#revelry barbarian

[greyeisacreativecolor]

Little sneak peak at my next d&d homebrew project Tablature Tome, a bit of a buff for Bards, and some more performance based subclasses for Clerics and Barbaraians

[societyfolklore]

Hellcat

Title: Hellcat

Pairing: Loki x Barbarian!Female Reader

Summary:  Captured as a spoil of war, you are dragged before the Asgardian victors-fierce, untamed, unwilling to bow. Meant as a gift for Thor, your defiance amuses him, but he has no desire to take a wild thing like you. Instead, he offers you to Loki as a reward. Shackled and bound in his chambers, the Trickster God promises not to break you-but to tame you.

Word Count:  9k (Yes it is this long, No I’m not sorry)

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI Dub-Con/Non-Con, Power Imbalance, Forced Submission & Domination Themes, Restraints & Bondage, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Overstimulation, Rough Sex, Possessive!Loki, Dom!Loki, NO BETA A/N:  I FREAKING LOVE THIS ONE!

The scent of war still clung to the air, thick with the metallic tang of blood, the acrid burn of fire, and the musk of sweat. Vanaheim was silent now, its fields ravaged by years of barbarian invasions from the mountains, its people caught between the brutality of their attackers and the intervention of Asgard. The cries of the fallen had long since faded into an eerie stillness, leaving only the flickering of flames and the distant clang of metal as the victors restored order to the realm.

Among those caught in the aftermath was you.

You had fought. Gods, you had fought with everything you had, teeth bared, nails clawing, muscles straining against the bonds they’d wrapped around your wrists. You were more beast than woman in that moment-feral, untamed, driven by rage and survival.

The grand drinking hall was alive with celebration, filled with Asgardian warriors feasting and boasting of their victory. The cacophony of noise filled your ears as you were pulled along, Volstagg and Hogun keeping their grips firm but without malice. The great wooden doors slammed open with a resounding boom, silencing the revelry for but a moment as all eyes turned to the spectacle.

“Thor! She’s been offered as a gift,” Volstagg declared, his voice booming over the gathered crowd. “A token of goodwill from the surviving Warlord himself. A gesture to ensure peace.” They announced as you were pushed in front of the head table.

There was nothing peaceful about you. You twisted in their hold, kicking, snarling, your teeth bared in open defiance. When a warrior reached out to touch you, you snapped your teeth at his fingers, nearly drawing blood. The gathered men laughed, a mixture of amusement and admiration for your spirit.

“She bites,” one of them chuckled.

“She would take your throat if you let her,” Hogun muttered, adjusting his grip as you tried to break free once more.

The torches lining the hall cast flickering shadows over your sweat-slick skin, your hair wild and tangled. You were a spectacle, a display of raw, untamed defiance, and despite the bonds on your wrists and the chain wrapped around your ankle, you held your head high. You would not bow. You would not kneel.

Thor rose from his seat at the head of the table, gaze sweeping over you with the same measured calm he had shown on the battlefield. His voice, steady as ever, carried across the room. “Vanaheim has suffered greatly at the hands of your people,” he stated, his tone neither cruel nor amused. “They burned, pillaged, and destroyed without reason.” He gestured toward you, “Without honour."

He stepped down from the dais, moving closer, though he kept his distance. “And yet,” he continued, meeting your wild gaze, “you fight as though your defiance alone will undo what has been done.”

Thor regarded you with something almost akin to pity before shaking his head. He took another step forward, watching you with that same unreadable calm, and that was when you lunged.

A snarl tore from your throat as you surged toward him, teeth bared, your entire body straining against the grip of your captors. The hall gasped-some in shock, others in delight at the sheer audacity of your attack. The chain at your ankle snapped taut, yanking you backward.

You stumbled, your body wrenched back with a violent jolt. Still, you did not stop. You spat at his feet, chest heaving, eyes burning with hatred.

Thor merely exhaled, glancing down at the spittle that now marred the polished stone floor between you. A slow shake of his head, a sigh that was more tired than angry. “She is wild, brother,” he said at last, turning away, clearly uninterested in engaging further. “Perhaps she suits you more.”

Loki, still seated, watched with a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. The shadows danced in his sharp, calculating gaze as he leaned forward, propping his chin upon his hand, while his other strummed the table with long elegant fingers. His amusement was clear, his interest undeniable.

“What a gift indeed,” he murmured, standing as the crowd quieted. He stepped closer, his piercing blue eyes gleaming with amusement, the cold depths of them sharp and assessing. He eyed you as one might a wild creature caught in a snare, intrigued yet entirely in control. “Tell me, little hellcat-are you meant to be a prize or a test?”

You hissed at him, your body straining against the hold of your captors, and he only chuckled. “How delightful.”

The hall erupted into raucous laughter and cheers as Thor waved a hand, dismissing any notion of keeping you for himself. “She is yours, brother.”

And so, you had been dragged from the hall, still growling, still spitting, your fate sealed.

You thrashed as they dragged you through the halls, your screams echoing against the remnants of what had once been your home. The metallic bite of your shackles cut into your wrists as you twisted against them, your breath ragged with exertion, your heart pounding with fury. They merely held you firm, letting you exhaust yourself. Let her fight. Let her waste her strength. It will not change her fate.

Each step you took toward it was another step away from everything you had ever known, from the land your people had struggled to protect. Yet you did not falter. You refused to let them see fear. Refused to let them witness anything but the fire still burning in your soul.

You were hauled past towering figures dressed in regal armor, past the golden walls that whispered of power and privilege. Every breath you took filled your lungs with the scent of Asgard’s influence, the lingering essence of gods who ruled with a steady hand, whose intervention had saved this realm from a worse fate. But you did not see it as salvation. To you, it was simply another form of conquest.

Then, you were thrown into darkness. Loki’s chambers. The door slammed shut behind you, leaving you in unsettling silence. You barely had time to gather yourself before rough hands shoved you down onto the thick furs covering the bed. The air was thick with incense, its cloying scent curling around you like a phantom touch. The chain at your ankle was yanked taut, the cold iron cuff pressing against your skin as it was secured to one of the ornately carved bedposts.

You thrashed, kicking out, but the restraint held firm. A sharp tug wrenched you back toward the bed, a cruel reminder of your powerlessness. The guards chuckled at your defiance, one giving a final jerk on the chain before stepping back.

“Feisty one,” he muttered, shaking his head with a smirk before turning to leave. The others followed, the door groaning as it shut behind them.

You barely waited a heartbeat before scrambling off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor as you tried to bolt. The chain rattled violently, jerking you to a sudden stop just before you could reach the far side of the room. You stumbled, falling hard to your knees, your breath leaving you in a sharp gasp.

A slow clap of footsteps echoed through the chamber.

"Leave us..." Loki’s voice cut through the space like silk and steel, his tone effortless yet commanding. He strode inside, the door locking behind him with a finality that sent a shudder through you. A bottle of something dark and strong dangled from his fingers, his other hand lazily tracing along the edge of a candleholder as he passed, the flames flickering to life in his wake.

He made his way toward the bed, his sharp gaze drinking in the sight of you-wild, breathless, your body taut with resistance. He perched himself at the edge of the bed, setting the bottle aside with a quiet thud.

“There, there,” he murmured, amusement curling at the edges of his voice. His fingers trailed lazily along the length of the chain before giving it an experimental tug, watching as it forced you back ever so slightly. “Wouldn’t want my little hellcat thinking she could just... run off. Not before we've had our fun, would we?”

His words made the hair on the back of your neck stand up as you crouched the glow of golden lanterns casting flickering shadows across the polished floors. You were breathing hard, chest rising and falling, hair a tangled mess around your face, sweat and dirt smeared across your skin. Finally your let out a rumbling growl from somewhere deep in your chest. 

Loki watching you with keen interest. There was no pity in his gaze, no soft words to soothe your fury. He enjoyed this, relished in the fire still burning in your eyes despite your captivity.

“You hiss, you snarl,” Loki mused, tilting his head, amusement lacing every syllable. He let out a slow chuckle, the sound rich and indulgent. He took his time, letting his gaze linger, his blue eyes gleaming with something dark and unreadable. Slowly, he leaned forward, his expression one of idle curiosity. “Such a little hellcat.”

You bared your teeth at him, muscles coiled tight as if you would spring for his throat. 

“I do love a challenge.” He chuckled again.

With a deliberate slowness, Loki reached for the buckles of his leather tunic, undoing them one by one. The supple material shifted under his touch as he shrugged it off, the weight of it hitting the floor with a soft thud. Beneath it, his undershirt clung to the lean muscle of his torso, the flickering lanterns casting deep shadows along the sharp planes of his chest.

He exhaled, stretching his arms briefly before grasping the hem of his underlayer. He peeled the fabric away, revealing the sculpted ridges of his abdomen, the pale skin marred only by faint scars-remnants of past battles. His movements were unhurried, measured, as though daring you to look, to acknowledge the power he held not just in his presence but in the body before you.

His blue eyes caught yours again, filled with something both wicked and knowing. He tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Come now, little hellcat. Have you never seen a god undress before?"

He stepped to the far side of the bed, his long fingers curling around the neck of the bottle as he lifted it effortlessly. Tilting his head back, he took a slow, measured swig, throat bobbing with the motion. The scent of strong liquor filled the space between you, and your dry tongue darted out instinctively to dampen cracked lips.

How long had it been since you had something to drink? Your throat ached at the thought, your parched lips tingling as your body reminded you of just how much it craved even a drop of moisture.

Loki’s gaze flicked downward, catching the fleeting motion of your tongue. He let out a quiet hum of amusement, rolling the bottle between his fingers before taking another sip, slower this time, watching you the entire time. "Thirsty, are we?"

He tilted the bottle slightly, letting the liquor swirl before pouring a generous amount into a goblet. Without a word, he bent down, placing it on the floor between you, the dark liquid sloshing slightly as he set it down. His smirk lingered as he straightened, drawing himself back up to his full height, stepping away with lazy confidence as if to give you space.

You shifted, eyeing the goblet warily, moving slightly to keep your distance from him. The scent of the drink was rich, spiced, and it called to you like a siren’s song. Your throat burned with dryness, and despite yourself, you could not tear your gaze from it.

Loki turned his back to you, taking his time as he walked toward the far side of the bed, exuding nonchalance. That was your moment.

You lunged forward, snatching the goblet up in both hands, guzzling it down so fast that some of it spilled over the edges, sliding down your chin, trailing over your throat and chest. The warmth of the liquor hit you instantly, spreading fire through your parched body, but you didn’t care. You drank greedily, too desperate to savour it, too frantic to stop.

Loki’s chuckle came slow and knowing. "There’s a good girl." Your hands trembled slightly, but as he took a step closer, you hesitated, eyes flickering between him and the cup in your hands. The moment he moved, you set it down hastily, retreating a few paces, your body tensed as if expecting a trap.

Loki hummed, tilting his head as if considering something, before reaching down and refilling the goblet. He set it back onto the floor, stepping back again, though this time, not quite as far. His movements were slow, calculated, a silent test.

You hovered, shifting on your haunches, your instincts warring against your need. The scent of the liquor was thick, tantalizing, and your throat still burned. Another moment passed, and then you lunged, snatching the goblet once more, bringing it to your lips and drinking deep. The fiery liquid coated your throat, spreading warmth through your limbs, but this time, it was slower, the edges of your mind turning hazy from the alcohol’s effect.

Loki let out a satisfied chuckle, rolling the bottle between his palms. "You learn quickly," he mused.

Loki took his time closing the distance between you, his boots barely making a sound on the polished floor. He crouched before you, watching with unhidden amusement as you gasped for breath, the warmth of the drink settling into your stomach. His long fingers reached out, trailing up the column of your throat, catching a stray droplet of liquor that had slipped down your skin. He brought it to his lips, his tongue flicking out to taste it, a slow hum of satisfaction escaping him.

“Messy little thing,” he mused, his tone rich with indulgence. “Was it that unbearable, I wonder? That thirst clawing at you, making you forget everything but the need to drink?”

His eyes flickered with dark amusement as he lifted the goblet from your grasp, turning it over to show its emptiness. “How quickly you took what I offered.” He let the cup fall from his fingers, the soft clatter against the stone floor barely registering over the sound of your uneven breathing.  Loki’s gaze burned into you as he leaned in, his lips barely a whisper away from your ear. “Tell me, little hellcat… what else might you take from me so eagerly?”

You hissed at him, baring your teeth once more, but Loki only tutted, shaking his head as if you were an unruly pet testing its boundaries. You instinctively moved back, trying to put distance between you, but the sharp rattle of the chain gave you away before you could make it far.

Loki’s hand snapped out, gripping the chain just above where it was secured to your ankle. With a single pull, the metal links tightened, dragging you forward before you could dig your heels in. You gasped, arms scrambling against the floor to brace yourself, but he yanked again, forcing you closer, the cold iron biting against your skin. The sudden loss of control sent a fresh wave of fury surging through you, but he only smirked as if the struggle pleased him.

He let the chain go slack, but not enough for you to retreat. No, Loki did not need brute force to corner you.

Prowling forward, he closed the last of the space between you, lowering himself to your level, making sure you felt the way his presence consumed the air. His fingers ghosted over your skin, feather-light, maddeningly delicate. A whisper of fingertips along your bare arm, a teasing stroke down the ridge of your spine. Your body tensed, caught in the dissonance of instincts-one screaming to fight, the other to yield to the sensations he so effortlessly evoked.

He was studying you, an insidious look on his face. The growl coming up from you again. 

“You can snarl all you want, little hellcat,” he murmured, his voice like velvet and steel. His breath ghosted over your skin, lips brushing close but never quite touching. “But we both know what happens when something wild is handled with the right kind of touch.”

He was close enough to strike, to kick, but your limbs felt heavy, your head clouded, the warmth of the liquor seeping into your veins. A slow, creeping lethargy dulled your movements, your body betraying you with sluggish resistance. Yet, even as your instincts screamed at you to fight, another feeling curled at the edges of your awareness-something unfamiliar, something dangerous.

Your breath hitched as Loki loomed over you, his face sharp as a blade in the dim light. He was beautiful in a way that should not have struck you now, not here, not like this. The flickering lanterns carved shadows along the angular planes of his face-the high cheekbones, the wicked tilt of his mouth, the piercing blue eyes that seemed to drink in your every reaction. There was something predatory in his gaze, something that sent a shiver down your spine-not entirely out of fear.

His smirk deepened, as though he sensed the shift in you, the momentary lapse in your defiance. His grip on the chain tightened, the metal links rattling sharply as he gave a sudden pull. The force sent you tumbling forward, your hands barely catching against the floor to stop your fall. Before you could regain your balance, his arm wrapped around your middle, lifting you effortlessly.

The torn rags you wore shredded further under his grip, the fabric giving way in places as your body was pulled flush against his.  The solid press of his bare chest against your back. His grip was unyielding, every movement forcing you against the hard lines of his body.

A sharp intake of breath escaped you as you became aware of the aching hardness between his legs, pressing insistently against your lower back. Loki let out a quiet, pleased hum, his fingers digging into your waist as he relished the way you tensed at the realization.

