#and DOES HE SHED SKIN LIKE A HUMAN OR DOES HE DO A FULL BODY SHED.

[maximusboltaqon]

VERY IMPORTANT QUESTION: does triton shed skin like a person, a fish, or a lizard

[seresinhangmanjake]

Do You Love?

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x wife!reader

Summary: Feyd is soft for his wife and only wants to know if she loves him. His wife just wants him to come home.

Notes/Warnings: fluff and a little angst and very light smut (still 18+), softy-soft Feyd, probably could do with a wedding prequel if people were interested, im sure there are typos. I think that's it.

Words: 1400

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist

He hates being away from you. Can't bear it. It takes less than two days for withdrawal from your lack of presence to settle in, and when it hits, it hits hard. The luminescence of your smile that threatens the darkness within him on his worst days; the delicate suppleness of your skin that introduced him to the softness and warmth of a human body; the specific quality and tone of your voice when you whisper and whimper and moan in his ear—he needs it. He needs you. He craves you until the second you’re in his arms again. He just wishes he could understand if you feel the same. He wishes he could know if you love him as much as he does you.

When you came into his life, you were a pawn for peace. A gift from one Great House to another. A reluctant bride who couldn’t choke back her tears on her wedding day. He’ll never forget the saltiness that lingered on his lips after the kiss that bound you to him forever. He can still feel the pang in his heart from seeing you finch when he guided the strap of your nightgown off your shoulder. 

It took ages for you to shed your fear; to allow him to hold you and kiss you and be inside of you, but those many months of ‘two steps forward, one step back’ have left him in a paralyzing state of identity crisis and uncertainty. You’ve turned him into a man who begs for scraps of reassurance that you care for him rather than a man who shows no mercy for love; a man so preoccupied with thoughts of his wife’s affection that not even his enemies are granted his full attention as he watches the light drain from their eyes. 

From the moment he leaves, he anticipates his return so you can quell his agitation, at least to some degree. The same words echo in his head each time he steps off a Harkonnen ship to search for you—hug me, hold me, kiss me, let my body inside of yours, tell me you love me—and in recent months you haven’t failed to do those things, with the exception of the last request. The day you tell him you love him will be the day he stops fearing you'll eventually grow bored with him. On that day, he’ll be happy, at peace. He’ll be unafraid of what his future with you will bring.

—

Reader POV

He often goes to Arrakis for a week or two, that’s not new. He must monitor things and fight Fremen when necessary. However, this time was different. There was something foreign in his eyes after he kissed your palm and boarded his ship to depart. Sadness? Pain? Worry? All three? You didn’t know, but it terrified you from how little he tried to disguise it. With each departure, it’s seemed his mood has worsened and you can't decipher its cause.

Now, ten days later, your fingernails are worn to nubs and dark circles have found home under your eyes from nightmares interrupting your sleep. They’re different every night but they always end with Feyd not coming home to you, and you don’t know how to cope. You tell yourself you’re crazy, that there’s no possibility of him being taken down with a Fremen knife or gobbled up by a sandworm or blown to bits from his ship getting shot out of the sky. He’s too smart, too quick, too trained for such things to claim his life. At the same time, however, the last person whose death you dreamt of was your mother’s, and while it’s rare your dreams are prophetic, that one came to fruition not five days later. Who is to say your dreams of your husband are not the same?

But you can’t lose Feyd, not when it feels like you just got him. When you married, your dread of navigating a new husband and life on Giedi Prime—both of which have a reputation for being cold and desolate and harsh—crippled your ability to see him for who he is. It’s only been the last few months that you’ve let yourself love and understand him, and you can’t imagine a reality in which you wake one morning knowing you will never have him again. You wouldn’t survive it. 

But you won't have to, because he's fine, perfectly safe—that's what you tell yourself. He told you he wouldn’t be away long and he wouldn’t say that unless he believed it, right?

Then again, believing he would be home soon doesn’t mean fate agrees. What if he's already gone? Wait, no. No, he wouldn't do that to you. He'll be home because he always makes it home. He’s fine. He’s safe. He would never leave you. You nod to yourself, swallowing hard. He’s fine. He’s safe. He would never leave. He’s fine. He’s safe. He would never leave.

--

Your body curls into the first touch of warmth you’ve had in a week and a half as a heavy weight rests in the dip of your waist and tugs you against a solid form. Plush lips ghost your temple. A heartbeat thrums in your ear and you feel the rise and fall of a chest. 

Oh, you like this dream. He’s so real in this dream. It’s the first dream where death is not at his heels.

“You don’t know how I miss you,” he mutters into your ear. Stands of your loose hair brush back from your face. “How unbearable it is.”

His voice is so clear, so beautiful and vivid that it’s almost like he’s really with you. Humming contently, you huddle further into him. “Then stop leaving me,” you mumble.

Breath catches in his chest, no longer moving at a steady rhythm. “You're awake?”

Your brows knit—that's not a very ‘dream-like’ question; it threatens your lovely illusion—and then your eyes snap open. 

