#he's feral

[frstk]

Happy Cat Day!

[deenigma]

Everyone's favorite train wreck❤

[atsadi-shenanigans]

A Misuse of Potions 2 - Invisibility

In which I write probably my most demented smut so far. Predator/prey. Buckle up, friends and enemies, cause that man gets REAL WEIRD in this one. Full-force Creachur Astarion.

On Ao3.

On the third day of Eleint, she comes to him. Her dark eyes are warm, her limbs loose, and he doesn’t even have to scent the air to know what’s going on between her legs.

“Would now be a good time?” she says.

Always, he wants to say, though that’s not always true. Sometimes, even now, the memories seep in and it’s all he can do not to shred his own skin with his claws.

But this is not one of those times. This is the third day of Eleint, his Eleanor has a glint to her eye, and they’ve discussed this subject at length.

Astarion snaps his book shut and lets it drop to the floor. Rolls to his feet to sweep her into his embrace and buries his face against her neck to breathe her in, slow and deep.

Warmth, life. Salt and clean.

Moon blood.

“There’s nothing I’d like more,” he says and means it. Can tell in her gaze she sees the truth of it.

They’ve planned for this. Extensively. His Eleanor does love her planning. She’s quite prepared.

He’s not even surprised when he follows her upstairs to their bedroom, and she pulls a pack from their wardrobe. Removes the items within and inventories them on the bed. He takes a small, velvet pouch she holds out, and his groin is already starting to tighten. From her scent, of course, and from what he knows this pouch will lead to.

She goes over The Plan again. They both need to be certain, after all. There’s not much on his end; neither of them expect much on his end once they start, save for her words “red light.” She’s used them before; by now they’re both comfortable with it and what comes after, even if it sometimes makes his guts squirm.

No pain follows it, though. Not ever. Not after red light, not after cub. Sometimes they resume, and sometimes they just…stop. Hold each other. Dress and move to the lounge. Sometimes she’ll get herself a bite to eat, and sometimes she’ll give him her wrist or her neck when he needs it.

She dressed carefully, this night, from an outfit she had folded in that pack. It’s cheap material. Far too flimsy for road travel, but it’s meant to be cheap, and he watches her slip the layers on and his cock begins to fill in earnest.

She does not wear her moon blood belt. She does not tuck rags into her trousers (her face flushes adorably as she slips nothing but a single pair of panties on, followed by said trousers).

He has to lean against the wall and keep his arms crossed. His own trousers become uncomfortable.

She notices that. Of course she does. Gives him a little smile, the minx.

“Ready?” she says.

He wants to push her to the floor and spread her legs and—

He steps away from the wall. “Very, my love.”

The teleportation spell is not his favorite, even if it is useful. For this, though, he swallows down his complaints (he’ll be swallowing down much more pleasant things tonight), and a moment later, they step onto soft grass.

It’s a lonely patch of woods. Or as lonely as any patch of untended woods can be. They’d scouted it some months back, when passing near the Bear’s newest little enclave. No one lives out here. No guards, no gaggles. No one to get the wrong idea or try to do something stupid and ruin the night for all involved.

There’s also no goblins or worgs or other worrisome beasts. Just the bunnies and other snacks.

The late summer heat clings to the air, but the wind already sweeps a soothing chill over his face. His Eleanor glances about, her poor, human ears straining, and looks to him.

“We’re all alone,” he says.

His fangs ache. The beds of his nails tingle as his claws threaten to sharpen. Alone out here, in the wilds, with her.

They look at each other for a long moment. He lets himself enjoy the way the silver moonlight—nearly full, lucky him—paints over her skin, sinks into her dark hair.

“You sure about your getup?” she says.

He’s wearing his home clothes, the ones he was loafing about it: a loose tunic tucked into his trousers. He hadn’t thought to change. Had only grabbed his city shoes while trying to adjust himself in his underthings.

He waves her off. “I can replace it.”

Gives her an appreciative sweep. She put on a light jacket and a pair of stays, as she would need the support. At least initially. But they’re the most basic pair she owns. Easy to mend. Or replace, should he get a little…rough.

Most of all, his gaze is drawn to the juncture of her thighs, and the small, dark patch just beginning to show itself.

He’s scenting the air, isn’t he.

He slips the velvet pouch from his pocket. It’s a small thing. Light. Holds only two, delicate golden ear cuffs, which spill into his palm as he tips it.

