent power of all.

Hoseok and Y/N held on to their love in defiance of prevailing norms. Despite the forbidden nature of a werewolf-human bond, they found solace in stolen moments and secret rendezvous.

As Hoseok’s transformation drew near every full moon, he sought refuge in Y/N’s presence, her understanding quieting the storm within. Her love and acceptance provided him a sanctuary, a place where he was seen for more than his beastly phase but as a sentient being capable of profound love.

Y/N, for her part, while fearful at first, found courage in Hoseok’s oceans. His demonstrative loyalty, inherent in his wolf nature, was a testament to his genuine feelings for her. His eyes held promises of eternal devotion and a fierce need to protect her, instilling in her the courage to face the backlash of their unconventional love.

Contrasting their world with the vampires’ eternal seduction dance and witches’ harmonious coexistence, their love story, raw and unfiltered, echoed with defiance that questioned established societal constructs. While they might have been feared for their forbidden connection, their deeply emotional narrative began to draw some unexpected allies among their contemporaries.

In the backdrop of the seasonal rites of mating season, their love bloomed, resonating with a quiet strength that somehow found a way to survive amidst the chaos. Indeed, Hoseok and Y/N were mirror reflections of their world, marked by diversity and dynamism swaying to the rhythm of love’s power. Despite their circumstances, Hoseok and Y/N remained hopeful, choosing to face whatever obstacles lay ahead together.

As long as their hearts echoed the same rhythm, as the moon would bear witness to their love, they vowed to continue their dance. Their love, however forbidden, was a testament to the extraordinary, an emblem of resilience and audacity, and the epitome of a tale that dared to wield the special amidst the ordinary.

On one such night, with the moon casting long, weaving shadows around them, they found themselves in a secret retreat—a haven for their forbidden love. Hoseok’s amber eyes flitted to Y/N, his gaze heavy with desire.

“Do you trust me?” Hoseok’s low voice broke the silence, his demeanor remaining poised even as his wolfish instincts swelled inside him, itching to claim her.

“I would trust you with my life, Hoseok.” Y/N replied, her voice barely a whisper.

“Give yourself to me, love.” Hoseok coaxed her, his voice sultry and hypnotic. “I want to show you the depths of my desire, the extent of my love… Will you let me?”

Her heart pounded as she managed a small “yes,” surrendering to the raw desire reflected in his eyes. As Hoseok leaned in, his hot breath danced across her neck, sending shivers of anticipation down her spine. His husky whisper echoed in her ear, heavy with promise and desire: “Tonight belongs to us.”

“And will you trust me with your body?” His low voice rang with confident anticipation. Hoseok’s amber eyes darkened at her words, his desire practically radiating from him.

“Yes.” she whispered, causing a predatory grin to spread across Hoseok’s face.

His hands traced over her body, his fingers creating a map of desire as he undressed her. Each touch promised the pleasure to come, stirring a deep need within Y/N.

Slowly, he nestled himself between her neck, softly kissing her skin and leaving bruises, marking her as his. Her breath hitched as he pulled away and looked into her eyes, fire mirroring fire. “Tonight, Y/N,” he growled, “I mate with you. I claim you in the most primal way.”

“First,” he rumbled, withdrawing slightly to trace a thumb over her stomach. “We take the rest off.”

His palm ghosted over her clothed breasts before drifting down her hips, and Hoseok took his time unbuttoning her pants, revealing her aching cunt to him. His lips never left her skin, further inflaming the mounting need as his other hand untangled his own restraints, shedding their last inhibitions.

As the clothes puddled at their feet, the amber glow in his eyes intensified to an inferno as he took in the sight of her laid bare beneath him. With every breath she took, soft and needy, he reveled in the anticipation of the storm to come.

The first touch was a tease—a whisper of skin on skin—as Hoseok framed her body between his strong thighs, his hardened length grazing tantalizingly against her thigh. He wasn’t rushing them into it; instead, every brush of his finger on her skin promised what would unfold.

His fingers explored the folds of her, teasing out delicious little whimpers as he swirled over her clit, bringing her pleasure. He withdrew the moment he noticed how worked up she was getting, leaving her a panting, writhing mess under his commanding gaze. The sight of her, drenched in desire for him, was something he could feast on forever.

“Patience, Y/N…" he chastises gently, a smirk on his lips.

Then, aligning himself at her entrance, he looked deeply into her eyes. He was so close to breaking. So close to taking her and making her his. Hoseok growled, “Tonight, Y/N, I mate with you. I claim you in every way possible.”

Hoseok, aligning at her entrance, lured his gaze once again to meet with hers. Unspoken words were exchanged through the silence—a sacred symphony of raw want and untamed anticipation seeping into their connection.

With a growl that resounded and a sinfully deep baritone that sent shivers cascading down her spine, he voiced his primal intent, “You’re mine tonight, Y/N. I need you. I’m going to make you fucking mine.”