“Feyd?” His nose is an inch from yours. Your hand raises to cup his cheek, just to see if he is real, and you gasp at how warm his skin is under your palm. “You're here,” you cry, quickly pushing him onto his back and crawling on top of him. 

You press your lips to his, hard. A whimper is pulled from your throat when he parts his mouth so you can get a taste of his tongue. Yes, he’s definitely real. 

Hands trail down your back to your ass, squeezing two handfuls of flesh and pushing your pelvis down onto his. He’s already hard and thick and pressing into you, the matching thin material of your nightgown and his sleep pants doing a pathetic job of maintaining any sort of barrier. 

Feyd slowly drags the ink-toned silk up the curves and dimples of your body until it pools at your waist. Fingers graze your skin as they move lower to slide through your slick bare folds, and at his touch, your brain goes absolutely fuzzy. You’re unashamedly desperate, refusing to take any longer to get what you need, but when you finally free him from his pants and he thrusts up into you, you both find yourselves stopping. The kiss breaks and you simply breathe in each other’s breaths as he stays nestled deep inside you. 

Your forehead falls to his. A fresh tear that you hadn’t noticed in your eye lands on his cheek. “You're ok,” you gently whimper, reassuring yourself of his safety. His nose nudges yours.

“When am I not?” he whispers as he catches the next tear with his thumb before it drops from your lower lashes. 

“In my nightmares.”

His brow pinches in curiosity, cock twitching within your walls. “You dream about me?” 

You lightly nod. “I thought this was a dream.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a sickening feeling you weren’t going to make it back this time. I know it was a routine trip, but I just couldn’t shake it,” you say. “And that would’ve killed me, Feyd. I love you.”

Feyd sucks in a short stream of air as his hips slightly buck up against yours. “You love me?” he repeats.

“Yes,” you exhale, riding the little high of pleasure that came from the sharp involuntary shift of his hips. “I was so scared to be right.”

Feyd's arms tighten around you and he tilts his chin up to connect your lips. Kisses travel along the line of your jaw and down the length of your neck. His tongue dips into the hollow of your throat. 

“I love you,” he tells you.

Your stuffy chuckle settles into a grin. “I know you do.”

---

tag: @avidreader73

[rowretro]

𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞 𝕿𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖞

(this is a request I hope this went well!!!)

✧warnings: Yandere/toxic themes, kidnapping, marriage, blood, violence, explicit stuff mentioned (gore etc),Hyper feminine reader, mean af Riki

❁synopsis: The sweet, beautiful human princess married the cold, handsome Vampire prince, for a happy ending in both worlds, where blood shed and murders won't occur anymore. It's perfect, in fact they're such a perfect couple. That's what people believed, but they never understood how broken the couple are behind closed doors...

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"Listen... uhm Riki? yeah I think I'll sleep on the couch I mean I'm human- you're vampire, on top of that I really doubt you do want to share a bed with me-" "I don't want to share anything with you not like I have a choice-" He cut her off as she nodded, feeling awkward. He finally owns this girl god damit. Instead of being all scared and obedient, she's here, pink silk flowy nightgown hugging her in all the right spots, making her seem like a trophy wife. Nail's all blingy, with charms and hearts, her lips still tinted from her lipstick from before, and lashes all done spikey and stunning.

Riki couldn't stand it. She's one of those annoying, mean girl wannabes who body shame girls that are living life. So he thought. She smiled as she went downstairs, carrying her pet goat to the garden. Yes a pet goat, it even had pink light pink shoes, and matching pink bows. Riki found her intriguing. Annoying. "uhm... I don't wanna sound rude but uhm can you please not drink Veronica's blood?" she asked as Riki blinked "You have a goat called Veronica.... do you get bullied in school?" he asked as she frowned.

"Uhm I don't know how to respond to that.... Of course I don't- I can defend myself when I need to- and I don't think humans get bullied for their pets... Maybe vampires might but not us humans" She said as she placed her goat in the comfy little enclosure, and brought her pet bunnies in. For a girly girl she sure does own a lot of pets. "can I suck their blood?" he asked half jokingly as she frowned.

"Id rather you suck my blood." she said as she pouted at her rabbits, booping their noses as she locked them in the indoors cage. "Woah there Mrs Nishimura... getting a little too attached to a cold blooded vampire" he teased as she rolled her eyes. "I suggest you sleep in my room if you want to be alive.... not all vampires here are as patient as I am." Riki simply said as he grabbed her waist, teleporting her to his room. "I doubt you had to hold me but uhm... thanks?" she thanked, scratching her head as Riki smiled.

She's such a pretty girl, so cute, especially when she's shy and nervous, he's seen her smile, fake and real smile, and its so fucking cute... he wonders how she looks when she cries... He pushes her onto the bed, catching her off guard, hovering over her as he suggestively leaned into her nick, his lips gently grazing her skin. A smirk plastered on his lips as he could hear, and smell the blood rapidly coursing through her veins. He turned to look at her frightened expression, then got up, satisfied.