Then, with little effort, he tossed you onto the bed, his grip never loosening as he followed, pinning your wrists above your head. The soft furs did little to cushion the weight of him as he hovered over you, his blue eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

You bucked beneath him, twisting in his hold, snarling through clenched teeth. The fight had not left you, not yet. Your legs kicked against the furs, your body writhing as you tried to dislodge him, but Loki merely chuckled, his grip unyielding.

“Even in defeat, you people don’t give up, do you?” he mused, easily evading a knee aimed at his side. “Never know when you’re beaten. Your people certainly didn’t. They fought and bled until the last, screaming curses at the sky even as they fell beneath Asgard’s might. And for what?”

His words burned, but they did nothing to quell the fire within you. What else was there but defiance? To yield was to accept that your people had died for nothing. That all the battles, all the blood spilled into the dirt, had been futile. You could not-would not-let go of that rage, even as your strength waned, even as you remained bound beneath him. Loki’s amusement only grew, his fingers trailing down, catching on the torn fabric of your clothes. Another snarl tore from you as you tried to pull your arms down to cover your bare chest. But his hold stayed firm.

"In the end you all kneel.." 

He hummed in mock contemplation, tilting his head as he studied you, his touch deceptively light over the exposed skin.

His hand drifted away for a moment, and you had just begun to brace yourself when a dagger appeared in his palm as if conjured from thin air. The sight of it made your body go rigid, breath catching in your throat. This was what you knew, what you expected-pain, brutality, the sharp bite of a blade to punish defiance. You stiffened, your muscles locking up as you prepared for the inevitable sting of steel against flesh.

Loki, perceptive as ever, watched the tension ripple through you. His smirk deepened, but instead of pain, the cold kiss of metal whispered along your ribs, tracing over your side. Then, with a deliberate flicks, he sliced cleanly through the remaining shreds of your clothing. The tattered fabric fell away, leaving your chest bare before him.

His gaze roved over your body, taking in the hardened lines of a warrior’s form-tanned flesh marked by scars, some fresh, others long healed. A map of survival, of battles fought and endured. He ran the blunt edge of the dagger along one particularly jagged scar over your hip, his eye focused as if reading a story carved into your skin. “Oh, you are something savage, aren’t you?” he mused, almost appreciative, almost reverent. There was no mockery in his tone now-just a quiet understanding, as if he recognized the kind of life you had lived, the brutality that camp from the raiding war camps.  

"Your own people handed you over to us as a prize," Loki murmured, the blade continuing its slow, measured path over your body. "A peace offering, they called you a token of goodwill." He scoffed, the amusement never leaving his tone. "And yet here you are, snarling and spitting like a beast in a trap. Tell me, little hellcat, what good has all this defiance done for you?"

Your breath came shallow, your heart hammering against your ribs. He was toying with you, chipping away at the last remnants of your certainty. What else did you have but resistance? To yield was unthinkable. To surrender meant losing the last piece of yourself that still felt real.

But then his dagger moved lower, the edge gliding over the torn remnants of your skirt. With a flick of his wrist, the fabric gave way, slipping from your body in tattered ruins. The knife disappeared as quickly as it had come, vanishing into nothing, and his hands replaced it, broad palms smoothing over the newly bared skin as his hands pushed the fabric away. 

The touch was different from the cold bite of the blade. Warmer. More consuming.

You stiffened, writhing beneath his touch, your body instinctively twisting away, but the chain at your ankle rattled, holding you fast. Loki only chuckled, low and pleased his grip on your wrists tightening. "Now, now." His fingers of his free hand traced over the same paths the dagger had travelled, slow, deliberate.

"You probably don’t even understand what it is I’m offering you," he mused, his voice lilting, coaxing. "Fighting is all you’ve ever known, isn’t it? Pain, brutality… those are the only languages your kind understand. But conquest doesn't have to be something to fight against."

His fingers continued their slow exploration, gliding over your skin with practiced ease, trailing over battle-worn flesh as if memorizing each mark. "Your kind only know war. You think surrender means death, that yielding means ruin. But power does not always come from battle. It can come from knowing when to stop fighting."

His voice was softer now, deceptively gentle, a lure wrapped in silk. "How much blood have you seen spilled, little hellcat? How much have you lost? And for what? Your people are gone, their screams swallowed by the battlefield. Their legacy burned to ash. Yet still, you fight. Still, you bare your teeth like a wounded animal."

His touch grew firmer, fingers trailing lower, pressing just enough to make you aware of them. "Tell me, what did all that defiance earn you? Did it save your home? Your kin? Or did it leave you here, chained at my feet, your body trembling beneath my hands?"

Loki shifted closer, his breath warm against your skin. "I could teach you something else. Something far sweeter than war. If only you’d stop fighting long enough to feel it."

His words slithered around you like a net tightening, and before you could muster another snarl, his grip changed. His hand slid upward, fingers skimming over the curve of your ribs before trailing higher, brushing against the soft flesh of your breast. You jerked at the contact, instinctively bucking but his grip on your wrists kept you pinned beneath him, leaving you helpless against the slow, measured exploration of his touch.

A pleased hum rumbled from his throat as he traced over your skin, his fingers circling, teasing, playing. "So fierce" he murmured, almost thoughtful, his thumb grazing over a sensitive peak. "You don't even know how to yield, do you?"

A sharp gasp escaped you, hips shifting involuntarily as your muscles coiled with tension. Loki only chuckled, his touch growing firmer, more deliberate. He watched the way you writhed beneath him, the way your body reacted despite the hatred burning in your eyes. It was fascinating-watching something so wild resist what it was built to crave.

"Just like your people" he murmured, dipping his head lower, lips hovering just above your skin. "Your body will betray you.." His breath was warm, sending a shiver across your flesh before he finally closed his mouth over you, sucking lightly at first, teasing. His tongue flicked against the sensitive pebble, and despite everything, your breath hitched, the sensation sending a traitorous wave of heat through you.

Loki smirked against your skin, lips curving in wicked satisfaction as he lavished the tender flesh, his hand keeping you still as he took his time with you. His tongue flicked over your harden nipple before he drew it between his lips, sucking with slow, measured precision, his breath warm against your fevered skin.

You twisted beneath him, your body arching despite yourself, despite the warning cries in your mind. Your thighs clenched as heat coiled deep in your belly, an unfamiliar pulse growing with every touch, every teasing stroke of his tongue. You growled, low and defiant, but the sound was breathy, lacking its usual bite.

Loki chuckled, lips dragging over your skin as he pressed a kiss over your ribs, his voice purring with amusement. “Still so eager to fight? I wonder… do you even speak?”

His hands trailed lower, fingers mapping the soft dips and curves of your body. The pressure was maddening, never quite enough, teasing but never giving you the friction you needed. You shuddered, frustration coiling in your muscles as you twisted against him, your breaths uneven.

Loki let out a pleased hum before shifting, reclining onto the bed as though this were all a game to him. His grip on your wrists loosened just enough to move, but before you could attempt to escape, his free hand pressed firmly against your thigh, forcing them open.

A growl tore from your throat as you bucked, but his strength was undeniable. He wrapped one of his long legs over yours, pinning it in place with ease. The shackle at your ankle rattled as he gave a slight tug on the chain, making sure you understood-there was no closing your legs, no escape from him.

His fingers resumed their lazy exploration, trailing higher, his touch feather-light but purposeful. The sheer vulnerability of the position sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you, your body reacting despite the war waging in your mind.

“Will you call for your heathen god while I fill you over and over again?” His voice was smooth, taunting, vibrating against your sensitive skin. One of his hands slid between your thighs, ghosting over you but never settling, never giving you the satisfaction of contact.

Just like he'd said you could feel your body betrayed you, shivering under his touch, the anticipation unbearable. His fingers barely grazed over you, and yet it sent a sharp, hot pulse through your veins, your breath stuttering in response. Loki hummed in satisfaction, his smirk widening against your skin.

“I do not intend to break you, hellcat,” he murmured, his lips dragging slowly over your throat, the warmth of his breath a cruel contrast to the chill of the room. "Only to tame you."

You growled once more, the last embers of resistance burning in your chest, shifting your hips in a desperate attempt to protect your more sacred parts. But Loki’s grip remained unyielding, his body a wall of restraint as his fingers trailed lower, slipping along the seam of your core.

A sharp inhale left your lips, your body stiffening at the intimate touch, but all it did was amuse him further. A knowing hum rumbled from his throat as he dipped his head lower, his mouth pressing against the curve of your neck, the heat of his lips sending another traitorous shiver through you. Then, without warning, his fingers pushed between your folds, parting them with devastating slowness.

The noise you made was somewhere between a gasp and a growl, caught between rebellion and undeniable pleasure. Loki smirked against your throat, revelling in the way your body tensed beneath him, your breath hitching as he explored the traitorous wetness pooling between your thighs.

“Oh, my little hellcat,” he purred, his fingers stroking with languid precision, teasing, never rushing. Occasionally, he let his fingers trail higher, brushing against your clit in the lightest of touches, just enough to send a sharp pulse through your body. Your breath stuttered, a fresh growl tearing from your throat, but the sound faltered, for your defiance there was something dangerously close to need in that noise.

He chuckled, dragging his fingers down again, gathering the wetness that betrayed you, before resuming his torturous rhythm. The sensation built slowly, unbearably, your body growing restless beneath him, heat coiling tight in your belly. You bucked again, trying to twist away from his touch, but he merely tightened his grip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

"Ah, still fighting," Loki mused, his voice dripping amusement. "But look at you. So wet. So desperate. And yet you still snarl at me like a beast." 

Your hips moved despite yourself, your breath catching, fingers curling into fists. You growled once more, low and warning, bucking your hips in a last-ditch effort to be rid of him-only to feel his fingers slide lower. 

"Shall I make you purr instead?"

Your chained foot kicked out as the sensation built, as if you could somehow escape the unbearable pleasure creeping into your limbs. But Loki was already prepared, already shifting, his weight pressing down as he tightened his hold.

His lips found your throat, teeth scraping against sensitive skin before he latched onto the spot just beneath your ear. he murmured against your pulse, his voice filled with amusement, his fingers finally dipping lower, teasing your entrance before pushing inside, slow and deliberate.

Your back arched, the stretch sudden, unexpected, your walls yielding around the slow, deliberate intrusion. It was too much, too intimate-the way your body opened for him, taking him in deeper than you wanted to accept. A sharp gasp tore from your lips, your breath coming in shallow, uneven pants as you tried to adjust to the fullness of his fingers pressing deep inside you.

Your muscles clenched around him in instinctive resistance, but he only hummed approvingly, revelling in the way your body fought against the pleasure unravelling through you. His grip on your wrists never faltered, keeping you pinned beneath him, helpless against the slow, torturous invasion of his fingers. You were utterly exposed, spread wide, unable to twist away from the deliberate rhythm he set.

“That’s it,” Loki purred, his voice dripping with indulgence. “Open up for me, little hellcat. Let me feel all of you.”

His fingers spread inside you, scissoring deliberately, stretching you open as he took his time working you apart. The sensation was unbearable, burning and invasive, every movement pushing against resistance, coaxing your body to yield. Your breath hitched, your back bowing as your hips tried to sink back into the furs, away from the overwhelming fullness.

But there was no escaping him.

Loki smirked, watching the way your body instinctively tensed, your walls fluttering as if unsure whether to reject or welcome the intrusion. His fingers curled, pressing against that devastating spot inside you, sending a sharp, liquid heat rippling through your core. A ragged sound escaped you, caught between a growl and a plea, your body trembling beneath his touch.

“Look at how you take me,” he murmured, almost fascinated, his pace slow but unyielding. “So tight, little hellcat… but you’ll soften for me. You’ll take more. You were made for this.”

Your wrists strained against his hold, your hips fighting to move-whether to flee or to chase the friction, you weren’t sure. Loki simply chuckled, his thumb flicking over your swollen clit, sending another helpless shudder through you.

“Such a lovely contradiction,” he purred. “Your body is so honest, even when you lie to yourself.”

His fingers curled slightly, pressing against that spot inside you, dragging another ragged sound from your throat-a sound you could barely recognize as your own. Your back arched, the stretch deep and invasive, a sensation that made your breath stutter, your mind war between the urge to fight and the unbearable fullness of his touch.

He worked you with a wicked patience, every motion deliberate, teasing, pushing you further into the trap your own body had laid for you. Your walls clenched instinctively, as if to force him out, but he merely smirked, his pace unhurried, savouring how you trembled beneath his hold. The slick evidence of your betrayal coated his fingers, making every slow thrust effortless, every withdrawal torturous.

“You tried so hard,” he murmured, his thumb ghosting over your swollen clit, sending another traitorous jolt of pleasure through you. “Yet here you are-writhing, shaking, taking everything I give you.”

Your hips jerked, desperate to escape the overwhelming sensations but finding no reprieve. Loki chuckled, his grip tightening, his body keeping you caged beneath him. His legs moved to pull your further aside, his hips pressing down, forcing you to stay open for him.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice rich with satisfaction. His thumb brushed lightly against your swollen clit, drawing another unwilling shudder from you. "Listen to yourself," he murmured, his fingers slipping through the slick evidence of your body’s betrayal before pressing deep again, curling just right. "So soaked, dripping onto my hand, and yet you still bare your teeth."

The sound of his fingers pushing into your wet core was obscene, each slow stroke echoing in the chamber. The slick noise sent heat flooding through you, humiliation and something darker twisting together in your belly. Your walls clenched around him, trying to resist, but he only chuckled, unfazed.

“That knot inside you… I can feel it building,” he mused, almost thoughtful. "Tight, pulsing, desperate to snap. You don’t want it to, do you?" His nose tracing along your jaw, his fingers spreading again making you feel every deep, deliberate movement.

You choked on a breath, your body seizing, another growl rumbling from your throat. Loki grinned. "Trying to fight it? But you will surrender, little hellcat. You were made to come undone for me."

Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms hard enough to make the skin bleed, every muscle in your body coiling against the inevitable. You fought it, bucking against him, growling through clenched teeth, but it only heightened the sensations. The more you struggled, the more the pleasure built, sharp and consuming, your own defiance turning against you. Every roll of your hips, every attempt to twist away only sent another wave of heat spiralling through your limbs, your body working against your mind.

The tension in your core coiled unbearably tight, searing through you, refusing to be ignored. The pressure was relentless, twisting pleasure with humiliation, with fury, with something darker that clawed at the edges of your resolve. You couldn't stop it. You couldn't stop him. He was going to take everything from you now.

And the worst part? You were going to let him.

You were going to come apart at the hands of the one who destroyed your people. And gods help you-

You were going to like it.

Your body seized, every muscle tightening as the pleasure coiled unbearably tight, a taut, trembling wire on the verge of snapping. Loki's fingers never ceased, working you open, stretching you, his movements as measured as they were merciless. The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into you, the obscene slickness that marked your betrayal, filled the chamber alongside his quiet laughter.

