M A S T E R // M I N D

When he stepped back, leaning against the railing, her brow twitched slightly. They were doing this, then? And him with his shirt still half-open.

Come into my parlor, she thought wryly as he posed his question. Bait, dangling. Engage. Play. She didn’t have to take it. The list of ways through which she could have immediately extracted herself was exhaustive. No, and thank you was all she had to say. Or simply turn around. 

Her mouth, however, was presently working much faster than her mind. She was already answering him in spite of herself.

“You’re very perceptive, Lord Gortash.” She smiled a little, but her tone was just an inch too flat to be called complimentary. “My head was starting to spin from the dancing, is all. And Faramond Stillwood would talk a skeleton to death if you let him.” That she really should not have said. Ah, well, too late. She pursed her lips to keep her smile in check and hoped that Lord Gortash was not overly fond of Baldur’s Gate’s most affluent trader of spices and sugar. Somehow, she had a difficult time imagining them making polite small talk; Stillwood was boldest with a pretty girl as a captive audience, but he was more bluster than substance.

Gossamer laced her fingers behind her back as she leaned against the doorframe, no longer poised for retreat—not fully committing to the balcony, either. Reserved, but open. Tentatively curious.

“Your ingenuity should be commended, in that case,” he said, gesturing in her direction. “I’ve heard it’s easier to desert the ranks of the Flaming Fist than to escape the affections of Faramond Stillwood.”

She turned her curiosity on him, then, and he huffed his amusement. Catching his breath was a little too close to the mark. He glanced away from her for just a moment, letting his gaze sweep across the handsome exterior of the estate. “I had a business matter to discuss with Lady Taschen.”

Technically, that was TRUE: he was exchanging sexual favors for the careful sabotage of her husband’s business. Lord Taschen had a monopoly on the trade of precious metals within the city, and had been charging Gortash exorbitant prices for components that were vital to his automatons. So Gortash had done what any self-respecting bastard would do—he’d started fucking the man’s wife and sowing the seeds of discontent. Ideally, Lady Taschen would eventually set her sights on becoming a WIDOW, and the problem would be permanently resolved.

"Gods, you're a sight for sore eyes."

evil is a point of view. god kills indiscriminately, and so shall we.

remember, consent is key and implied in all of these feel free to specify which muse is which and/or combine prompts

{ bar } : our muses have sex in a bar restroom 

{ outdoors } : our muses have sex in the woods

{ kiss } : for one muse to forcefully kiss the other

{ slap } : one muse slapping the other during sex

{ ticklish } : one muse tickles the other during sex

{ penetrate } : one muse uses a dildo on the other

{ window } : our muses have sex against a window

{ kneel } : one muse orders the other to their knees

{ dress-up } : one muse tries on lingerie for the other

{ grind } : one muse has the other grind on their thigh

{ scar } : one muse kisses the other’s scars during sex

{ voyeur } : our muses have sex in front of an audience

{ drip } : one muse drips hot wax across the other’s body

{ count } : one muse making the other count each spank 

{ beg } : one muse forces the other to beg for an orgasm

{ exhibit } : our muses have sex in a museum after hours 

{ shove } : one muse pins the other to the wall during sex

{ changing } : our muses getting frisky in a dressing room 

{ tied } : one muse ties up / handcuffs the other during sex

{ tub } : our muses share a shower / bath that turns sexual

{ grip } : one muse grabs the other by their throat during sex

{ good } : one muse gently praises the other during rough sex

{ risky } : our muses have sex somewhere they might be caught

{ spank } : one muse pulls the other over their lap to spank them

{ lift } : one muse picks up the other for sex in a standing position

{ louder } : one muse commands the other to be louder during sex

{ roadside } : our muses pull over to the side of the road to have sex

{ guide } : for one muse to instruct the other how to touch themselves

{ kitchen } : one muse lifts the other up onto the kitchen counter for sex

{wall} : one muse picks the other up to have sex with them against a wall

{ quiet } : one muse commands the other not to make a sound during sex

{ road } : one muse gives the other oral / fingers them while they’re driving

{ awaken } : one muse slips under the covers to wake up the other with oral

{ buzz } : one muse has the other wear a remote controlled vibrator in public 

{ lap } : one muse pulls the other into their lap to finger them / play with them