A moment stretched into eternity as he maintained the delicious, tightening suspense—a predatory dance—before the imminent chase. His cock, hard and throbbing, nudged teasingly against her slick folds, each brushing a scorching whisper of what was to come, setting aflame her deepest cravings.

Their world contracted until it was only them, woven together by the promise of the impending ecstasy. The air around them pulsed with overriding desire, skin on skin, and the irresistible pressure at her core was nothing compared to the erotic charge that vibrated between them.

Slowly, achingly, he pushed the tip inside her. The intrusion was just the hint of what was to come, a heady foretaste of the imminent coupling. The faint stretch was nothing compared to the tidal wave of pleasure already threatening to break, threatening to drown them in its intensity.

Her every gasp and whimper, each shake and clench beneath him, only fueled his untamed desire. Yet he held back, ruthlessly restraining his own raw urgency that screamed at him to plunge deep within her. Her body enveloped him inch by sinful inch.

His amber eyes never wavered from hers, capturing each flicker of pleasure, each gasping breath, and each ephemeral blink. These nuances painted a tempting picture of her journey towards pure bliss, fueling the embers of his own restraint to cinders.

Slowly, he moved. A test, a teasing motion as he heard her cries of want. Part of him was worried that he’d push her too far. His amber eyes shimmered, reflecting the intoxicating dance of lust and love, remaining latched onto her gaze while she drank in every subtle hint of pleasure that danced across her captivating features. Each gasping breath she took, each fleeting blink, became a symbol of her escalating ecstasy, fueling his restraint and teetering on the edge of obliteration.

He moved with measured, almost torturous, deliberation. Each subtle roll of his hips sent waves of tantalizing friction through their bodies. The act was a teasing initiation. Under his lingering gaze, he sought signs of discomfort, aiming to temper the raw sensuality of their situation with instinctual protectiveness. However, with every whine and whimper she bequeathed, he knew the pushing only enhanced her pleasure.

He watched her, relishing each minute tremor that clung to her lashes and the shaky trails of heated pants escaping her ruby-tinted lips. Her feast of reactions was a testament to his doing, setting aflame the embers of his need and chipping away at the last vestiges of his restraint.

Her legs wound tighter around his hips, urging him to break the thread of control he precariously hung onto. Her silent plea was heard loudly in his guilt-inducing consciousness, yet he refrained, fuelled by the intoxicating thrill of prolonging their inevitable climax.

The primal dance of their bodies continued; the rhythm was jagged and almost painfully slow, pushing them to the boundary of their restraint. Every whispered word of desire in her ear, every teasing brush against her sensitive peaks, stoked an overwhelming yearning within them. Their connection was a tempest, blistering and fervent, interlaced with an elemental passion that swirling amidst them. United in rhythm, their bodies gravitated toward a brink they hesitated to unmask, holding the moment captive in its incandescent suspense.

Feeling the vibrations against their feverish skin and the mounting tension, they inched on the edge, letting the searing waves of need wash over them, intertwining them in an intricate dance of want and restraint. It was a seductive struggle between the primal urge to surrender to carnal instincts and the intense desire to extend the sweet torture of anticipation.

He withdrew and thrusted in again, setting their senses ablaze in a swirl of tantalizing entropy, evoking sinful moans and painting delight across her blushed visage. Each plea that dripped from her parted lips echoed his name and their bodies.

“Hoseok,” She spoke with pleaded words, “Don’t treat me like a doll, please. I want you. I want you to ruin me.”

At her plea, Hoseok found himself skimming on the edge of his resolution. Her voiced confession ricocheted within his being, setting off a wildfire that threatened to consume his restraint. Hoseok growled lowly, the sound rumbling deep within his chest, echoing the carnal hunger that had taken control.

“Y/N,” his voice, laced with a sinful rasp, clung to the rhythm of their bodies moving against each other in slow, deliberate motions. “My love… you’re so sure?”

Her hesitation was a captured kite within him, dancing in the winds of his desire. His eyes bore into hers again, desperate to ascertain that she was ready to step into the whirlwind of carnal pleasure.

A firm nod from her, a breathless ‘Yes,’ was the only affirmation he needed. She was his, and he was hers. Completely.

“Hoseok,” she panted once again, her body writhing against his touch. Her plea echoed in the quiet room “I want you to ruin me.”

With a possessive growl, Hoseok snarled back, the primal need within him rising at her request. “Just as you wish,” he husked, each syllable dripping with raw desire. “I intend to make you feel every stroke, every caress, and every pulse of my need inside of you.”

His movements became bolder, more assertive, pushing deeper with each rhythmic thrust, eliciting pleas and gasps that tumbled from her lips as sacred whispers. Yet he was careful, ever so careful, refusing to rush their journey to the ecstasy he planned to impart.