"Ah, there it is," he murmured, feeling the way your walls fluttered, grasping desperately at his fingers, your body surrendering to the inevitable. "You're close, aren't you? I can feel you clenching down on me, trying so hard to deny it."

You shook your head, a growl rising in your throat, but it was ruined, trembling, edged with something fragile. You didn't want this, didn't want to fall apart like this. Not for him.

But Loki had already won.

He curled his fingers again, his thumb flicking over your throbbing clit with precision that shattered whatever fragile hold you had left. The tension broke, pleasure tearing through you in a violent wave, your back arching, a cry ripped from your throat before you could stop it. It crashed over you, wave after wave, your vision blurring as the force of it stole every last breath from your lungs.

Loki didn't stop. He worked you through it, his fingers unrelenting as you writhed beneath him, moaning, gasping, your body boneless in surrender. His laughter curled around you, wicked and indulgent, as if savouring the sight of you completely undone.

"There we go," he purred, his fingers still moving inside you, dragging out every last aftershock, his thumb teasing over your clit again just to watch you spasm beneath him. Your body twitched uncontrollably, muscles trembling from the intensity of it, your breath coming in broken gasps.

Loki chuckled, thoroughly pleased with himself, his fingers still buried inside you, pressing deep as addicted to the way your walls pulsed around him. "Such a sight," he murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction. "You tried so hard, and yet here you are-ruined and trembling, undone by my hand alone."

He finally withdrew his fingers, slow and deliberate, revelling in the way your body clenched instinctively, as if reluctant to let him go. He brought them up between you, slick with your release, watching with dark amusement as he spread them apart, the evidence of your surrender glistening in the dim light.

"To think," he mused, his tone teasing as he brought his fingers to his lips, tasting you with an permissive hum, "you fought so hard to resist this. But as I said, your body always knew the truth, didn't it, hellcat?"

You lay next him, panting, dazed, limbs weak from pleasure and the lingering warmth of the drink. Your muscles refused to obey, spent from the relentless waves that had wracked your body, leaving you a trembling, boneless heap against the furs.

The fight had left you. You knew it. Yet you refused to acknowledge it.

A flicker of green blurred at the edges of your vision, and Loki shifted, his smirk widening as his pants vanished with an effortless pulse of magic. He loomed above you, his sharp blue eyes gleaming with conquest as he took in your wrecked state-wild and undone, your body betraying you even as your mind screamed defiance.

His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "I felt you shatter for me, my little hellcat…"

You clenched your jaw, refusing to speak, to give him the satisfaction of a response. But Loki was nothing if not patient.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he let go of your chin and dragged you onto your hands and knees, the chain at your ankle rattling as he positioned you exactly where he wanted. You didn't even attempt to strike or claw as he let go of your wrists, rolling you over. There was no real fight now.

Loki ran a possessive hand down your spine, his fingers splaying over the curve of your hips before gripping them firmly. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured, "Since you behave like such a beast, I shall take you like one."

Loki moved behind you, his heat pressing against your back, his hands roaming over your waist, your hips, possessive in their claim. One large hand slid lower, guiding himself against your soaked core, running his hardened length through your slickness, teasing, coaxing, revelling in how wet you were for him.

A small, broken whimper slipped from your throat before you could bite it back.

Loki smirked. "No more hissing, hmm?" His voice was rich with amusement, the arrogance of victory settling into every syllable. He gave a slow, deliberate thrust between your folds, letting the head of his cock graze against your swollen clit, pulling another unbidden tremor from your body. "Good girl."

Your head fell forward, the weight of exhaustion, of pleasure, of surrender too much to bear. And then, before you could stop yourself, before you could think-

"Please…"

The word barely carried past your lips, quiet, breathless. You weren’t sure if you were begging for mercy or for more, if you were pleading for release or for an end to the torment of knowing how deeply your body had betrayed you.

Loki stilled, then let out a delighted chuckle. "Oh? You do speak?" He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Let’s have you scream my name then."

Without further warning, he pressed forward, the thick head of his cock stretching you open, slow and deliberate. The intrusion was overwhelming, your body hypersensitive from his earlier torment, the burn of his size making your breath stutter into a ragged moan. Your limbs trembled, fingers clawing at the furs beneath you as he filled you inch by inch, ensuring you felt every hard, unrelenting inch of him.

Loki groaned, his grip tightening on your hips as he sank into you fully, his body shuddering in satisfaction. "So warm… so tight," he murmured, his fingers digging into your flesh as he held you in place. "You were made for this, little hellcat, made to be tamed, made to be mine."

Your body clenched around him involuntarily, the sensation too much, too consuming, leaving you keening softly, your breath shattering in the stillness of the room. You were no longer thrashing, no longer resisting-only whimpering,

Loki rejoiced in your submission, relishing the way your body moulded around him. He withdrew slowly, only to press back in with the same torturous precision, making sure you felt every inch of your surrender. His hands gripped your hips, holding you still as he set a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust sending fresh waves of sensation rippling through you.

"There now," he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction. "No more hissing, no more claws. Just this."

He moved-slow at first, each thrust deliberate, forcing you to feel every thick inch stretching you open, every drag against your sensitive walls. The overstimulation made your breath stutter, made your limbs tremble. The pleasure was relentless, raw, tearing through you with every slow roll of his hips.

Loki groaned, "You take me so well hellcat." his voice thick with satisfaction. "Oh gods…" you gasped, your fingers clenching the furs beneath you, your body rocking with the force of his movements.

He chuckled darkly, his hands gripping your waist to hold you in place. "I doubt your gods can hear you now," he murmured, his thrusts beginning to quicken, deepening with each snap of his hips. "But this one can."

His rhythm grew more forceful, his pace unforgiving as he chased his pleasure, as he drove you further into submission. The stretch of him, the way he filled you completely, made your body tremble with the unbearable mix of pleasure and something teetering on the edge of pain. Every thrust forced you open wider, made you feel just how much of him you had to take.

You tried to adjust, to find some control, but he gave you none. Your fingers clawed at the furs beneath you, your breath coming in ragged pants, but all it did was amuse him. "Poor thing," Loki purred, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Are you struggling? Is it too much?" His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you back against him with each deep stroke. "But your body doesn’t seem to mind."

You whimpered, heat coiling unbearably tight in your core, each brutal thrust sending another wave of sensation crashing through you. "Uhrgh! …" you gasped moans slipping past your lips before you could stop them.

Your body clenched around him involuntarily, the overwhelming sensation tipping closer and closer to the edge. You wanted to resist, wanted to deny him the satisfaction, but it was futile. The pleasure was unbearable, tightening, building, burning through you until there was nothing left but the devastating need to surrender completely.

Loki leaned down, his breath hot against your ear, his voice a dark whisper. "Say my name," he murmured, his thrusts growing deeper, more punishing. "Tell me who you belong to."

You bit down on your lip, refusing, even as your body trembled, even as your walls fluttered around him, dangerously close to another devastating release. But Loki was patient. His hand slid down, fingers pressing against your aching clit, circling it in a slow, deliberate rhythm that made your vision blur.

"Say it," he urged, grinding deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside you that made your breath hitch, made your limbs quake.

The pressure inside you coiled unbearably tight, the need to break overwhelming. You fought it, fought him, but the pleasure was too much. Your body gave in before your pride did, the words falling from your lips in a gasping whisper.

"Y-you…"

Your body shattered around him, pleasure ripping through you in devastating waves, your climax seizing every nerve, every muscle, forcing you into complete submission. A strangled cry tore from your throat, your back arching as the overwhelming sensation crashed over you, leaving you trembling, writhing, unable to control the helpless spasms that wracked your body. The intensity was unbearable, your breath coming in ragged, broken sobs as your walls clenched around him, pulling him deeper, refusing to let him go. But Loki did not stop.

He groaned, his hands tightening on your hips, his thrusts growing rougher, more insistent as he fucked you through it, forcing you feel ever clench ever flutter your walls made around his cock. Each snap of his hips sent another jolt through your overstimulated body.

"Not done yet, hellcat," Loki growled, his voice thick with possession. He gave a brutal thrust, driving himself to the hilt, his tip pressing deep into you. "You will give me another."

Your body was still trembling from the force of your last orgasm, oversensitive, raw, but Loki did not stop. He kept moving, his thrusts relentless, dragging another cry from your lips as your limbs quaked beneath him. The pleasure was unbearable, bordering on torment, the overstimulation making your breath hitch, your muscles weaken. You collapsed onto your forearms, panting into the furs, your body no longer able to hold itself upright against the force of his claiming.

Loki only smirked, his grip unyielding as he held you in place, making sure you felt every deep stroke, every possessive roll of his hips. "That's it," he purred, voice rich with satisfaction. "No more fight left in you, is there? Just this-just me."

Your walls clenched involuntarily around him, the relentless friction taking you apart, your will, your soul fracturing, every thrust sending a fresh pulse of heat spiralling through you. Your body was betraying you again, the pressure already building, the cruel edge of another climax creeping closer.

Loki chuckled darkly, feeling the way you trembled beneath him. "Oh, you will give me another, little hellcat. I will take you apart again and again until there is no thought of defiance, no memory of resistance-only me."

His thrusts never slowed, never wavered, driving deeper, harder, until all you could do was gasp, your fist twisting up in the furs beneath you. Your body no longer fought him-it sought him. Each desperate clench of your walls, each helpless moan torn from your throat only spurred him on, his pace punishing, possessive.

Your limbs shook while you mewled, your mind hazy, drowning in the pleasure he forced upon you. Where had pleasure like this been? Nothing had felt like this-not the rush of battle, not the joy of victory. Nothing compared to this. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t remember why you had ever tried to resist him. There was nothing but him-his touch, his voice, his relentless claim over your body and soul.

The pressure built again, cruel and unrelenting, another climax cresting far too soon, but there was no stopping it. Your body craved him now, needed him like air, like sustenance, and the realization shattered the last vestiges of your will.

A strangled cry ripped from your lips, your back arching as another wave of ecstasy crashed over you, your body convulsing around him, tightening, drawing him deeper, surrendering completely. Your voice was raw, broken.

"LOKI," you gasped, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless, desperate prayer. The pleasure tore through you in a relentless surge, dragging you under, leaving you helpless beneath its weight. Your walls fluttered around him, pulsing, milking every inch of him as your muscles locked and your breath hitched, caught between a sob and a moan. The sensation was too much, too consuming, sending sharp jolts of overstimulation rippling through your body.

Your body shaking, but there was nothing-only him. His scent, his body, his merciless rhythm. You shattered in his grasp, boneless and wrecked, pleasure surging through every nerve as your climax sent fresh spasms through you, your legs shaking as if they threaten to give out.

Loki's breath hitched, a sharp exhale breaking through his usual control. "That’s it," he groaned, voice thick with possession, "Take it. Take all of me."

He thrust deeper, his movements becoming erratic, rougher as he chased his own release, every stroke driving the sensation higher, pushing you past any hope of resistance. "You feel that?" he growled, fingers tightening around your hips. "You want this, you need me now." His voice was strained, fraying at the edges, his own pleasure consuming him as your body clenched around him, dragging him to the brink. His grip on your hips unrelenting. "Mine," he rasped, his voice dark and hoarse, his rhythm faltering as he finally lost himself in you. His thrusts grew erratic, his breath turning ragged as your body clenched around him, dragging him closer to his own end. His fingers dug into your flesh, his control fraying as he drove into you harder, deeper, chasing his own pleasure with the same ruthless intensity that had shattered you.

Loki's breath catching as his closing down like a vice, his body tensing, and then with a deep, guttural groan, he spilled into you, his seed flooding deep inside, hot and unrelenting, marking you as his own. He buried himself to the hilt, holding you firm, refusing to let you escape the finality of his claim. "You belong to me now," he murmured against your skin, his breath ragged, his pleasure still echoing through his limbs. But still, he did not let go. Even as his body shuddered, even as he pressed in deep one final time, he kept you close, his hands possessive, his breath hot against your damp skin.

"So docile now.." he rasped, his voice rough with exertion, his lips ghosting over your shoulder as he held you through the aftershocks, whimpering keens coming from you.

When he finally withdrew, you collapsed, your body trembling, boneless. His seed and your nectar spilled out of you, running over your skin to make a sticky mess on the furs beneath you. The evidence of what he had done to you, of how completely he had claimed you, was undeniable.

Loki leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "Such a good little thing," he murmured, his voice filled with the purrs bought from his own sated need. With a flick of his fingers, the shackle around your ankle unlocked, the metal slipping away with a quiet clink. Not because you were free-but because you would not run now. There was no need for such a restraint. 

His hand moved to your hair, stroking through the sweat damp strands as he indulged in the warmth of your ruined form against him. He curled himself around you, his touch possessive, his presence inescapable.

"Rest, little hellcat," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. "You belong to me now."

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

ok I've got a few good sentences that might inspire you, but this one feels very much Tav and Astarion:

"oh, that's a nice tavern. ...Where the fuck am I?!"

It was taking every ounce of self restraint Astarion had to keep from laughing as you staggered forward, leading an equally staggering Karlach through the streets of Baldur’s Gate on a quest to get tattoos.

He didn’t know when exactly the scheme was sprung, but he suspected in was somewhere after the fourth and fifth round of drinks. He had quit after the third, deciding he had to keep a clear head if you weren’t. Besides, you’d earned at least one night of drunken revelry.

Gale and Wyll had expressed their objections, but being a few cups deep in themselves, weren’t in a position to stop a barbarian when she decided to leave anyway.

Astarion had opted to simply follow, just to make sure the pair of you didn’t get into too much trouble. And by the gods was he delighted he did.

“I think it’s this way,” your slurred, pointing down a side street.

“No!” Karlach bellowed, having lost control of her volume three drinks ago. “It’s ah…fuck, they changed fuckin’ everything. Should be ah—“

“Wait,” you objected. “If we’re…if we’re gonna do this. We’re gonna need another drink.”

“You’re so right,” Karlach said, leaning on you so heavily, Astarion was shocked she didn’t topple you over. “Elfsong is around here somewhere.”

“Oh that’s a nice tavern… Where the fuck am I?!”

Astarion did laugh then, muffling it behind his hand. He needn’t had bothered; both you and Karlach were too far gone to notice.

This was going to be a night to remember, for him if no one else.

(Astarion x AsexualBard!Tav Masterlist)

[pursuitseternal]

✨⚔️Chapter 3–“Little Huntress:” update to “Love Me, Hate Me” ⚔️✨Enemies to lovers retelling

Astarion x Tav (Katja) | M chapter | 3.8 K

🎨 by @dafna-winchester

Summary: After being bitten, Katja spends a restless night, learning for once that monsters are sometimes made… not born. One wayfairing stranger makes her confront these feelings, forcing her to question that straighter and narrow view of the Gur… much to Astarion’s delight.

CW: Act 1 spoilers, Astarion’s trauma rears its head, corruption kink incoming, Gandrel scene retelling

Previous ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

Katja tossed and turned and then tossed some more.

Blood replenished, but her stomach curled in on itself with hate and disgust. At least, yeah, that’s what she thought it was. Sitting up in her dark tent, legs tangled in her bedroll, she stared at her wrist in the dim light of dawn. Those fang marks stared right back at her, angry, red circles ringed in darker flesh from the ice of his bite.