{ first } : one muse has never had sex before, and the other is their first partner

{ mouth } : one muse to put their fingers in the other’s mouth to keep them quiet 

{ table } : one muse fingers / plays with the other under the table in a public place

{ thrill } : for our muses to have sex somewhere public with the risk of being caught

{ bound } : for one muse to strap the other down and tease them with a toy (specify )

{ plugged } : one muse instructs the other to wear a buttplug / inserts one into them

{ guide } : one muse takes the other’s hand to show them how they like to be touched

{ chase } : our muses take part in a sex game where one chases / hunts the other one

{ pull } : one muse winds their hand into the other’s hair to pull / move their head during sex

{ video } : for one muse to send the other videos of themselves in compromising positions

{ overstimulate } : one muse makes the other cum over and over, again, until they’re too sensitive 

{ title } : one muse tries to rile up the other by calling them a title they like ( sir, daddy, mistress, etc. ) 

{ still } : one muse commands the other to hold still while they tease them / finger them / fuck them / etc. 

A feast at Hunger's table.

She waits for him, still as marble in the night's chill. Around her, the city moves, a living thing in its own right, though tonight she thinks not about the way it pulses and trembles around her, but rather, its engineering. Its reinforcements. Its redundancies. She thinks about the infinite uncaring hands of infinite uncaring gods—she thinks of her own hand, bloodied and dripping with filth—she thinks of Enver Gortash.

He could be something magnificent. No; he already is. It's simply a matter of waiting until the rest of the city, the rest of the realm, sees it, too. The cloak around her shoulders, its hood pulled up, is a simple thing, but it offers her some anonymity. (The red hair draws the eye, even in the dark.) Astoria has lived for some time, now—longer than she would have without her wretched father's failure to protect her—and she knows there is infinitely more to see, but she doubts she'll see another living thing like him the rest of her long life. She smells him before she sees him, his scent already familiar to her even through a crowd; she hears his footfalls, the pattern and weight of them committed to memory when he took his leave of her; and she sees him, the artful mess of his hair, the wicked slant of his mouth.

(He would be perfection on his knees. Praying to her. Worshiping her.)

"I'm glad you're here." He's taken no steps to hide his identity, or to dress differently, and so she doubts it will be necessary, but she offers the mask she'd been holding all the same. Gold filigree, enough to cover most of his face should he wish some degree of anonymity, lovely and delicate. "I intend for you to be my guest of honor tonight. If you wish to protect your identity, you may wish this." And a change of clothes, though she likes what he's wearing now. She leads him through her church, the doors closed and locked behind her by waiting guards; down a set of stairs behind her altar, hidden from view; through a narrow hall. They stop at a set of doors, massive and heavy, and the guards posted at either side bow, one of them reaching out to take her cloak as she hands it over. Her hair is loose, the robes of her service traded for a dress as light as spider-silk, black giving way to red like a bloodied wound blooming in dark water, the pale skin of her abdomen revealed through a number of cutouts in the garment.

Our Lady of Endless Hunger, walking among Her faithful, inspiring hungers of their own. The feast will no doubt give way to an orgy, as it often does; it may last through the day, though she will take her leave before sunrise. The doors open, and she enters, her guest at her side, to an awed silence.

At the center of the ballroom, on his knees and blindfolded, bound carefully so as to remain contained, is one of her brothers, flanked by guards on either side. Astoria observes him for a moment before she raises her eyes to her faithful, watching her with eager adoration. "Tonight," she says, and she does not have to raise her voice to be heard, "as every night, we sate our hungers, slake our thirsts. We live as we are meant to: without apology or fear, without condition. But tonight we are joined by an honored guest." She turns to Enver, now, and she smiles warmly, inclines her head in a small bow—an infrequent gesture of respect, of humility, but one well deserved. "Be welcome in the House of Hunger."