He slides the first one up, halfway between the lobe and the point. His Eleanor licks her lips like a degenerate. He’d had the initial idea for this outing, but she’d leapt on it, proposed all of these additions.

The other cuff pinches on his other ear. They’re rather plain, with only the hint of swirled knot work along the sides. But they warm his ears as he speaks the activation. The magic sinks into them and spreads like warm fingers (hers) over his ears.

Until the world muffles itself. The racing rodent hearts disappear. The thunderous pulse of his love fades to nothing. He flails in his mind a moment—not used to this, danger, if he can’t hear, if he’s trapped in silence again—

“Still okay?”

He catches her voice. He can focus on that. He’s deafened as an elf. As a vampire. But they tested these on her, and she notices no difference.

“You poor thing,” he says, because she has to live like this, in such a dim and dull world all the time.

She flips him off. Unfortunately for her, he’s close enough to snap at the offending finger. Slowly, of course. Gives her ample time to pull away and snort. Which makes him want to kiss her.

So he does. Luxuriates in her hot mouth, the slide of her tongue, her scent and that heavy, heady ambrosia of her moon blood.

Gods, he’s glad she doesn’t mind letting him feast upon her like this. He tries to remember the feel of his life before this, before the beach and the tadpoles, and he cannot fathom existing so long without this. Without her.

But before he can be carried away, his Eleanor takes a step back. Her cheeks are flushed. Neck reddened down to where her skin disappears beneath her light jacket and stays and under tunic. Her eyes are pools of heat, her lips already swollen.

Her moon blood—when not crippling her in pain—can sometimes spike her desire. This appears to be one of those times (gods below, there’s a damp spot high on his thigh where he’s already leaking).

She retrieves a bottle from the pack she’s secured to her person. Liquid silver sparkles in the moonlight. His nail beds tingle hard and this time he cannot stop the claws from forming.

“You’re sure?” he says.

His delightful contradiction, no longer a virgin but having lost none of her hidden boldness, only says, “Close your eyes.”

He does.

A year or two ago, he wouldn’t have. Blindness meant vulnerability. Meant unseen blows to unprotected places. Meant clawing starvation hollowing his guts and drying out his flesh, his throat so withered he could barely produce a sound that wasn’t a deathly, rattling click.

Now, as he obeys, a shudder of anticipation shivers down his spine.

He can just hear her uncork the bottle. Cannot hear her swallowing, or the air in her lungs, or the way he imagines her own heart races in lust and anticipation.

Nor can he hear her shift closer. Not until the rustle of fabric reaches him, right in front of him. And the scent of her blood suddenly surges. His lips part as he gasps, and his demented little love sticks two, wet fingers into his mouth and the taste blinds him to anything else.

“Trackers need a sample scent, right?” she says.

She’s stuck her hand down her trousers. She’s smeared his lips and tongue with her blood. Lets him suckle desperately a moment before she steps away, and he’s left to wipe his mouth to ensure no drop escapes.

“You are utterly deranged,” he says.

“Pot kettle,” she says, another of her people’s charming sayings.

She falls silent after that. Astarion keeps his eyes closed, searching the spaces between his teeth with his tongue for any last hints of her.

“Darling?” he says after a moment.

No answer.

His cock throbs. His claws fully extend, his fangs aching.

He counts to forty three times. Opens his eyes.

He’s alone. The clearing is empty, with no trace of his darling. Nothing but her scent floating in the air, an invitation to him.

He nudges the empty bottle she left at his feet. It’s not like her to waste anything. Which means this is a taunt. The cuffs deafen his ears to her, a potion of invisibility blinds his eyes to her. All he has to track her is scent. Her skin, her hair, and the dizzying harpy song of one of his most favorite things: her blood.

He has one job. Well, two, but they’re the same in the end.

Track her. Hunt her. Capture her.

And take her. Any way he sees fit (that they’ve discussed, and she was quite open). Her blood, her body, her sex. She’ll try to evade him. But he will find her. He’ll plunge into her, first with his fangs, then with his cock. Or perhaps the other way around. Perhaps both at the same time. He’s not sure. Didn’t bother to plan that far, because that’s what she likes to do.

He sucks air deep into his lungs: plush grass (her plush thighs on his hips), damp earth (her wet cunt pulling him in), the almost sweet smell of late-summer leaves (her arousal thick as he slips his tongue against her).