It… wasn’t supposed to feel that good, was it? She flopped herself back down on her other side. Or maybe it was, maybe it was supposed to pull her under his spell, weaken her constitution to make her hot and wet and dripping with the need for his cool touch on her cheek and between her…

“Fuck,” she hissed to herself, kicking her covers off completely. It was no use, she would be miserable tomorrow with no sleep.

Maybe just some fresh air? Just a walk to clear her head… the rest of the revelry had shut down long ago, the fires smoldering. With everyone so drunk, no one stayed awake to stoke it, she realized.

Dangerous. Katja groaned, taking on the responsibility that, once again, no one else noticed. She grabbed some grass, some sticks, poking and feeding the fire until it was strong again. Strong enough to keep the scary monsters away.

“I might have one good eye,” a warm, jovial voice spoke from behind her, “but I can see you got to fire-tending before me.”

Wyll stood calmly behind her, his face turned into that casual, confident grin. It made Katja’s heart steady, even as it made her wrist sting with pain and shame. “Well, I figure if you want something done right… “ She reached far enough over for another log from the pile, the cuff of her sleeve creeping up to reveal those angry, red circles.

Fang marks.

Any monster hunter worth his salt would recognize them.

And Wyll was worth… a lot of salt.

“Katja,” he whispered, watching as she gruffly pulled her sleeve back over the bite wounds. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” came her reply. For once, her cold, distant, grumpy nature worked in her favor and hid the lie. “You should see the other guy,” she made her lips laugh.

“I bet he looks sated, happy, and stronger,” Wyll jested back, folding his arms over his chest. “I may have just joined your party, but I can see the tragic charm of your… friend.”

“He’s not my friend,” she interrupted with vehemence, standing and squaring her shoulders, ready to argue.

But Wyll just laughed, warm and rolling, holding his hands up in surrender. “Easy, Barbarian,” he spoke in jovial tones. “I’m not judging. I might have killed my fair share of monsters and fiends, but never a vampire. Those are harder to find outside their hunting grounds. They don’t make themselves as… dramatically obvious as our companion.”

“Dramatically obvious? You mean loud and annoying,” Katja rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t resist glancing at his rose and scarlet tent where he was trancing.

“At the very least, he might be a menace and an egomaniac with a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for bloodshed, but Astarion isn’t soulless, heartless, or of the infernal persuasion.” Wyll trailed off, a distant look in his one good eye. “You’re not beholding your soul to anything truly evil…”

Katja scowled. “How can you say that?” she scoffed, grinding her own booted toe in the dirt and ash. “Aren’t you the Blade of Frontiers, the best monster hunter on the Sword Coast? You should be appalled at me… tell me I’ll be banished from Selûne’s light just for thinking all the depraved… impure… unholy…”

“Ah, ta, ta,” Wyll stopped her, frantically waving his arms. “I’m a Warlock, not a Priest. I don’t need your confession, by Balduran’s beard.” He shifted uncomfortable on his feet for a moment, and Katja wanted nothing more than to be divinely smitten right then and there.

“Gods… I don’t know what to do,” she sighed, her scarred face looking into the night sky, a canvas for her inner turmoil. “He told me if I let him feed, I can have the head of his Master as a bounty for my tribe. I’ll be Chief Hunter for sure, but…” That face grimaced with something other than pain.

“Katja,” Wyll spoke softly, assuringly. “I’ll be the first to admit ignorance on the ways of the Gur, but I do know one thing about battles— the enemy of my enemy is my….” He gave a flourish with his hand, waiting for her to finish the tried and true phrase.

Katja just waited, dark eyes wide and waiting on his wisdom. “What?” she asked, a few beats of silence later.

“Seriously?” Wyll’s face broke into a goodhumored and skeptical grin. “Friend. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“Astarion is not… my friend,” Katja’s hackles bristled at the mere insinuation. Again.

“It’s a phrase? Like, choosing the lesser of two evils?”

“Why would I want a lesser evil?” Katha shook her braided head. “I want the no-evil-option.”

Wyll gave a heavy sigh. “What I mean is… maybe Astarion isn’t as he appears at first. Some monsters are born…. Others are made.”

That made her pause, her little nose scrunching, her blonde head tilting. Her dark eyes darted to Astarion trancing on his bedroll in front of his tent. Even from here, she could see the little rise and fall of his chest, taking sleepy breaths he technically didn’t need. His fingers curled into that shape Elves did. His pointed ears twitched in his reverie, whatever he relived in his meditations clearly affected him. His jaw clenched, and those breaths came faster and more frantic.

She hadn’t even noticed that Wyll had withdrawn to sit by the fire, or that her feet had led her closer to observe Astarion in his rest. He muttered to himself, names and grunts that sounded half-formed in his throat. If she crouched… yes, if she crouched she could hear names— Dal… Petras… Violet… Cazador. That last one was a snarl on his lips as his eyes flashed open. His breath was too quick, his eyes dark and dilated with rage, and… were those tears pooling in the corner of his eyes?

Unsure what came over her, but she reached out to soothe that pain. Katja pressed a hand to his own, only to get a face full of fangs and death-cold breath as he pinned her under him in the dirt.

“What are you doing?” he snarled, his thighs trapping her waist, his hands grabbed tight on her wrist and the other now on her throat. But in two blinks of his eyes, he released her. Her hands and throat at least. He raised himself up, a smirk on his sweaty face as he kept her pinned beneath his legs.

“And here I thought I was the nightcrawler that slipped into beds to seduce the sleeping…” he purred, but his voice seemed a little tight, less velvety than his usual simpering tones. “What’s wrong, darling? Come for a cuddle?”

“Get off me. I was just trying to help,” she snarled, pushing on his belly and thrashing beneath him.

“Oh, I bet you were,” he leaned down again, “in fact I can think of something very hard you could help me with… maybe a few times….”

Katja stared at him, neither angry nor submissive. Just those dark eyes boring up into his face as she stilled. “What was your nightmare about?”

Astarion froze for the splittest second. Then he breathed a laugh. “I wasn’t having a…”

“Who’s Dal and Petra’s and Violet?” she interrupted.

A reluctant groan, and he slipped off her, settling with one knee bent into his chest, his head tilted back to look into the stars. “My siblings,” he muttered after a moment. “Not… not my literal siblings, mind you, the other six spawn Cazador sired.” For that moment, as the moonlight bathed his pale skin, making his silver hair glow as if it were kissed by the stars, Katja’s heart stopped. He could have been any ordinary seductive Elf, with his mouth shut and his eyes closed.

Sitting up, she waited for more. But he didn’t offer anything, not yet.

“Why were you crying and thrashing and…”

“Alright, enough, you intrusive vagrant,” Astarion leveled his crimson glare at her, unamused… well maybe a little amused. “Cazador would send me and my six siblings into the city to bring him victims, we… couldn’t say no, compelled by him and his every dark whim. I had to lure his prey back to the palace by every means necessary, most especially with the gifts I was given…” He gestured dramatically the whole length of his body, from shimmering grey hair, to his bare chest, to the tips of his unclad toes. “If we failed, or disobeyed, or resisted, he would torture us… or even compel us to torture ourselves.”

His hand gripped around hers like a vice, pulling her closer as he twisted around. “You were too busy hating my undead guts to probably notice, but here…” As he turned, he placed her hand on the back of his shoulder. Rises and ridges, jagged and rough script circled in scars across his whole back.

“Moonmaiden’s light…” Katja whispered in shock.

“More like Cazador’s sadism,” Astarion scoffed in derision. “It’s a poem, composed and carved in my flesh one night, punishment for nothing more than the fact I existed.”

Katja couldn’t help herself, her fingers running over the weird shapes and whorls of his cool flesh. “Reason enough for nightmares…” she murmured.

Astarion turned once more, his finger tracing down her own jagged line in her cheek’s flesh. “Well, you told me of your scars,” he shrugged, almost gently, “I figured maybe I could do the same, since we do have our little… understanding now.” That look of vague kindness shifted, twisting back into that smirk of suave seduction. “And… I might have noticed that you didn’t stab me in the back, given the opportunity.”

“Don’t hold your blood-stinking breath, vampire,” Katja scowled in that little way of hers. “Just because I’m not killing you doesn’t mean I like you.”

“I’d be offended if you did like me, or if you stopped having murderous thoughts about me,” he crooned.

Katja grinned, turning her head and brushing her hands together to hide it as she stood. “Night,” she bid politely. Too politely.

His hand gripped hers roughly from her side. His thumb tracing over the fresh mark. “I think that tortuous nightmare left me… strained,” he purred, voice smooth as Cormyran silk. “You wouldn't mind soothing me a bit more with one last nibble, would you?”

Katja clenched her teeth, begrudgingly sitting back down on his bedroll. Their bodies decently far apart, she judged with a satisfied smile.

His bite was no less painful this time… nor less pleasurable. She tried to hide the way her back arched, concealing that tiniest clench of her thighs and her cunt. But more unnerving was how he just… stared at her.

He only took a few polite swallows before his tongue jutted out to lick the puncture wounds closed. “Finished?” she sniped at him, pulling her wrist away with white hot hostility.

Astarion just smiled and licked his lips, dabbing a finger at the bloodied corner of his mouth. “For now, my little treat,” he replied, a voice of silken seduction and venom all at once. “Don’t forget to say your prayers before you sleep,” he called, that sadistic lilt in his honeyed voice.

And Katja grumbled as she slapped her tent flap closed behind her. “Moonmaiden, deliver me…” came her prayer.

As she wrapped her hand around those icy wounds in her wrist, she ignored the needling thoughts in her brain… Did she really want to be delivered from this… from him?

The next morning was filled with acrid bog stink and rot. Katja could sense it, the Hag’s lands rife with dark magic meant to eat you alive. No way in the nine hells would she let some Hag offer her a cure. Gods…. If she thought about it long enough, she realized this was one story she could never tell to her tribe.

If she ever saw them again, that was.

It was just one monster after another… infecting her, helping her, possibly curing her… fucking and feeding from her….

With that though, Astarion turned his head, smirking over his shoulder. Fuck, Katja wondered, was he listiening through the tadpole?

A nice solid glower only made him scowl in return before focusing back on the road ahead. Katja took that as a victory. She’d show him she wouldn’t cow to all his demands; she might agree to make him stay strong with the boon of her blood, but he wouldn’t order her or control her… or dominate her…

Oh, that last one made her shiver just a little. Swallowing, she forced away the ghosts of his touch on her body and the memory of his mouth on her skin. Focus on finding the Hag, she reminded herself. Focus on the vapors of the bog and that stink of powdered iron vine…

Powdered iron vine? She froze in her tracks and squinted up the hill. “Astarion,” she hissed.

“Yes darling?” he turned and walked backwards, hands gripped into the straps of his pack, “I thought you were pretending I didn’t exist, too ashamed of your lover of a Vampire Sp—”

Katja lurched forward and clapped her palm over his sneering, ignorant mouth.

“What the hells do you think…” he muttered and hissed under her grip.

“Ah, stranger,” a warm voice bid them as a traveler approached them. “Forgive the aroma… Powdered…”

“Iron vine, yes,” Katja interrupted as she awkwardly released Astarion’s mouth, lips that now gaped in disgusted surprise. “Kushti divvus,” she greeted, guessing which dialect of her people he might speak.

Another Gur.

Apparently she guessed correctly as he eased his stance. This Gur was stocky, built for the hunt and the glory of their people. Surely he was the best of his tribe, and by the necklaces and strands of bone trophies and beads on his belt, he always got his quarry. Forcing a smile, she made every sinew in her body follow suit. If he suspected the monster she kept as company… Well, there would go her only chance to use him for Cazador’s head, for her own pride and promotion and future. A prize like that would serve her far more than some weather beaten old coot.

“A fellow child of Selûne here?” the stranger grinned, hands on his hips as his weathered, tanned face grinning wider.

Katja grunted, careful to show deference to an elder. “The scent of iron vine is not unfamiliar to a younger hunter,” she bowed her head. About to reach her hand out in greeting, her gaze caught the fleeting sight of those infernal bite marks. Shame seared through her, and she stuck it in her pocket. “Are you hunting so far out from tribe lands?”

Astarion’s honey voice took that tone that jeered with all the snark in his undead soul. “Pfft, is every Gur a monster hunter? How quaint you have more purpose than just vagrant cutthroats…”

Katja shot him a look, one that was supposed to do as much damage as her axe, one he wasn’t supposed to just blow off with that well-practiced, easy smirk of his. “Ignore the Elf,” she stressed the last word, “he talks too much.”

“Fairest and wisest beings are not my quarry,” the stranger arched a dark brow. “My name is Gandrel, and I am indeed seeking a monster, a Vampire Spawn, in these lands. His name is Astarion, and I am to bring him back with me to my tribe. I hope that the Hag of these lands will help me flush him out after the sun sets tonight.”

“Is that wise? Using one monster to trap another?” Katja folded her arms, insolence edging her tone. “If he’s just a Spawn, why risk more of your soul to seek aid from a disgusting Hag?”

Gandrel paused, his dark eyes skimming over the short little Barbarian, that glance quickly taking in each of her companions. Then, he scanned her up and down, no detail would be missed, not with his wizened experience. His brow furrowed in suspicion, his gaze was quick and sharp.

Shit.

“Did your elders not teach you respect, child?” Gandrel suddenly shifted onto his toes. “Your own presence in these lands is… curious, too young and insignificant to be on your own hunt. Which begs me to ask you… how did you come by those fang marks on your wrist?”

Katja could feel Astarion coiling like a spring beside her.

“They are fresh,” Gandrel’s thick, cracked lips turned in a chilling half smile. “And if I didn’t know better, I’d say they were given out of… familiarity. The wrist isn’t a Spawn’s first choice of bite unless they mean to draw out the life of their victim for reasons of torture, mercy, or affection.”

Katja’s pulse was deafening. The burn of shame was immeasurable, only outmatched by the swirling, gut dropping angst that churned in her belly to think that another Gur would take Astarion from her. He was hers… her prize that was. Her chance at the head of a Vampire Lord.

Fuck this guy, she decided.

“Well, Astarion,” Katja gave the Vampire a twisted smirk. “Which one is it?”

The Pale Elf suddenly flexed his muscles, a wide and wicked smile on his face, catching the scent of ambush in the air. “Torture, it’s the torture one,” he purred. “Just to be clear.” Unsheathing his daggers, he bowed his head in mock submission. “Together, my little vagrant?”

“Impossible,” Gandrel’s eyes went wide. “But… the sun!” His panic set in, the inconceivable truth of a daywalking Spawn all but shattering that experienced air.

“The only thing impossible is your survival,” Astarion purred, running a finger down the sharp edge of his blade. “I’m going to enjoy this…”

Only once he was licking Gur blood off his dagger did Astarion finally catch his breath. They paused just off the path, cleaning their blades and resting before finding the same Hag their unwanted intruder had sought. He watched Katja as she knelt by the Gur’s corpse. Rudely, she had denied him feeding from this foe, and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. From the corner of his eyes, he watched as she muttered prayers, placing two coins over his lifeless eyes before standing once more.