Gortash knows it’s a gamble walking into a feast at the House of Hunger. Whatever Astoria may be now, she was born a child of murder—and through the years, time and time again, she has proven her fortitude. Were something to go wrong, perhaps he could evade her on her own. But at a celebratory feast, surrounded by hordes of her most faithful? It’s a MEASURED risk—perhaps he’ll die tonight. Or perhaps they’ll finally strike on common ground; come together amidst the heat and the light and the wine, and forge a union to benefit them both.

( ——Perhaps they’ll consummate said union physically. He presumes nothing—she saw to it earlier that he learned from that mistake—but it doesn’t stop him from wondering what her body might feel like wrapped around him. Surely, the Lady of Hunger must have a legendary appetite? )

As he draws near to the church, she waits for him in the night like a patient statue, draped in a hooded cloak. He regards the proffered mask with mild amusement; it’s a considerate gesture, but with the conspicuous jeweled gauntlet that crowns his right hand, it would take little effort to discover the truth of his identity. He may not be the only Banite climbing the ranks of the Baldurian elite, but he’s certainly the most noteworthy. No—he is here publicly, whatever happens next. He nods his thanks regardless, falling into step beside her as she descends into the church.

The church is a proud, strong construction, with bones that run deep. The damp chill as they descend underground doesn’t last long; as they grow near the doors, the air warms with the presence of many bodies. It’s quiet but for the low murmur of voices, the shuffling of feet and chairs. A faint glow bleeds from beneath the doors, flickering with the telltale dance of candlelight. His gaze lingers appreciatively on her form as she sheds the cloak, unveiling a gown with generous windows of bare skin that give way to a flowing skirt of deep crimson. There’s no color quite so rousing to the appetite as the RED OF BLOOD: clearly, Our Lady of Hunger is well acquainted with the fact.

He's about to mention it, but the compliment dies on his tongue when he sees the bound body at the center of the room. It’s replaced instead with a silent curiosity; he knows little of what’s about to transpire, but she’s certainly caught his interest. The introduction to her faithful is met with little more than an incline of his head—his attention is fully on her now.

A captive Bhaalist. He smiles as the full picture comes into view; how deliciously ironic, to slaughter a devoted servant of the God of Murder. It hearkens to a logical fallacy of the cult of Bhaal that Gortash has never fully been able to reconcile—how can the Bhaalist cult ever hope to amass true power when it’s constantly under threat of DEVOURING ITSELF?

With a wave of one of the lich’s many hands, he dismisses his onlooking entourage of undead. The lot of them look like they'd have a rancid smell if it weren't for the low temperatures.

Near the cold slab of stone is a desk, adorned with a variety of trinkets, books, spell scrolls, jewels, and components for spells. The desk, assuredly, held just a small fraction of all that this lich was in possession of.

The lighting in this room is abundant. The braziers are lit with a gentle orange flame that kept the energy of the space warm without being too bright. It's calming.

Pulling the chair out from in front of the desk, he turns it around to face the newly revived Gortash when he takes a seat. He views this man as having a similar kind of vulnerability to that of a newborn babe. Traumatized, exhausted, a little confused, and needing immediate care.

"But I suppose that makes sense. You've written here and there in your previous life, did you not? I'm sure in due time you will be getting back to that hobby."

Connor keeps a respectful distance. As much as he wants to get up close. He's heard so much about this man. It's like practically meeting a celebrity. A well hated one, but a celebrity nevertheless.

"All that anger might settle a little after you have something in your stomach. Tell me, are you hungry? How do you feel about stew and bread with a bottle of wine? We can get you clothes and a bath, too."

Gortash shifts, suspicious gaze settling heavily on Connor. His body screams for everything all at once—food, water, warmth, rest—but he’s no stranger to self-denial. There are more important matters at hand. Namely: what all of this is going to COST him.

“It can wait.” His stomach writhes with nauseous hunger and he tamps down the ache. “You say you need allies. It doesn’t take a necromancer to know that my resurrection must have come at great cost. Why? Such a price could have bought an army, but you chose me instead. What can I do for you that no other living soul can?”