There she is. Headed immediately for the thickest part of the underbrush. Hoping to hide her tracks, hide her trail, slow him down.

He imagines her crouched behind a tree. The startle as he grabs her, spins her, pressing her to that tree and the way she’d moan as he slipped inside her…

He reaches into his undergarments and adjusts his cock. Running like this won’t be fun, but it’ll be so, so worth it once he finds his devious darling.

He stops at the edge of the underbrush. Looks to the closest tree: a large oak. They’re all large, with wide, thick branches nearly touching.

Astarion ponders a moment, and then slips off his shoes. He doesn’t technically need to, but it seems the sort of thing to do.

Sets his bare foot on the rough bark, and scurries right up the side of the trunk into the canopy above.

Brush doesn’t matter to a godsdamned immortal vampire, after all.

***

The rest is on AO3 because I wrote like 14k for this, goddamn, and also for the horny.

[bluetbluish]

I believe in winner joel supremacy

Non text version below cut

[paper-r-i-n-g-s-and-c-r-o-w-n]

I've never agreed with the Pope more in my life than when he comparess a dog contemplating whether or not to lick someone or bite the shit out of them to that one look Daryl always has on his face-

i mean look at him...

he looks like he can't figure out whether to punch you, kiss you, fuck you, or kill you.

[jbsforever]

love that nora gave us a new book from a different character's pov but still took the time to show us that neil is absolutely insane 🥰

[nekohime19]

Mini Mac # 17 : Lil guy adventure

Mac go in search for Wukong!

Macaque was on a makeshift raft, twigs tied together by sturdy threads, strengthened by shadows. He left Flower Fruit Mountain two days ago after being embraced by the cubs and gifted flowers and fruits by the monkeys. Ma weaved flowers in his fur as a sign of good luck and Ba (another one of Wukong's stalwart generals, usually one to sleep in trees) gave him a piece of bamboo. He set sail on the brightest day, pushed by the wind. Macaque knew how to handle his raft, he reached Flower Fruit Mountain shores on one. He knew how to scare the fish, how to navigate through the tide, how to handle the weather. It was familiar, even after years of not touching a raft, it all came back naturally. As if the gestures were carved in his body. The flowers in his fur were still fresh, it brought him comfort when he curled at night, the smell lulled him.

Macaque was heading to the west, searching for the brotherhood in hope of getting answers. He was aware that, perhaps, he will not be welcomed with open arms. The last time he heard those so-called sworn brothers, they seemed particularly crossed at Wukong. Still he couldn't help but hope. He wouldn't ask for their support but only for information. He didn't care how long it would take. Even if he wasn't as immortal as Wukong, his life was still fated to be long, as long as the shadows, in fact. He would sail for hundreds of years and get to the bottom of this.

***

Macaque spent numerous years sailing, the monkey's flowers wilting after mere months. Even with the aid of the wind, his raft was slow, and needed to be strengthened every now and then. He also needed to restock his stack of fruits. He stopped on islands and villages, traveling in the shadows to escape giants. He knew how they were with oddities like himself, and he wasn't going to jeopardize his search because of them. Some of them did catch sight of him but Macaque was an artist when it came to escapery. He always left a lil surprise to the poachers foolish enough to try capturing him. Putting bee hives in their houses and letting their horses run free.

After twenty years of sailing, Macaque met his so-called arch-nemesis. He was sitting on his raft and eating fruits when it happened. A duck came down from the sky and landed beside his raft. Macaque eyed it up and down, surprised by its arrival, for ducks didn't migrate here. The duck turned towards him and eyed his fruits.

“No, no way, bud. Those are mines.” Growled Macaque as he brought his fruits closer. The duck stayed silent for a bit before jumping at Macaque, trying to steal the fruits.

Macaque was not above fistfighting a duck, he punched the bird and watched it squeak in offense with glee. After a few minutes of wrestling the duck gave up and flew away with a few indignant squeaks. The wind patted Macaque's head, like it was proud of his fight.

“I'm not letting a duck walk all over me!” Huffed Macaque as he ate his fruits.

The duck came back the day after, somehow determined to steal from Macaque.

It became a ritual after this, fistfighting the duck (lovingly dubbed Squeaky by Macaque) everytime he landed near the raft. At least, the black-furred monkey told himself it served as a good workout. After five days, Macaque gave up and glared at Squeaky, persuaded that a devil was hiding behind those bead-like eyes.