It was almost picturesque, this scene of pious devotion and tradition. Two things he loathed. And because they were Gur practices, why that only made him loathe it more.

She took her sweet time standing in that congealing pool of blood before she moved once more. A few paces away, and she stopped and turned to use one of a few spells her tough Barbarian brain knew. “Arde!” she called, and the corpse burst into a mass of flames. Their enemy was no more, just ash and smoke.

Astarion sat back on his heels, narrowing his eyes. Katja was a curiosity, a conundrum he couldn’t quite pick apart. And it irked him to no end. What started as a small way of exacting his revenge against a whole people on one little girl now became… complicated.

He hated the Gur, those cutthroats that took their ignorance out on him one fateful night outside of the Magistrates’ offices. The night he died in this world. Shuddering at the memory, he forced himself to assess this blonde braided beauty more carefully. She stood in a silent vigil, mumbling her Selûnite prayers one after another. She looked so… immaculate, pious, untouchable. Pure. It made his stomach lurch into his throat. In excitement, in anticipation.

A thought niggled the back of his mind, that part of him, ruthlessly cruel and oh so skilled at manipulation, plotted long and hard. Those thoughts reverberated with the notion of how much fun it could be to show her just what she missed on that straight and narrow path of the Gur.

A little corruption would go a long way, he smirked. Besides, he owed her a good time after taking his side.

He suspected her ambition protected him, her need to keep him alive so she could claim Cazador’s death as her final offering to become chief hunter… or whatever those backwater people called it. He didn’t care, so long as someone helped him kill that bastard.

Ever the conundrum, she stepped into the ashes, kicking them up with her boots. As all the dust had settled, then she reached in and retrieved those same two coins.

That… that made him smile. “Well,” he purred and resheathed his dagger, “perhaps there’s some hope for you after all. I was beginning to think you were no fun at all.”

“Why waste two coins?” she harrumphed, putting them in her pocket. “He’s not going to need them in paradise.”

“Yes, yes,” Astarion purred. “Eternal rest grant unto him, etcetera etcetera…” Those crimson eyes leveled at her, all brimming with primal hunger.

Katja shuddered, trying very hard not to feel like a mouse in a trap. Trying hard to remember she was the hunter.

“You know, I could show you a different sort of paradise.” He crept closer on silent feet, the tip on his tongue dabbling the teeny corner of his lips. “You wouldn’t even have to go through death to reach it, perhaps just a little death… once or twice if you’re very responsive.”

Katja’s scarred face twisted into a perplexed frown. “How can anyone die a little?” she sneered.

Undeterred, he grabbed that bitten wrist, pressing his full, smirking lips to that pulsing vein beneath. “Oh my dear, I’m glad you asked. My tent, tonight. Once the others are asleep, I’ll make sure you are thoroughly illuminated, my little huntress.”

[fuckitpossumorb]

I’ve been thinking about sdr and about how much I enjoy the magic and the abilities all of the crew portrays and I’ve noticed that the reason I fuck with them so hard it’s because all of their abilities feel as biological as they feel spiritual.

Like, bear with me, the most obvious examples of this are in Leboosh, Chuckles and Dandy.

Leboosh is simply born like this, not carbon based, non humanoid, his simply ooey gooey, oozoid self and it does so much for him as a barbarian. His body expands and bounces around rooms like a battering ram, but Leboosh isn’t stupid, he knows the abilities of his body like no other and so knows exactly how many risks he can take, how much ground he can cover, how he can use it to his advantage to cover his friends, to slow down enemies, etc.

Plus other details like how he can get sustenance from most things, or his fighting style in space which is just hit shit really, really, really hard. He is the most alien esque member of the crew and I love him for it.

Next, Chuckles, just like Leboosh his whole magic abilities simply come from his race, motliens, but what being a motlien entails is so interesting because these are humans who give themselves to the extreme revelry and hedonism and end up totally changed by an external force.

Discord (this being what changes the humans) is in this case kinda like a higher being or an infection, something that changes and mutates things to the point they are unrecognizable. Chuckles isn’t sure how he came to be a motlien, or how Discord really works, but he has the inherent ability to do all this crazy shit and is aware it could come with a cost (wild magic trigger).

He is alien in a totally different way than Leboosh who is alien-like because he is very diferent from the norm, while Chuckles is alien because he was changed so drastically from what he used to be.

Dandy! My beloved! She is so fun. She is a droid (something we generally associate with machine, the beyond human, leaving the natural world behind) but she’s a Druid! She brings back nature and is so devoted to the care of animals, plants and people. She is a droid made of stone, powered with weird crystal magic we don’t know much about and neither does she, but just like Chuckles, she has a natural instinct to pull from, to use her abilities to restore nature.

She is not necessarily alien looking, but is very much NOT like any other droid the gang could meet, she is unique in her making, and her design with all the feathers, golden accents and gems, maker her feel like an ancient relic, resurfacing after being left behind a millennia ago.

Now the two members whose powers are more obviously tied to spiritual means, Kavir and Pyke.

Featuring some spoilers for their backstories so beware!!

Kavir is obvious, he is a warlock, he made a pact with some ancient god but, in episode 9 when we learn a bit about his backstory, it seems like he was actually chosen by Father Time instead of striking up a deal with him.

It also seems like everyone in Kavir’s home planet is aware of this and familiar with this god, maybe it’s a common religion or legend in his home. Which gives it the feeling like it’s an especial thing, something that only the people of the dunes know about, an old story only spread from mouth to mouth.

So as much as it is very obviously spiritual it is also a very cultural thing that is exclusive for the people of Zahra Dune.

I also, personally, subscribe to the idea that Kavir was changed slightly by his pact with Father Time. I like to think his tattoos (whether they were done ritually or not) have changed from the normal black ink to this soft yellow bordering on gold by the magic that now flows through him, and also that they have taken a mind of themselves.

Like the lines in his arms swirl and drip like sand on the wind or falling from an hourglass, sometimes when using his powers they take the vague shapes of clocks or sun dials, ticking seconds, minutes, hours all spread across his body.

And his eyes, shining a bright golden light, maybe once they were a deeper amber color, more akin to brown, but after the pact they are piercing, bright like the burning desert sun, alluring to no end.

Now Pyke, he is very fun because his abilities seem to be very much biological but also maybe a recessive gene or uncommon trait.

In episode 12, when Pyke catches the crew up with his past in racing, he mentions that one day, at random his soul unlocked (whatever that means), that Khan noticed it and helped him nurture it, and after that he was unable to lose another race.

He also says that Rex didn’t take kindly to this, especially since Khan started being a little rougher on Rex, pushing him harder to try and do the same thing Pyke did unknowingly.

This is very odd, neither Pyke or Rett were aware that this was a thing that could happen, (earlier in the show Pyke mentions that he’s unsure whether Rex can use the same abilities he uses as they are discussing how he could’ve escaped the Rhapsody) but Khan seems very much aware of this, in fact, he knew more than he let on as Pyke also mentions finding out Khan was holding information from him.

I love all the things about Solar Elves having weird little things about them, like higher than normal body temperatures, their hair moving by themselves and shining depending on their mood, feeling connected to the stars, needing more sunlight than regular, etc.

I think all of that should apply to Pyke but like times ten.

Wherever the hell this soul is, this new weird thing that lives within Pyke thrums with enough energy to rival a dwarf star, it rests in between his rib cage and pulses like a second accelerated heartbeat, his hair moves violently nearly lashing out at the people around him like the energy bursts of the sun.

He doesn’t just need more sun that most he actively seeks it out, like moth to a flame looks for places to rest where he is near a star and can look at them, stare at them and this is the spiritualism point. He is a monk after all.

Pyke stares out at the stars thinking about them and their immensity and how many of them are in the universe, their energy, the cores that feel oh so familiar, and when he closes his eyes he can nearly hear them sing in his ears, words he cannot understand but knows deep down are familiar lullabies.

And now, finally, Rett.

He is very similar to Leboosh in that he doesn’t use magic, but disimular in how Leboosh’s abilities are all just himself while Rett uses machines.

But Rett even being able to make this machines is inherently special to just him, only aether dwarves can use this technology, they can’t express the knowledge of it or they die, it’s both a blessing and a curse bestowed upon them from birth.

It is also worth noting that Aether dwarves don’t live on planets, they live in stations they made by themselves and focus mostly on selling their tech to the highest bidder. Rett rejected this lifestyle in favor of being a bounty hunter and traveling but still has a generally high interest on machines and in upgrading things.

He constantly searches to make things better, to perfect things, even in something as simple as a snowball fight he was looking to make the perfect snowball.

Anyways,,,

I know some of this could just be chalked up to the general DnD rules biz, but I love over analyzing the funny shows I like, sooo. Gimme your thoughts?

[rwac96]

Ask

Alpha Stud Barbarian Overlord

Natsu makes it clear that once he and his crew take over the Heartfilia Estate, he is going to come for the Busty Blonde Bimbo, Lucy.

Natsu: "HEY YOU RICH FOLK!!"

*The overlord stands before the Heartfilia Estate, which is surrounded by multiple guards*

Natsu: "Once me and my tribe take this place..."

*The Fairy Tail Tribe roared in revelry*

Natsu: "I'm taking that blonde bimbo for myself!!"

---

Lucy: *blushing, indignant* "BIMBO?!"

[demigoddessqueens]

Lunch

A/n - I’ve been listening to the new Billie Eilish album and Lunch is up there with one of my faves, and the catchiest, which inspired these little drabbles about jealousy

Masterlist 10

Vex’ahlia

Who does Zara think she is?? Shamelessly flirting with you so out in the open and right in front of her!! Bless your heart you’re too sweet to not notice but the blatantness makes it all the more frustrating at times

Pike

Revelry aside from celebrating Grog’s victory, the cleric gnome isn’t too keen on the other barbarians taking an interest in you with all the dancing and ale. Maybe she just blames the alcohol…

Keyleth

She shouldn’t feel this way, right? Like it seems so silly! First, it was an Ashari who was more than eager to thank you after she sealed the Fire Plane and then now with celebrating Grog, she feels a bit left out with the others wandering eyes following you.

[tealfling]

✨OC Kiss💋 Week 2025✨

Oc Kiss Week Prompt: First Ocs: Ren (mine) tiefling Sorc and Juniper, wood elf barbarian Juniper belonging to @ladyofcrowsandcoffee Setting: Tiefling Party

She giggled, muffling the sound with her hand. The evening's revelry had ended. Most of the camp’s inhabitants had taken to their bed rolls. No more music or celebrating. Just the faint, distant crackling of the fire’s dying embers. The tiefling refugees were asleep and most of their companions had done the same. Except for Halsin and Zevlor's quiet chatting, no one else was moving about camp.

Trying not to wake camp, Ren stifled her laughter. She and Juniper were seated up against the log he had dragged closer to her tent. Earlier in the evening he had brought a couple of bottles of wine and asked for her company. Company that she was all too happy to give him because she had also wanted his.

During this entire ordeal, Juniper had been the best of all of them. Brave and kind and incredibly clever. He helped everyone, but took specific interest and care in helping Ren. At first, Ren didn't want to think she might be getting special attention and brushed it off to his good natured demeanor. But it only took a day or two before it was undeniable that Juniper was more attentive toward her than the other companions, and she had found herself more drawn to his presence as well.

The flirting started almost immediately between them, if somewhat timidly at first, it came naturally. Weeks of stolen glances, grazing touches that seemed to linger, and flustered moments between them. Leading them closer to this comfortable proximity.

Now emboldened by the wine, they had sat together openly most of the evening. Barely a hare’s breath lay between them. Just not touching each other– at first. But Juniper’s muscular arm couldn’t fit between them so of course his only option was to rest it on the log behind Ren, never mind that it was almost draping over her shoulders. On the other hand, Ren’s inner shoulder kept brushing along Juniper’s chest as she leaned in to hear his whispers.

Ren enjoyed listening to Juniper’s stories. Listening to his deep, velvety voice describe his travels to places she’d never heard of, or recount the mischievous misadventures his siblings wrangled him into. Like he was now and the reason Ren was fighting off a fit of laughter. Juniper himself was chuckling softly, maybe at his story or maybe at Ren’s reaction. A smile spread across her rosy cheeks as they shushed themselves.

Their eyes met, and Ren was once again struck by how handsome Juniper was. With his strong features, his dark hair, his mismatched eyes, and even his scars. For several days, Ren had realized she had romantic feelings for him, but now that her mind was fuzzy with wine, she didn’t feel the need to shy away from those feelings. To pretend that it wasn’t obvious that Juniper likely harbored very similar feelings for her. 

She lifted her goblet to her mouth, but looked at it confused when her mouth was left dry. Ren smirked, “It’s empty,” answering Juniper’s questioning look.

Ever the gentleman, Juniper grinned, “Well, let me take care of that for you.”

“You're always taking care of me,” Ren cooed.

The bottle of wine was set on the ground near Ren’s hip. So she could have grabbed it herself, but Juniper leaned over her to grab it instead. Maybe their tipsy haze had neither of them thinking because Ren surely didn’t know why she did what she did next. She knew he was reaching for the bottle beside her, but when his torso leaned over her, and his face was so close, and his scent so dizzying–  it was like her body moved on its own. 

Leaning up just enough she pressed her lips to his in a quick kiss. It was small and fleeting, and barely more than the brushing of their lips together, but it froze Juniper in tracks. The camp and everyone in it melted away. The only thing in the world that existed was the two of them, the sound of their racing hearts, and their mingling breathes between them. 

Dozens of expressions registered on his face before he really looked back down at her. Ren could see him searching her face, as if some answer, or instruction were written there. When his wide, surprised eyes flicked down to her lips again, Ren lifted her fingers to trace down his jaw as if pulling toward her. That seemed to be all the encouragement Juniper needed to close the miniscule gap separating them, bringing his pillowy lips softly and surely to hers again. He brought down his arm, cupping the small of Ren’s back in his large hand and drawing her closer as if he’d been waiting for this moment.

The kiss was tender, soft, earnest. Being held in Juniper’s warm embrace was everything Ren had dreamed it to be and more. Juniper was much larger than her, and it didn’t take much to feel engulfed by him. His wide palm spanned nearly the width of her back. Juniper brought his other hand up, cradling the back of her head completely. Ren’s free hand came up to rest on Juniper's solid, muscular bicep. His embrace felt so comfortable, so right. It was everything. She was almost sad when he pulled away first, ending their kiss far too soon.

Juniper smiled through his heavy breaths, resting his forehead on hers between her horns.  “You’re softer than I imagined,” he panted. Ren sucked in her bottom lip at his admittance, licking it with her tongue.

Ren gave him a small smile, looking up at him through her lashes. “You’ve thought about kissing me?”  Why did that make her so happy? Before Juniper could answer Ren reached up, brushing the strand of his dark hair that always fell back into place. “I think about you, too,” she admitted softly. “So you don’t have to imagine it anymore, you can kiss me whenever you want. Like right now,” Ren breathed, titling her face back up to Juniper.