Gortash is well aware of his own value. His intellect, power, ambition, influence, connections—any one of them could be deployed to devastating effect. But if Connor has some design for his future, he’s a right to know. It will change very little—as Connor said, he offered an out and Gortash took it. The DEAL has already been struck. But he may as well get some idea of what he’s in for.

Infantile bloodlust. A rather apt descriptor, she thinks. Her father is a fool: what good is it to be god of murder, when to achieve true power, one must sacrifice all of one's believers? He had great plans for her, once, to be the last living creature in the world, only for her to die for him, and he had abandoned her when she proved less than willing to accept all he said without question.

She had screamed for him. He had not come. Begged for him to save her—he had not come. If she died now or later, did it matter, so long as she was dead? It is the great difference between them: the Lord of Murder is a lord of absence, celebrated by destruction, by deletion, and the Lady of Hunger is everywhere. In the rich and the poor, the old and the young, the acolyte and the faithless. Hers is an inescapable domain. Hunger always returns. Murder is finite—there may come a time when there are no more victims—but hunger is self-perpetuating. To sate one desire is to inflame another.

Astoria considers him silently for a long moment. She does not smile. She does not laugh. Instead, she holds out a hand, as if in invitation. The room does not change, but the air takes on a scent, gentle and light, of honeysuckle. Like the scent of the woman that still hangs on his skin, however subtly. She can smell it on him, as she can smell the wine he drank the night before on his breath, and the scent of his soap, and even the particular notes of the ink with which he scribbled notes long after he'd left that woman's bed, when he couldn't sleep.

"You come to me as my equal," she says simply. "Lady Gisla can be made into more, and so when you fist your hand in her hair and you pull until she bows her back and whimpers and promises you everything you want, it is because you are her better. You may not have her apparently endless funds or her connections yet but you have a natural talent for rule that she envies and an ambition that entices her as much as it frightens her. She craves you because she is desperate for her approval, because she is not your equal, but I am yours, Enver Gortash, and you are mine. I have my faithful. I have my power. And I have made myself more than my father, in all his infantile bloodlust, as you so perfectly put it, could have ever dreamed. I do not want to be shaped into something else. I do not want to be promised power. I want you."

Not a brief carnal exchange, though she's certainly not opposed, but rather—"That clever mind is a gift. Your desire not merely to survive, but to live, it's a beautiful thing, and it's so strong I can nearly taste it when you speak. And you're right. Together, we can become greater than we are apart. So speak to me as you would an equal. You say you will rule this city—I believe it. I will enjoy it, when the day comes. Do you intend to share your rule with me, if I agree? I want many things, and I don't doubt that you can give them to me.

His casual demeanor falls as she lifts a hand toward him. The room fills with a familiar scent of honeysuckle, and just as quickly, his expression is guarded.

Knowledge is currency, and secrets are power. Her description of his encounter with Lady Gisla is too accurate, down to the scent of her floral perfume—it’s an effective point to be made, but his mind is racing with the implications that remain unspoken. How does she know what goes on in his bed? And what else might she know?

“I do not want to be promised power. I want you."

Her words turn over and over again in his mind. He has no patience for false humility—he’s well aware of his value as COMMODITY. But personal interest is a fickle thing, far less reliable than the desire for power, and an unsteady ground upon which to build an alliance. He knows how to share his rule—is secure in the benefits of authority split with one equally capable. But how much is she willing to share? Should he give of himself—as she desires—what price is he worth?

It’s enough to make him hesitate. And yet.

She is his equal, of that he has no doubt. She’s a skillful negotiator, careful with her words—and more than that, hers is a backbone forged from iron. She will not yield to his domineering nature, a strength that he respects. He will need a partner to see him through the trials to come. Who better than a woman so capable, who has already built an empire of her own?

He remains still, canting his head thoughtfully as he begins to speak. “In engineering there’s a careful balance to be struck between safety and efficiency. Any component, no matter how immaculate, has the capacity for failure. People—including you and I—are no different. Directing all energy toward a single point of focus can have catastrophic repercussions should that point fail. Hence, reinforcements. Redundancies. GOOD ENGINEERING."