He didn’t move inside her again until she was panting, the sheen of sweat making her skin glow against the moonlight filtering through the window. The room filled with the erotic symphony of her desires escaping through hitched breaths, beckoning him to explore the depths of the ecstasy he could deliver.

“Tell me,” Hoseok murmured, “who do you belong to?”

With each stroke of his hips, he drove his point home, a perfect syncopation of their heartbeats and his thrusts. She began to break, the once languid pace accelerating into a frenzy. But not yet; he had vowed to clarify his claim and let it last until their bodies could hold no more.

“Y/N, who do you fucking belong to?” Hoseok spoke through gritted teeth. He thrusts into her hard, his eyes dark and not leaving her own. His voice tightened with lustful sincerity; each syllable echoing her name was like a sin itself, evoking profound longing within her. The room was filled with hot tension, entangling their senses into a vortex of sinful craving.

Hoseok’s command was not a question but a raw declaration of dominance, mirroring the primal intensity burning within their gaze. Framed within the confines of the room, their silhouettes painted a raw, sensual painting—bodies sheened with sweat, blending into one another rhythmically as they danced on the brink of shared ecstasy.

“Answer me, Y/N.” His baritone fell around her like a veil of silk laced with lethal obsession. “Who owns you?” Each word is punctuated by thrusts so precisely, forming a deliciously sinful haze. His gaze held her captive, her body shimmering under his touch as she fought to form words amidst the overwhelming waves of desire.

A strangled moan escaped her lips as she finally managed to utter, “Only you, Hoseok. Only you.”

Satisfaction glittered in his darkened gaze before he lowered his lips to hers, swallowing her cry of pleasure in a scorching kiss. At her admission, his rhythm became more frenzied, hips snapping against hers with such ferocity that she could hardly keep up. The room vibrated with their uncontained moans, only their heavy breathing and pounding heartbeats forming a symphony of unrestrained desire.

But Hoseok was nothing if not a deviant. He slowed his movements, drawing out the pleasurable torment with a devilish smirk playing on his lips. His hands trailed her quivering body, tracing the burning path with caresses that felt both soothing and torture.

He leaned in, nuzzling his nose against her ear, whispering in a voice that dripped raw, primal desire. “That’s right, baby, only I can touch you like this. Only I can make you break beneath me.” The shared ecstasy became a compelling game, a sensual battle between want and restraint, each teasing touch stoking their yearning to the brink of madness. Their world revolved around each other, their senses attuned only to their bodies’ rhythm and shared breaths. They teetered on the edge, neither willing to be the first to succumb, their bond tangled in a delicate dance of dominance and surrender. “And when I cum inside you, everyone will know you’re mine. Nobody will want a filthy whore like you. I’m making you mine.”

Hoseok’s words were sin personified, wrapped in a sultry baritone that sent shivers down her spine. The raw sensuality he imbued in his declaration was a turn-on, fueling her desire to an indescribable high.

“That’s right,” he growled against the shell of her ear, hands gripping her waist, guiding their unhurried rhythm. Once again, his hips met hers in a blissfully torturous cadence. However torturous, it was a pleasure she was willing to endure under Hoseok’s skillful ministrations. “Every time I fill you up, you’ll know… only I can make you feel this way… You’re mine, Y/N. I’ll keep coming inside you until you have my pups.”

Their bodies moved in a perfect rhythm, the intoxicating heat between them growing insurmountable. He was a master of this compelling game, effortlessly navigating the thin line between desire and restraint, between pleasure and pain, pushing them closer and closer to the brink.

His hold on her tightened. He was teetering on the edge, consumed by the reckless need to stake his claim. The pleasure was becoming unbearable, threatening to break him. Teasing her, he dipped a finger into her core again, the sensations alighting their bodies aflame.

“Hoseok, I—” a filthy moan cut off her plea as he pushed deeper within her, one last long, slow, and hard thrust that challenged every shred of control they’d been clinging onto.

“That’s right,” Hoseok breathed into her ear, voice raspy from the strain of holding back. “Tell everyone who you belong to when I make you cum. When I make you scream my name.”

With that, their control snapped, Hoseok thrusting into her one last time, a meandering journey of pleasure reaching its peak. His breath hitched as the climax washed over him, stroking into her with a finality that echoed a raw, primal growl. A hot wave of euphoria spread through them as he came inside her, marking her as his.

“Only… only you, Hoseok,” she whispered, her body quaking, breaths ragged against the overwhelming sensations that tidal waved through her, intensifying as his name fell from her lips. He rode out their pleasure, each pulse of his release sending them spiraling into a visceral realm of primal satisfaction.

Catching his breath, he pulled out and watched as his cum slowly spilled out from her. Hoseok let out a throaty groan, his head lulling to the side as he watched it spill out like a scene from his favorite movie.

“Fuck.” He spoke up, his fingers playing with her pussy, merely avoiding his cum that was spilling out and onto the messy sheets. “This will be my favorite view.”

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