[gvfgal]

11. In Death We Give

Barbarian. Biker!Jake

18+ series. Minors DNI.

A/n: I’ll save all the blabbering this chapter 😂 All I have to say is feel free to leave your questions and comments wherever you see fit, and as always, enjoy. 🖤

Content Warnings: Gambling, drinking, smoking, negative thoughts of parenting, explicit sexual content, mentions of turbulent childhood.

Word Count: 3.7K

The Barbarians were scattered around Bobby’s bustling casino, deciding to partake in some leisure time since they’d already been there tending to business. It was a Saturday evening, and the place was packed, more so than Jake had ever seen.

The machines lining the walls had every seat filled, and every table had players rolling dice and slinging cards in hopes of striking it big. Some patrons seemed uneasy with the Barbarian’s presence, especially given their rowdy behavior fueled by the free-flowing drinks. But no one dared to say a word or throw them out—they practically owned the place.

Jake, though present, was seated alone at the bar. His mind raced with thoughts of you and the baby, making it impossible to fully engage in the revelry surrounding him.

Ace was busy at the blackjack table, but when he took a break, he found Jake sitting alone, clearly not in the best spirits. Ace had noticed his quietness all day but had chalked it up to a lack of sleep.

Crossing the large game room, Ace took a seat beside Jake, signaling the bartender for another round of drinks.

“What’s going on, kid?” Ace’s gruff voice pulled Jake from his racing thoughts. “I’ve hardly heard a peep out of you all day. Now you’re sitting over here moping at the bar.”

Jake chuckled, though it was devoid of humor. “I’m not moping, Ace,” he paused, wondering if this was a conversation he wanted to venture into at the moment, “It’s Cherry.”

Ace’s face contorted with concern, wondering if he and the club would need to handle something on your behalf.

“She’s pregnant.”

Ace’s reaction was animated, though he did his best to mask his surprise, taking a swig from his freshly prepared drink. Damn kids, he thought to himself, as if they’d never heard of a condom. Though he knew you and Jake were far from children, in his eyes, you were.

“She keepin’ it?”

Jake’s glare immediately answered his question, and Ace threw his hands up in defense. “Just thought I’d ask. You still don’t seem too thrilled, though.”

Jake took a sip from his drink and sighed, dropping his head before looking back at Ace. “I’m terrified, man. What the hell do I know about being someone’s dad?”

“Being a father ain’t easy, especially your first time around,” Ace agreed. “Never had any of my own, but I’ve done enough work helping raise some of you knuckleheads to know that fatherhood is one of the toughest jobs of them all. Tougher than being a Barbarian.”

“Yeah, well, other than you, we all know I didn’t have the best role model when it came to being a parent,” Jake scoffed, shaking his head bitterly. “What if I end up being a crappy dad like he was? What if years down the line my kid ends up hating me like I did Rex because I didn’t live up to the father I was supposed to be?”

Ace understood all of Jake’s worries; it was only natural for someone in his position. However, he knew most of Jake's fears were unfounded.

“I don’t see that happening.” Jake was gazing down into his empty glass, but when he heard Ace’s words, he looked up.

“I think you’d run laps around Rex when it comes to the father department, because you know what it’s like to have been in that position. I don’t see you repeating history,” Ace said, shaking his head. “You’ve got too much in you for that.”

Ace’s words were comforting, but they addressed only part of Jake’s concern.

“And what about all this, Ace?”

“All of what?”

“This,” Jake gestured between himself and Ace, “being a Barbarian. What kind of quality of life will my kid have if I bring them up around all of this? We’re knee-deep with a homicidal drug cartel leader, and God knows what else lies ahead. I can’t subject my kid to that.”

Ace shrugged. “Barbarians have been doing it since the beginning of time. I don’t see why you can’t.”

“Yeah, well, we see how that ended up for a lot of them. Some die and leave kids behind. Some run them and their mothers off before they even get a chance to know them. And if that doesn’t happen, one way or another, the life always finds a way to trickle down.”

The flirty bartender came over to top off Jake’s drink, sending him a wink. He rolled his eyes and snatched the glass off the counter. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, but I have to. Cherry needs me.”

“Mhmm,” Ace agreed, “that’s right. And with that being said, I’m confident that you’ll figure it out, no matter how you decide to go about it. You’re a smart kid, Jake, always have been,” he patted his young friend on the back. “I don’t see you not being a good dad, and that’s the honest truth.”

Jake was thankful for Ace’s words, and though he could’ve kept going, he decided to leave the conversation as it was.

“Now,” Ace said, brightening up, “will you please stop sitting over here throwing yourself a pity party and come have some fun? You’ve always been a wiz at blackjack.”

Jake smirked. “Fine. One game, though. Then I need to head back.”

Ace nodded, understanding Jake’s new responsibilities. “One game will satisfy me.”

Jake finished his drink, feeling a bit lighter. The future was uncertain, but with Ace's support and the determination to be there for you and your baby, he felt ready to take on whatever came next.

You sat on the sofa as an old sitcom hummed through the dilapidated speakers, though your attention was elsewhere. You glanced at the clock every so often, wondering when Jake would return, if he returned at all.

You had plenty of faith in him, but the uncertainty of your situation made you fear he might decide to leave. Truth be told, if you could, you might have considered the same.

Just as your thoughts began to sour, you heard the front door squeak open. Jake shuffled in with a large bouquet of red roses in one hand, his helmet tucked under the other arm.

“Jake,” you shot up from the couch, “you’re back.” The surprise in your voice was evident, and it made him feel even more empathetic towards you. He’d been distant the past couple of days, not intentionally, but it was enough to make you feel deserted and uncared for. This small gesture was his way of reassuring you.

“Of course I’m back,” he grinned, feeling a pang of guilt at your surprise.

“Are those for me?” You blushed, making your way over to him.

“What, these?” He joked, setting his helmet down. “No, actually they were a gift to me, from Nicky, of all people.”

You laughed and gave him a playful shove. “Shut up.” He handed the bouquet to you, and you admired them before smiling up at him. “Thank you, Jake.”

Even though you were smiling, he could still see the fear in your eyes. When recognition flashed across his face, your expression faltered and you couldn’t help but fall into his chest with a silent cry.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight and rubbing a soothing hand over your head. “I know, baby. It’s okay.”

“I’m so scared, Jake,” you admitted, though he already understood. He was scared too, but his priority was ensuring you and the life you were nurturing were okay.

He gently pulled you away to look into your glossy eyes, his gaze sending silent assurances before he leaned in to kiss you softly.

You kissed him back, finding comfort in his embrace when you needed it most.

The kiss lingered before he pulled away, setting the bouquet of roses on the kitchen table. He grabbed your hand and led you toward your bedroom, and you followed wordlessly, feeling a little more at ease with each step.

Once you made it past the threshold, you began pulling your shirt over your head in anxious anticipation, dying to feel his calloused hands on your bare skin. But before you could get it off, Jake stopped you with a hand around your wrist.

You looked at him in confusion, wondering if you’d misread his actions, but he gave you a reassuring smile.

“Let me, Cherry. I wanna do it differently this time.”

Slowly, you lowered your hand and allowed him to take over undressing you. He picked up where you left off with your shirt, dragging it up your torso and over your head. You weren’t wearing a bra, and when your chest was exposed to him, a satisfactory sigh ghosted past his lips. You stood on display for him and let him marvel at you before he was cupping your breasts in each of his hands. He lapped at the left one first, small spurts of his tongue against your nipple before switching to the other.

You threw your head back with a breathy moan and savored the feeling. His mouth began to travel lower, sprinkling kisses along your abdomen and leaving one lingering just above your bellybutton before he was tugging gently at your shorts and panties. His breath was warm against your already flushed skin, and you felt your need for him growing with each agonizing second.

But you didn’t want to rush it; the care he was showing you was something you wanted and needed desperately. Jake had never been this tender when it came to sex, both of you behaving like a couple of savages due to the electric charge of your relationship. But as he trailed gentle kisses down your legs, taking his time showing attention to as much of your body as he could, you found yourself growing quickly addicted to the feeling.

Once you were standing naked before him and he was satisfied with his affections, Jake rose to his feet with a drunken, lopsided grin. He nodded his head towards the bed, signaling for you to lie down, and you did just that. You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch as he began undressing himself as well.

First his leather vest, then his white t-shirt, revealing to you once again his tattoos and battle scars that you grew to love so much. Next he stepped out of his pants, making a show out of the way his cock was pressed against his boxers and already staining the fabric.

When he finally removed them and was standing before you in all his naked glory, your mouth fell open without making a sound. You’d seen him naked more times than you could count, but there was something about this moment that felt so much different than the rest. It felt like an offering to you, his way of letting you know that he was entirely yours.

The Barbarian Prince all to yourself.

Unable to resist any more temptation, you reach a hand out to him, and he came over and took it in his own, kissing over your knuckles before completely joining you on the bed. His knee rested between your thighs, purposefully nudging against your clit and causing you to jerk forward. From that touch alone, he knew you were ready, his knee drew back slick, and you’d have felt slightly embarrassed if it were anyone else.

Jake gripped his cock in his hands, lowering his lips onto yours as he pumped himself a few times and lined up with your entrance. In one fluid movement, he sunk into you with a groan, and you instantly wrapped your arms and legs around his body, needing to feel him as close as possible.

You stayed like that for a moment, enjoying the velvet feeling of being connected like this. Usually by now Jake had a fistful of your hair in his hand and was plowing into you, but this wasn’t the time for it. Instead, he began gliding in and out of you at a leisurely pace, capturing every spurt of air that left your lips into his mouth.

“God, Jake,” you purred when he finally freed you to speak, “oh god yes.” The slow pace he was keeping was electrifying to your body, allowing you to feel every bit of what he had to offer filling you up over and over again. His head fell into the crook of your neck as he cradled you close, his breathing coming out more like shuddering grunts as he continued to rock his hips into you.

“I love you, Cherry,” he whispered into your ear, causing you to momentarily freeze. That was the first time those words had ever left his lips, and you thought for a moment you’d misheard him in your state of bliss.

Sensing your apprehension, Jake lifted his head and stared you directly in your eyes, picking up his pace ever so slightly.

“I love you. I know I don’t ever say it,” he paused as another groan left his mouth at the way you constricted around him, “but I do. I love you.”

You wanted to blame the good sex for his words, but by the way he gazed at you adoringly, you knew he meant exactly what he said. You leaned forward and pressed your forehead against his, not deterred by the light sheen of sweat that was forming in his hairline. “I love you, Jake,” you cooed, feeling tears welling in your ducts, “I love you.”

“You know I’ll take care of you. Of us.”

You nodded with a dazed sigh, feeling your release approaching slowly but surely.

“I know.”

Not another word was spoken after that, only the sounds of your breathing and the occasional sound of your bodies coming together could be heard in the trailer.

Jake continued with you slowly and sweetly, stopping every once in a while to plant firm kisses against the corner of your mouth. When you finally succumbed to his coaxing of your orgasm, a shiver ran through your body and leapt over to Jake’s, the hairs on his arms standing at attention at the feeling of your soaking him.

He wasn’t far behind you, spilling into you with a final pointed thrust and a long drawn out groan that sounded like sweet music to your ears. He took a moment to calm his breathing before rolling off of you onto his back.

You both stared at the ceiling as you fought to come back to earth, and once the intensity settled, Jake turned to look at you.

“You know I meant what I said, Cherry? That wasn’t just the sex talking.”

You giggled, “I know Jake. But it’d be nice to hear you say it again now that you aren’t balls deep inside me.”

Jake shook his head with a laugh, then planted a firm kiss on your cheek. “I love you,” he reiterated. “And for as long as you’ll let me, I promise I’ll take care of us.”

He brought his hand to your stomach and began rubbing it, fully acknowledging for the first time the life growing inside of you.

You smiled at him and placed your hand over his, your eyes meeting in a moment of silent confirmation. No matter what happened from here on out, you were in it together.

Once you had fallen into a comfortable slumber, Jake dressed and stepped out front to light a cigarette. As he stood there, his mind raced with plans for the future, brainstorming ways to ensure both your safety and security. But his thoughts were interrupted by the haunting presence of Rex’s trailer across the street, dominating his view and his mind.

Unable to shake the pull, he stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on the railing and found himself walking towards the empty trailer. He hadn’t been back since he trashed the place days after Rex’s funeral, but something compelled him now.

Fishing out the spare key he had buried in an empty planter, Jake unlocked the front door and stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind him. The power had been shut off about a month ago, so he used his phone’s flashlight to navigate the dark, stuffy interior. Everything was exactly as he had left it, untouched and filled with memories.

An idea sparked as he remembered the small coat closet off to the left, where Rex and Vicky had stored many photo albums over the years. He retrieved an old office supply box from the top shelf and carried it to the dusty couch. Sitting down, he pulled out the album on top and opened it to the middle, inspecting the photos tucked behind the thin plastic covering.

The first photo he noticed was one of him sitting in his mother’s lap on a lounge chair out back. Both were dressed in swimsuits, his mother in a skimpy bikini and a one-year-old Jake in a pair of flamed swim trunks that looked a size too big. The photo next to it showed him splashing in a small plastic kiddie pool, water droplets frozen in mid-air by his chubby hands.

Jake grinned, flipping a few pages over. This set of photos showed one of Rex’s birthday parties. In one photo, Rex, Vicky, and Jake all smiled at the camera, and in another, cake was smeared across Jake’s face as his parents threw their heads back in laughter.

He scanned through more of the album before setting it aside and grabbing the next one. The photos in this album were from when Jake was a little older, maybe four or five. The first several pages were void of Vicky, leading him to believe they were taken during a time when she wasn’t around.

Most of the pictures showed Jake by himself or with the Barbarians. One picture particularly stood out: Jake sitting on a shiny black Harley, surrounded by Ace, Steeljaw, Madcap, and a few other men, all beaming with pride at seeing a young Jake already embracing Barbarian culture.

More photos revealed Jake’s life amongst the club, showing faces of men he once loved who were no longer around, either dead or serving serious time. It was bittersweet to see those familiar faces, reminders of a past both cherished and mourned.

As Jake browsed the photos, he realized that these seemingly happy fragments of his childhood were misleading. Each photo, each memory, no matter how joyous they appeared, was intertwined with some form of gloom.

There was a photo from his tenth birthday, where he smiled holding his Harley-themed cake, but he remembered the day being ruined by a blowout argument between Rex and Vicky, leading to Ace hauling Rex away. Another photo showed an adolescent Jake among a sea of leather jackets, a tiny figure among men. It looked like a good time, but it was the day of Tex’s funeral, a member Jake had been close to who died in a gunfight.

These memories were tainted, and Jake thought of his child years down the line, looking back at pictures of their childhood. Would they feel the same melancholy he did? Would he inadvertently tarnish their joy the way his father and environment had for him? It was a scary thought, one he tried not to entertain, vowing to make things different for his child.

Jake continued to flip through the albums until he froze at a picture of him and Jaxon. There weren’t many photos of Jaxon in this album; Jake had kept most of those closer to him, likely still under his old bed. He couldn’t face those memories yet.