Dark eyes lock onto hers once more, his scarred chin raising. “Power structures like cities and religions are machines, in their own way. You ask whether I will share my rule with you when the time comes. And for me, the answer is simple. I build machines to last.”

He relaxes at her smile. She’s shaken his confidence in this plan—moving forward he will have to reorient himself, determine whether she’s to be trusted. But a PARTY: that’s easy. If more of him is what she wants to see, then he will happily provide.

There's a rumbling in her chest, a pleased purr, as his hand wanders over her form. Goosebumps form over heating flesh, a tingle shooting through her nerves. She squirms a little which causes her pelvis to brush against his. That time it's unintentional.

Equally they have each other ensnared one way or another. It's just how the game is played. Her mind is still perfectly intact to put all the pieces together. Yet sometimes a monster girl just wants a bit of attention. And if he's willing to indulge her and offer it up, who is she to turn it down? Besides it opens up the side venture to see how far she can push him in their game of tug of war. Playing with her food, so to speak.

Ithaca isn't blind to the way he so openly observes her as if she were a piece of cake to devour. Would he discard her once he's eaten the icing just as everyone else does? If she's the dessert, he's a handsome piece meat.

At the mention of the lofty notion of playing hero, she can't help but roll her eyes. It's not a demure reaction at all. However, it's him that seems a bit predictable with his ambition. After all, it's heroes of great legends that are revered and remembered, not the villains.

Whatever possible snarky remark that lies ready to be shot dies in her throat when he essentially boops her nose. If she weren't so determined to keep up her current facade she might actually laugh at the audacity. Instead her hand grabs hold of his before it moves too far from her face, bringing his finger to rest at her lips. A few licks are given before taking it into her mouth — just the tip. It always starts with just the tip. Tongue dances across the digit as she sucks, savoring the metallic tang from his gauntlet. Eye contact with him is unwavering. With one last suckle she pulls his finger from her mouth. Tongue is stuck out in a crude manner and she let's go of his hand. He'd taste delicious, she can tell; something good enough to choke on.

"That seems like a pretty straightforward plan." Ithaca replies with a stretch. Back arches, a mewl slips from her lips and her core rubs against him hard and slowly. This time it's deliberate. "But let me guess, and correct if I'm wrong, you want me and my cult to be the crisis you save the city from."

Typical. Not surprising honestly. If that's the case she fails to see what benefits she'll reap. "Sounds like you're going to have all the spoils. Adoration, wealth, control...unfair really. Where exactly do I fit in? What do I get out of this? If you're expecting me to do such heavy lifting for table scraps you'll sorelyl mistaken."

The decision to work with him lies squarely in her hands, that’s true. But Gortash does not BEG.

The roll of her eyes is met with a steely shift in his demeanor. It falters just slightly as she draws his finger into her mouth—he can’t deny the pleasure of her hot tongue gliding against his skin, nor can he resist imagining that mouth put to work elsewhere, as she no doubt intended—but he isn’t about to forget her sour tone. HUNGER flashes in his eyes like sharp teeth in the dark; then, as his digit is released, he plants his hand at her side.

“No,” he answers firmly. Gone is the gentle caress of his wandering hand. Now he looms squarely over her, trapping her in place, avoiding all contact but for his captive waist. “It will be a new threat—a MANUFACTURED one, wholly disposable if necessary. In order for this ploy to work, I will need absolute control over the enemy, and I know better than to expect as much from the children of Bhaal.” The murder cult is as proud as the Banites; to expect any degree of subservience would be to invite mayhem.

She rubs against him, pressing deliberately against his cock through his trousers, and he sets his jaw against the flush of sensation. She wants to be fucked as badly as he wants to FUCK her—and the more she provokes him, the more he entertains the notion. This time, when he reaches up to grip her jaw, it’s within the twisted metal embrace of his gauntlet. Large fingers frame her face, sharp claws pressing into delicate pink cheeks.