“Look here, you want the fruits? Then how about we make a deal?” Huffed the black-furred monkey with crossed arms. Squeaky narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “I'll feed you if you fly me where I want.”

Squeaky ruffled his feathers with his beak, swimming a bit around the raft, before stopping before it and presenting his back. Macaque cautiously stepped on the duck's back, the feathers were surprisingly soft, it felt like stepping on a cloud. Squeaky unfolded his wings and took flight, Macaque latched on his neck, chirping in surprise. When he opened his eyes he was met with the endless horizon stretching behind the sea, his eyes sparkled at the view.

***

This odd partnership with Squeaky lasted for a year, Macaque fed Squeaky and in exchange the duck brought him closer to the brotherhood. The duck left (probably to rejoin his family) after dropping Macaque at the foot of Camel Ridge, the city where the brotherhood decided to hole up. Macaque watched him fly away with a hint of longing, he had come to like Squeaky after spending months with him. Nonetheless, Macaque shook his head and entered the city, determined to get information on Wukong.

Macaque slipped inside of the city, running in the shadowed corners. The city was still very much in its construction phase, it was hardly worth a village. The black-furred monkey stopped before what looked like a building palace. He crawled under the space between the floor and the door. The inside of the palace was mostly empty, probably still being furnitured. Macaque walked in the shadowed corners until he caught sight of Azure Lion, Yellow-Tusk and Peng. They were all seated around a round table, discussing the plans of the city, and something about needing energy. The black-furred monkey observed them a little before climbing on the table, they all turned towards him with various levels of surprise.

“Macaque?” Mumbled Azure with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, sorry to invite myself?” Awkwardly chuckled Macaque. “I… I want to know what happened to Wukong.” He felt the mood darken at the sage's mention. Peng scoffed and crossed his arms while Yellow-Tusk averted his eyes.

“He betrayed us, that's what happened.” Sighed Azure Lion as he lowered his eyes, eyebrows furrowed.

“What do you mean betrayed?” Macaque couldn't believe his ears. If there was one thing Sun Wukong valued more than himself, it was his friends. He couldn't believe that Sun Wukong would willingly betray the brotherhood.

“He kneeled before the Jade Emperor.” Scoffed Peng.

Macaque wanted to say more, argue for the sage's sake, but he saw in their eyes that they weren't willing to listen.

“Where is he? What is happening to him?”Asked Macaque instead, only interested in where he could find Wukong.

“We do not know.” Sighed Yellow-Tusk.

“He was dragged by Heaven's soldiers, we don't know more than that.” Replied Azure.

Macaque stilled, worried by the lion's words. He feared what Heaven would do to Wukong. He wanted to ask more, to pry more, but he saw that he wasn't welcome and dived in his shadows, escaping Camel Ridge.

Macaque felt desperate, he couldn't go to Heaven… Maybe he could find a way? But who would be able to guide him upward? Did he even want to? Heaven was a dangerous place… but at the same time Macaque didn't want to stop looking for Wukong, he wanted to see him again.

The black-furred monkey spent the following days searching for spirits and lesser gods, trying to find a way to reach Heaven. It was complicated, no one wanted to accommodate him even if he tried to push for it. It was in the middle of his conversation with an umpteenth spirit that he heard a deafening sound. Something thundering, as if a higher god slammed his hand on the earth. Macaque erected his ears, curious about the sound

He felt every inch of his being burned when he heard a familiar cry.

Wukong's cry.

Ch1 / Previous / Next

[sunbeasts]

I too would like to volunteer to say nice things to the cat sir (he cute) while he judges me in moderate confusion! :D

"Go on then, say nice things about me. I want to hear all about how awesome, badass and handsome I am." (Don't call him cute to his face, he'll kick you in the shins.)

[ghcstcd]

Dew just tearing into a raw steak, you know he would.

[yki-dolls]

He is always seconds away from chewing someone's arm off.

[greenhillguy]

walking my friend through how to run a dishwasher over the phone and honestly? sonic-core

[toast-com]

BILLY SHOEPACK APPRECIATION POST💣🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨💣💣💣

[north-america-ocs]

*Takes pictures of the boys* looking good guys!

M!A 9/10

RIP Anon. I hope it was worth it 🙏

[clooyd]

Is Miguel O'Hara a tumblr sexyman yet

[midnightsartcorner]

DANTE HAS THE ZOOMIES!!

[watmalik]

We moved on WAY too fvking quickly from this…