This photo, however, was special to Rex. It was from the day after Jake and Jaxon had officially sworn in as Barbarians. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders, sporting their new Barbarian jackets and a few black eyes and scrapes from the initiation. The youth in their faces, the pride in their smiles, Jaxon’s tight sandy curls, and Jake’s darker, much longer tasseled hair. Best friends. Brothers. Torn apart by the very thing they were so proud to be a part of in that photo.

Jake decided he’d had enough reminiscing. He shut the album and began stacking it with the rest back into the box. When he moved to get up from the couch, the wall behind it caved with a crumble.

"Shit," Jake murmured. Another hole in the wall to add to the collection of others. The place was falling apart, likely beyond salvaging.

Setting the box on the coffee table, he pulled the couch off the wall and squatted down to inspect the hole. The mismatched paint around it suggested Rex had patched this spot before.

Something was odd, though. The wall hadn’t completely caved. There was something solid behind the drywall, preventing it from collapsing entirely.

Jake pushed in the loose piece of wall and felt something pushing back. He peered into the gap, catching a glimpse of something he couldn’t quite identify. Setting his phone down, he used both hands to pull the broken piece away from the rest. His vision was suddenly flooded with piles of cash.

Just from a glance, it had to be at least half a million dollars stuffed into the opening, maybe closer to seven hundred fifty thousand.

"What the fuck?" Jake mumbled, reaching in to pull out one of the stacks. He inspected it, and then another, halfway expecting it to be counterfeit. It was real.

“What the fuck?”

Where had all this money come from, and how long had Rex been hiding it here?

Jake stared in disbelief, unsure of his next move. Clearly, no one else knew about this money. If they did, there was no way in hell it would still be here.

But still, what was the money for? Who was it for? Or, who was it from?

A noise outside startled Jake. He quickly stuffed the stacks he’d pulled out back into the wall, fixing the hanging piece as best as he could and sliding the couch back into position. His heart raced as he looked around anxiously. It was late, and there was nothing more he could do at the moment.

He decided to leave his discovery as it was, leaving the box of photo albums on the table. Jake double-checked that all the windows were secured, and when he stepped out and locked the door behind him, he made sure his hidden treasure stayed secure.

As he crossed back to your trailer, his mind raced. He needed a plan, but for now, all he could do was keep this secret close and figure out what Rex had been up to.

Taglist: @edgingthedarkness @earthgrlsreasy @wetkleenex-gvf @hollyco @dannys-dream @slut4lando @josh-iamyour-mama @gretasfallingsky @takenbythemadness @scoreofinfantryvines

[hypnostouched]

i forever have dnd brainrot so,,, aftg dnd vibes

Neil is, of course, a rogue. lock picking, quick, lying sneaky lil bastard. In particular I would make him a Mastermind rogue as it comes with disguise profienecy , boosts so lying and vibes of a manipulator. I'd also build him into a wood elf - for the mechanical speed and hide buffs; but id flavour him as a half elf. The Hatford family would be elven and Mary is the one who trained Neil to hide and run. Other than some small things, he would look almost identical to his human father.

Now the Ravens in dnd, to me, are a Paladin order that is a lot more of a defined cult. They'd be a mix of Oath of Glory Paladins (one of their channel divinities is literally called Peerless Athlete) and Oath of Conquest Paladins (Kevin was Glory, Riko is Conquest) Paladins are physical builds with good Charisma and you can think whatever you like about the Ravens, they are charismatic (also to note, intimidation is a charisma skill in dnd)

now Oathbreaker has a very specific vibe but what I will focus on is the feeling of emptiness and darkness that come with it. Kevin is an oathbreaker when he leaves the Ravens, but he won't remain as one indefinitely. He would retake his Oath of Glory when it could mean something different to him (which would align with canon Kevin gtting his new tattoo). For him, being an Oathbreaker is connected to his fear and depression rather than any form of evil (High CHA Kevin is so funny to me bc its canon and i love a CHA build who generally doesnt seem charismatic until they turn it on) Kevin is a high elf seemingly in every way. He took after his mother almost entirely.

As said, Riko is a Conquest Paladin - I would also consider giving him a few levels in Shadow Sorcerer; as something he just is inherently rather than something he's trained to be like Paladin. Riko is also a half elf; most of the Moriyama family are High Elves but his mother was human. Riko can't claim that his family doesnt like him because of this, because Ichirou is also a half elf.

Returning to the foxes--

Andrew is a fighter. Human fighter, a v basic build lmao. he is a champion fighter; he's just a fucking threat.

Nicky is absolutely a bard (glamour). I would love to pitch Nicky as a Satyr because of their interest in freedom, revelry and enjoyment.

(can i just say its so hard to do dnd thoughts when so many characters are related and youre autistic so you have to factor all of that in)

Renee is a Barbarian/Cleric multiclass in the way that she used to be a barbarian and now mostly ignores those abilities to focus on her cleric shit. Light domain cleric. Also she is an air genasi and the colours in her hair are natural and look like the colours of sunset or sunrise on clouds

Dan is also a human fighter but she's a banneret fighter; which has a focus on inspiring allies. Still a threat, just also an inspirational one.

Aaron is a ranger; gloomstalker as he lurks around a lot. Mechanically he wouldn't be as high a level as Andrew. Neil is his favoured enemy.

Matt is a sun soul monk, taught to him by his mother. Bright and also quite scary when he's trying to kill you.

Allison is a bard/fighter multiclass. Similar to Renee, her Bard levels come from before her life with the foxes but she doesn't ignore them like Renee does. Eloquence Bard, champion fighter

[thedragonagelesbian]

Once upon a time, Cyrus Hawke had taken great comfort in pain. Hurt was a kind of testimony-- on the battlefield, in the bedroom, evidence of his physical existence that he could bear witness to and thus discover, again and again and again, his place in the world, both literal and metaphorical.

But there was no solace in this, the fever drawn between his eyes down to the pit of his stomach, throbbing like an open wound, raw and festering and pulsing out to the blurry edges of his being. The tadpole writhed against his skull, its small wriggling form quaking with anticipation. Perhaps it danced in time with its six kin, a coordinated celebration of their metamorphosis, life exalting in the correctness of its evolution.

Their revelry had run afoul of the tea Cyrus usually brewed to help himself trance, spoiling it in his stomach before he could set his mind at ease. The memory of Lae'zel's dagger pressed to his throat wasn't helping anything either. Nothing would at this point, he supposed, slumped against the floor of the cavern and sweating out his last hours like a sick dog.

I could have stopped this, once.

He didn't know if that was true or not, but he had never missed the crackle of divine magic at his fingertips as much as he did then. Like sunshine after a storm burning away the fog, he had once been filled with such warmth. His very blood had run hot with miracles, and he could open himself up to the bodies of others, soothing their ailments.

What was he now?

A voice he had spent decades trying not to dwell on snaked through the aching delirium: You will never be anything more than my champion.

"That is not true," Cyrus hissed, loud enough to hear himself over the blood pounding in his ears, and when that wasn't enough to banish the doubt gnawing at his rib cage, he reached for the knife instead. Nestled by his side, small as it was, its hilt felt heavier than anything he could manage to lift now, but he took comfort in his white-knuckled grip through the leather of his glove.

Whatever certainty he had left, it was this: he would not wait for Lae'zel to end him in the morning. He would not leave his death in someone else's hands.

...Although if he were to leave it to anyone's, he trusted Lae'zel's the most. He knew singularity of purpose and duty and devotion more intimately than he knew anything else about himself. He also knew what that singularity had cost him. He wondered if Lae'zel would live long enough to realize it too.

He watched her sleeping restlessly at the far edge of the camp before, one by one, he took the rest of them in. The cleric of Shar, so convinced of the virtue of her suffering (which wide-eyed fool did that remind him of?). The vampire spawn whose body had not been his own in two hundred years, who could not remember what he looked like beforehand (should he have mentioned it? that he had also forgotten what he had looked like before magic had scarred his body?). The Hells-touched barbarian who had not known comfort or intimacy in a decade (an all-too familiar story). The wizard who had tried to show him the wonders and beauty of touching the Weave (maybe it hadn't been a ploy; maybe it had been a gesture toward mutual understanding. Toward friendship. What miserable irony to finally have friends again only to lose them now...)

And Wyll...

Wyll...

He had a harder time keeping up the facade in his sleep, tail lashing, tossing and turning and knocking his horns against the ground. As his vision began to swim, Cyrus watched him, wishing desperately to be able to take that pain away. For himself, for all of them, for Wyll especially, a man too good for a world that didn't deserve him as its hero.

I'll find you. The thought came to him slowly, pouring like hot molasses over sluggish and slowing synapses. My soul will travel to Avernus and find yours. I won't let you live out eternity there.

It would've been a good thought to end on... but the darkness that claimed Cyrus lasted only a moment. A heartbeat suspended in nothingness, and then light flooded his vision. Blinding and cold, like steel glinting in sunlight, it cut through the fever. He tried to blink the whiteness from his eyes, but all he saw were strands of color mingling with the brightness. Purple and gold and pink and silver shimmering in the void.

And a voice, distorted and distant but closer and clearer with every word: "I came just in time. You are transforming."

A gauntlet, a shimmer, a memory that was not his imposing itself on his mind, and as Cyrus sat up, he saw her: a tall and imperious woman dressed for battle, severe and familiar down to the frightening blue of her eyes.

"Meredith..."

Perhaps he should have known right away that the figure wasn't her. For all the care and detail in its facade, it didn't smile like her, and it had shifted back to give him room to breathe-- room, indeed, to throw up his hand. A gnarl of withered flesh across his palm stood between them in some meager defense.

The next morning, Cyrus would loathe that that was his first instinct. That he had cowered like some caught prey animal instead of bearing his talons and forcing this thing--memory, ghost, guardian--away from him.

"How...? What are you...?"

"Be at peace, Cyrus." A command uttered with softness and gentleness was still a command. "I saved you before." He reeled again as his mind flashed unbidden to the crash of the nautiloid, to the fall that should have left him little more than a smear of viscera against the beach. But something had caught him. She had caught him. How had she...? "And I'm here to save you again."

"No." His voice--a voice he owed to her--cracked. "I do not want to be saved by you."

[cagemasterfantasy]

Satyr Class Rankings and Race Traits (5e)

Guide:

1= Do not play this class with that race

2= Can play but not recommended

3= Decent Choice

4= Perfect

MYTHIC ODYSSEYS OF THEROS SATYR

Satyrs have a well-earned reputation for their good spirits, gregarious personalities, and love of revels. Most satyrs are driven by simple desires, to see the world and to sample its every pleasure. While their spontaneity and whimsy sometimes put them at odds with more stoic peoples, satyrs rarely let the moodiness of others hinder their own happiness. Life is a blessing from the gods, after all, and the proper response to such a gift, as far as most satyrs are concerned, is to accept it with relish.

Ability Score Increase. Your Charisma score increases by 2, and your Dexterity score increases by 1.

Age. Satyrs mature and age at about the same rate as humans.

Alignment. Satyrs delight in living a life free of the mantle of law. They gravitate toward being good, but some have devious streaks and enjoy causing dismay.

Size. Satyrs range from just under 5 feet to about 6 feet in height, with generally slender builds. Your size is medium.

Speed. Your base walking speed is 35 feet.

Fey. Your creature type is fey, rather than humanoid.

Ram. You can use your head and horns to make unarmed strikes. If you hit with them, you deal bludgeoning damage equal to 1d4 + your Strength modifier.

Magic Resistance. You have advantage on saving throws against spells and other magical effects.

Mirthful Leaps. Whenever you make a long or high jump, you can roll a d8 and add the number to the number of feet you cover, even when making a standing jump. This extra distance costs movement as normal.

Reveler. You have proficiency in the Performance and Persuasion skills, and you have proficiency with one musical instrument of your choice.

Languages. You can speak, read, and write Common and Sylvan.

MORDENKAINEN PRESENTS: MONSTERS OF THE MULTIVERSE SATYR

Originating in the Feywild — a realm of pure emotion-satyrs thrive on the energy of merriment. They resemble elves but have goatlike legs, cloven hooves, and ram or goat horns. The magic of the fey realm has given them an innate ability to perform, to delight, and to resist magical intrusion. While they’re usually found in the Feywild, satyrs do wander to other planes of existence, most often to the Material Plane. There they seek to bring a bit of their home plane’s splendor to other worlds.

Ability Score Increase. When determining your character’s ability scores, increase one score by 2 and increase a different score by 1, or increase three different scores by 1. You can't raise any of your scores above 20.

Creature Type. You are a Fey.

Size. You are Medium.

Speed. Your walking speed is 35 feet.

Ram. You can use your head and horns to make unarmed strikes. When you hit with them, the strike deals 1d6 + your Strength modifier bludgeoning damage, instead of the bludgeoning damage normal for an unarmed strike.

Magic Resistance. You have advantage on saving throws against spells.

Mirthful Leaps. Whenever you make a long jump or a high jump, you can roll a d8 and add the number rolled to the number of feet you cover, even when making a standing jump. This extra distance costs movement as normal.

Reveler. As an embodiment of revelry, you have proficiency in the Performance and Persuasion skills, and you have proficiency with one musical instrument of your choice.

Languages. Your character can speak, read, and write Common and one other language that you and your DM agree is appropriate for the character. The Player’s Handbook offers a list of languages to choose from. The DM is free to modify that list for a campaign.

Mythic Odysseys of Theros Satyr ranking

Artificer 1 no Intelligence increase

Barbarian 1 bad ability spread

Bard 4 Bard is easily the most obvious option for Satyr. Dexterity and Charisma work for any build and the additional proficiencies pile on top of Bard’s already above normal number of skill proficiencies giving a 1st-level bard a total of 7 skill proficiencies (counting the two from your background) and 4 musical instrument proficiencies

Cleric 1 same as Barbarian

Druid 1 same as Barbarian and Cleric

Fighter 2 the Dexterity increase is enough to make Fighter work and with free proficiency in Persuasion and a Charisma increase a Satyr Fighter can make a decent Purple Dragon Knight and could serve as your party’s Face. Magic Resistance offers additional protection against spells which are normally a serious threat to Fighters

Monk 2 Dexterity is the only thing that Monk absolutely needs which is good because Satyr doesn’t offer much else that Monk needs. Magic Resistance is always powerful but it’s no better for Monk than for any other class

Paladin 4 with Magic Resistance Fey creature type and Aura of Protection you’re nearly unassailable. Dexterity builds are abnormal for Paladins but totally possible. Be sure to focus on keeping your AC high and you’ll live a long life of partying and adventures

Ranger 2 Dexterity is the only thing that Ranger strictly needs and a Charisma increase and some extra skills help Ranger compete with Rogue’s capabilities with skills. I would still avoid trying to be a Face for risk of being heavily MAD (Multi Ability Dependent for those who don't know tabletop lingo) but it’s possibly if your party doesn’t have a better choice for a Face.

Rogue 3 Dexterity and Charisma are great for Rogue and with Satyr’s additional skill proficiencies it’s easy to cover a broad range of skill-based roles. Keep in mind that Ram can’t deliver Sneak Attack unfortunately

Sorcerer 3 a Charisma increase is great for your spellcasting and a Dexterity increase and Magic Resistance provide excellent defensive options. Satyr’s additional skill proficiencies make it easier to serve as your party’s Face though you can’t compete with Bard

Warlock 3 same as Sorcerer

Wizard 1 same as Artificer

Mordenkainen Presents: Monsters of the Multiverse Satyr Rankings

Artificer 3 Magic Resistance and a tool proficiency. Artificers are extremely resilient physically but they are weak to attacks from spells so Magic Resistance is a helpful addition

Barbarian 3 Barbarians are very susceptible to magic so Magic Resistance is a great defense. Mirthful Leaps can help get over difficult terrain which is helpful for a class almost entirely locked into melee. The skill and tool proficiencies aren’t especially helpful

Bard 4 Charisma based spellcasting synergizes well with Satyr’s skill proficiencies and Magic Resistance is always nice

Cleric 2 Magic resistance is nice but that’s basically all that you get

Druid 2 Druids are notoriously frail so defenses like Magic Resistance are appealing. However they have no use for Satyr’s skill proficiencies

Fighter 3 same as Barbarian

Monk 2 same as Cleric

Paladin 4 Satyr’s best martial option paladins have enough Charisma to make Face skills viable so the extra proficiencies are nice. Between Aura of Protection and Magic Resistance you’re extremely resilient to hostile spells

Ranger 3 Ranger typically doesn't make good Face characters and 2 skill proficiencies won’t fix that. Magic Resistance is nice but that’s basically all that you care about. Fey Wanderer is an exception allowing Rangers to add Wisdom to some Face skills. That unique combination makes the skill proficiencies worthwhile but it’s only 1 of 8 subclasses for Ranger

Rogue 3 Rogues carry a lot of weight with skills so getting 2 more is always nice though Performance rarely sees use. If you just want the skills something like Tabaxi will work better but for a highly skilled Rogue with Magic Resistance there are no better options

Sorcerer 4 same as Bard

Warlock 4 Warlock’s Charisma based spellcasting and love for Face skills makes them a great combination with Satyr. Magic Resistance is very helpful for Warlocks since they don’t have enough spell slots to spend them on Counterspell like other arcane spellcasters

Wizard 3 Magic Resistance is great but Wizards can cast Counterspell and preparing is a minor commitment of Wizard’s relatively vast resources, and Magic Resistance is basically the only thing that you get

@doodl3 Auggie and You're Welcome

[hrodvitnon]

Bit of a dnd question for you: What do you think a cleric of Dionysus would be like? Flavor wise thematically, and mechanically. I'm currently thinking of them being in what I call the revelry domain. Debuffing enemies with spells that inflict feelings of drunkenness, emotional highs, and being good at persuasion. Instigating both parties and riots alike in equal measure, just something that I've been thinking over and wanting to know your thoughts on the matter.

Sorry to say I'm not the best at technical thinking around game mechanics (I play a lot of "roll dice and hit shit" barbarians and fighters), so all I can really offer is that it sounds like it'd be a fun character to run and appropriate for a cleric of Dionysus. As for flavor... maybe bring a container of grapes and talk like Dionysus as he sounds in Hades?

[gobboguy]

Chapter 6: Gelbeg Dreams of the Future

In the heart of the forested mountain pass outside the city of Gorkin, the Orcs, once nomadic warriors, had established a thriving settlement on the border of the Calonia Duchy. What had once been a modest encampment of a thousand Orcs had transformed into a bustling community, now teeming with life as their numbers soared to over five thousand. The camp sprawled across the rugged landscape, a testament to the Orcs' resilience and adaptation to a more settled life.

Inspired by the neighboring humans and dwarves, the Orcs had begun to embrace practices of forging, blacksmithing, carpentry, and stonework. Though their innate intelligence posed challenges, the Orcs compensated with an unparalleled capacity for mimicry and replication. The settlement echoed with the sounds of clanging hammers, the hiss of molten metal, and the rhythmic thuds of axes shaping wood and stone. Though innovation was a slow process, the Orcs, under the guiding hand and intelligence of Gelbeg, were on a journey toward becoming a true society.

The camp, once defined by the transient nature of Orcish life, now boasted sturdy structures – primitive houses, forges, and workshops. Orcish artisans, their craft evolving through trial and error, mimicked the techniques of their human and dwarven neighbors. The settlement, nestled within the natural embrace of the forest, became a testament to the Orcs' newfound stability.

As Gelbeg oversaw the gradual progress of his people, the Orcs' intelligence, once an impediment, became a catalyst for transformation. The air buzzed with a palpable energy as the Orcs, driven by a collective desire for growth, strived to carve out a distinct identity in the heart of the mountain pass. Their journey from nomadic warriors to builders and artisans unfolded beneath the watchful gaze of the surrounding mountains, a testament to the resilience and evolving potential of the Orcish community.

As the night cast its dim veil over the Orcish camp, Gelbeg lay beside Lushak within the confines of his tent. The air within the space was thick with the musky scent of fur and the remnants of the day's feast. Lushak, deep in slumber, emitted a chorus of snores and oinks that resonated through the tent, her pregnant form shifting beneath a warm fur blanket – a tangible promise of the future of the Orcs.

Within the dimly lit interior of the Orcish barbarian tent, the ambiance reflected the raw essence of Orcish life. The walls were adorned with crude tapestries depicting battles and conquests, illuminated faintly by the flickering light of a dwindling fire at the center. The air, heavy with the musky scent of fur and the lingering aroma of a day's feast, created an earthy atmosphere that spoke of both celebration and survival.

Nearby, the remnants of a roasted pig sat on a crude wooden table, its succulent scent wafting through the air. Half-empty cups of bloodgrog, steamed in the cool night, stood as witnesses to the evening's revelry. The discordant sounds of Orcish revelry outside the tent seeped through the fabric – distant chatter, the rhythmic beat of drums, and occasional roars of laughter. The tent, though rough-hewn and simple in design, held an undeniable warmth, its interior bathed in the ambient glow of the fire.

Gelbeg, contemplating the uncertain future, lay in a quiet moment of introspection. The interior of the tent bore witness to the rough yet comforting aesthetic of Orcish life – simple yet functional. The sounds and smells intermingled, creating an atmosphere that reflected the raw essence of the Orcs.

As Gelbeg pondered, a question lingered in his mind. Would his intelligence pass on to his children? The ability to reason and think as he did could be the key to the Orcs' future. He considered Lushak sleeping next to him. She wasn't called "The Fertile" for no good reason. By the age of 8, she had given birth to half a dozen litters, consisting of over 6 whelps per birth. A mighty number blessed by MOG. All of her children had grown to be fine warriors, proud and strong, strengething the Orc nation. It was for this reason he chose her as his Bloodmaave, for the children of their union would grow to be conquererors and rulers. It was Gelbeg's fervent hope that the mixture of their blood would produce the next generation of Orcs. Orcs who possessed both the strength of heroes and the intelligence of scholars. In a playful gesture, Gelbeg slapped Lushak's ample butt. In response, she grunted in her sleep and emitted a noisome fart, a comical symphony that drew a hearty laugh from Gelbeg. Lushak shifted in her sleep and nuzzled close to him, dreaming of future victories for her and her whelps.

Resting his head on his hands, Gelbeg let his thoughts drift into the realm of dreams. The flickering fire cast dancing shadows on the tent walls as he envisioned a future for his family and the Orcs – a future shaped by both the untamed spirit of the Orcs and the evolving intelligence that, he hoped, would endure in generations to come.

[no-more-tales-tavern]

Tavern Regular: The Devil of the Seas

NAME: Captain Scourge Maelstrom RACE: Tiefling CLASS: Cleric (Tempest Domain)

STR 14 (+2) INT 9 (-1) DEX 17 (+3) WIS 17 (+3) CON 16 (+3) CHA 11 (+0)

GENDER: Male (He/Him) AGE: 32 HEIGHT: 6' BACKGROUND: Pirate PERSONALITY: The charismatic and cavalier leader of the Devils of Emon, Scourge is bold and outgoing, outspoken and intense. Despite that, he is known for his immense kindness and generosity, with a friendly and welcoming persona whenever he docks in a port town. Also, despite being a pirate himself, he has a surprising distaste for pirates, and especially the pirates that sail under the Revelry's banner. BACKSTORY: Originally raised in an unwelcoming orphanage, Scourge quickly found himself an urchin on the streets at the age of eight, and a stowaway on a large shipping vessel at the age of nine. That vessel quickly came under seige of pirates, and Scourge found himself taken on as a deckhand when the captain showed him mercy. His life quickly turned around as he became that captain's student, then first mate, then successor. He would have sailed the seas forever, too, had he not met a certain band of devils in the city of Emon.

The Devils of Emon

Forged the day the band of tieflings and travelers first met each other in the city of Emon and assisted each other in a calamitous quest a few had been undertaking, the Devils of Emon are regarded as the successors of Vox Machina. They have since taken up residence in Greystone Keep on the outskirts of the city, and have close relations with a few of the former residents. Scourge is the unanimous leader of the group, despite his initial protests to the contrary, and his joined by:

Verdant Wilde (Beastmaster Ranger Tiefling) Omega (Infernal Warlock Tiefling) Kyrie (Astral Soul Monk/Archfey Warlock Tiefling) Varris (Oath of Redemption Paladin Tiefling) Thorne (Way of Drunken Master Monk Tiefling) Aqua (Thief Rogue Tiefling) Gamora (Berzerker Barbarian Orc) Jean Ironwood (Gunslinger Human)

[pandarpposts]

DND: Sunset Death

The heat was oppressive in the desert city on the edge of the ocean. A port town, it was swirling miasma of people, races, coming and going either to leave through the port or travel further inward to the kingdoms beyond. And just like any other port of entry there was a seedy underbelly that thrived on slave trade, illegal goods, and the like. And as the party entered the back alleys word had spread about the upcoming cage matches featuring the almost whispered about Sunset Death. The match was the last one of the afternoons, cleverly coinciding with twilight into night fall. Word was a new contender had been brought in to fight the current champion, who as of today had been undefeated. And their methods sounded barbaric and downright disturbing to keep their bloody crown.

Thanks to some clever trading the party found themselves with reserved passes to the match, the merchant they had traded with so pleased with their goods offering it as a bonus to the payout. And soon enough they found themselves in an arena, with throngs of people, all cheering. The sound of the crowd almost mirroring the roar of a great beast. In the seats given they had a clear view of the sand floor and iron bar walled fighting arena; it was clearly to high to allow anyone to escape. And soon enough the smaller matches began, but as they got closer to the main event, the mood in the crowd almost became blood thirsty. Indeed, what had been revelry, and good-nature betting, shifted to something darker. A low chant started in the crowd. “Death…. Death…. Death…. Death….” It was at the pulse of a heartbeat, and it increased to an almost fanatical, panic inducing demand.

Looking to the center of the ring, a large man was walked in chains. Was this Sunset? No, the announcer stating the man was a new import from another land, the champion of a smaller ring. He looked massive, it was clear whomever owned him previously had been grooming him to be a prized fighter and it seemed he had most likely earned his owner a fat purse. The runners of the area moved heavy weapon racks to his side of the arena, however, the defending side was still darkened. He walked towards the array of weapons, picking up a trident and small shield, hefting the three-pronged weapon he nodded and moved back to the center of the ring.

The crowd suddenly surged to its feet, startling the party that was among them. “DEATH!!! DEATH!! DEATH!!!” Their wild shrieks of hungry delight rolled like a siren’s song over the arena. The torches took light as the sunset started, soft pops of light licking along the side walls, as the very light of day fled the coming shadows. A roll of dust and debris puffed from the cave like entrance of the arena, as a hush stilled the crowd, from wild shrieks to anticipatory silence. The wooden doors creaked open, and she stepped forth.

She easily stood six feet; her body was carved like stone among the simple ragged clothes that barely covered her modesty. Her hair caught the torchlight and it framed her face like a halo of fire, her stout, angular features pretty in an example of strength. But if you looked closer those lines created by hunger and starvation, those deep golden eyes looked wild and alert. The gaze of a cornered animal then anything human. Around her throat was a simple golden choker that sparked with magical energy. The male towered above her even still, and a smirk of superiority came to his face. She stepped out into the dusty floor and looked around the arena. Any good hunter would now she was looking in vain for escape. Suddenly behind her a mage appeared and words whispered the woman let out a SHRIEK of pain.

The other warrior took a confused step back, as before him the barbarian woman’s head snapped back then forward, her eyes locking on him, pupils rolling from circles to slits, her honey gold skin melting into deeper oranges along the back of her arms, and spine. Deep dark black lines blushing forth, as her nose flattened, upper lip splitting, and fangs ripping from her upper gums. She gripped her head, and the choker sparked again and the scream melted into a roar of rage. A lycanthrope?!?! But no mere wolfkind, as the tigress burst forward, a snarl on her lips. The crowd erupted, screaming and jumping in place some even fainting from the sight.

The male fighter took three steps back trying to ready himself for what he thought was a frontal assault, however at the last mintue the beast woman launched to the left and up. Her clawed feet finding purchase on the iron barred wall and moving horizontally along the circle, the crowd clapping and cheering. The male looked around almost confused, turning just in time to block her descending clawed strike with the shield that disintegrated on the impact. The tigress slid back along the sand floor in a crouch, her tail swishing in anticipation. Her eyes locked on the male with the trident.

            Having regained his senses a bit, he charged forward. The party was almost certain they saw the tigress smirk, her eyes closing as her nose flared a moment. She didn’t move, the male bearing down on her like a freight train, but just as the trident came forward, she sprang forward, flipping over his back, her claws sinking into his shoulder, and raking down his back, eliciting a shriek of pain from the massive man. Ribbons of scarlet hitting the sand, as she landed behind him, delivering a vicious kick to his kidneys. The force sent the man tumbling into the sand to his knees, and the scent of blood hit her nose.

What happened next was almost nausea inducing, the bestial female’s head snapped back, and her eyes dilated. She took a step back, her thigh muscles visibly tensing under her fur covered thighs and hips. With a roar she rushed the man trying to get to his feet, and her teeth sank into his neck, and ripped backward. Blood sprayed from the wound as he screamed in horror, trying to free himself from her grasp, but her clawed hands sank into his chest, locking in place as her fanged mouth once more descended into his shoulder biting into the flesh hungrily, and actually managing to get a solid piece out to swallow.

As the party watched horrified, the tigress swallowed the flesh and licked her blood-soaked maw, looking to go for another bite before her scream of pain rippled across the blood-soaked sand. Her collar lit up to almost white-hot levels as she fell back, the magi on the edge of the area.  She clawed at her throat desperately before another shock rocked her body and she fell back unconscious to the floor. Instantly guards poured out to get the body of the fighter out of the arena. A second set put multiple point shackles on the body of the tigress, and pulled her from the arena. Once more, Sunset Death was victorious, as the first stars lit up the night sky.