"You thought I'd actually fucking touch you.... pfft you're too full of yourself y/n... you really aren't all that you know?!" as she just uncomfortably scratched at her arm. It wasn't enough of a reaction for him. "Why do you think the real reason is behind your parents and not your older sister? want me to tell you why?! you're a weak useless stupid girl who fails her studies focuses on her looks no matter how ugly you truly are. You're so worthless they went all in and threw you in the arms of me. Me who loves human blood, especially the blood of a sad, worthless little girl, preferably pretty... but you're ugly" He remarked.

Y/n's eyes became glossy. he was right for the most of it, she was more creative than academic, she loved doing her nails and makeup, but it's therapeutic, and she wasn't the biggest fan of her appearance and her parents are very disappointed in her... she constantly lived in her sister's shadow. But Riki doesn't know any of that. He didn't know until he read through the thoughts that clouded her mind. She truly wanted to die.

She's absolutely ethereal, even when crying. "But you don't need them.... you're the most stunning woman I've ever laid eyes on so as long as I have you all to myself.... everyone is safe." Though his words were absolutely sweet, he's being genuine, he wants this marriage though she doesn't. Yet she can't help but notice something eerie lacing his words... his eerie obsession...

Since their wedding day, he was always with y/n, in the kitchen, in their bedroom, the living room, outside the restroom, even in his office where he forbids anyone from entering. Y/n pouted as she aired her lips, lying on her front on the comfortable airbed, piled with blankets and fluffy pillows. Riki snickerred at the cute view. She's always a sight he loves to see.

She's grown so dependant on him, such a typical 1950's housewife, except she has a loyal loving husband who drinks her blood of course. "Riki im boredddd can't I got to the living room and play with the bunnies?" she asked with a little pout as he got up. She stared him up, and god was he tall, she envied him for having such a perfect waist, but she loves him so dearly. "Sweetheart.... I can't go a second without youuu-" he whined a little, as he snuggled her.

"I need to pee-" she suddenly said as Riki groaned "no you don't" he said bluntly as he snuggled into her neck "no seriously I need to" "no you don't you're making an excuse to leave me." he said as she frowned "Riki im serious. my bladder can only hold so much. and on top of that, if you don't want your expensive tailored trousers, and this fluffy bed, and this nightgown you bought me to be all wet and gross and stinky I suggest you let me go pee now!" she exclaimed in a somewhat calm manner. He sighed getting up as he waited outside the restroom door, waiting for her to finish.

He carried her once she was done, sitting her on his lap as he worked. "Riki..." "hmm?" "Can I visit my parents tomorrow?" she asked biting her lip as he stopped writing, glaring at her coldly "no. you don't need them." He coldly said as she whined "But they're my parents I miss them!" "No you don't. Y/n you have me and im enough, if you want more company, wait a few years we'll have noisy kids. until then, me and your fluffy pets are enough understand?!" he warned as she frowned.

"Why can't I-" "I said NO. FUCKSAKE Y/N YOU'RE MINE NOW. WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO TURN YOUR BACK TO ME AND GO VISIT OTHER PEOPLE?! PEOPLE WHO FUCKING HATE YOU?!" he yelled as she flinched, sniffling. Seeing this he snuggled her, kissing her forehead. "awww im sorry for yelling at you babe.... but I love you and you're mine now you know? you're mine all mine."

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A/n: this isnt that good but oh well, have a jay ff in the waiting, and im currently writting a sunghoon ff inspired by Leo the movie w vijay (i had a dream)

[a-twistedheartslonging]

Nonhuman Au Malleus

He does have wings, and they are very much out. Since wings aren't uncommon in this version of Twst there are uniform options that make it not necessary for him to magic them away. Same with his tail and chairs. Thanks to most people in this world having tails, though he and Sebek admittedly have thicker tails, there aren’t usually issues with them because of how seats are typically designed. 

There is admittedly a bit of an issue with his tail swinging around when he’s excited/happy about something though since his strength can lead to someone literally being smacked across the room with it. Another problem he and Sebek seem to share. The trident thing he has on his tail isn't sharp but feels like some kind of solid rubber and was more often than not teethed on by Silver when he was a baby, something neither Malleus nor Lilia will let the poor boy live down.

His scales do cover a lot of his body with the more human skin-like parts being his face, front of his neck, along with his chest and stomach. There is a happy tail of scales that leads to his groin area. Said scales are a beautiful shiny black that feels smooth to the touch and matches his black claws.

You might want to be careful if you're in a situation where you would be stroking his chest or stomach area when in his more human-y form as the skin there will be more sensitive. It's no issue however when in his full dragon form and he very much enjoys the area being scratched and would be more than happy to let you climb up on his large body and go to town on his purple belly with a large scrubbing brush.

Does not have nipples or a belly button, he does though have a rather...innocent interest in yours.

Thanks to not needing to blink often his habit of staring is a bit more... unsettling, though when he does blink, you’ll likely notice his second set of eyelids along with his…well, similar to the tweels he sort of doesn't always blink both eyes at the same time. Sort of a slow weird frog blink that, depending on the person, looks either weird or pretty funny.

You may also notice his slit pupils widening when looking at things he’s interested in...or people. They also very much glow in dark environments which can cause a startle when he decides to visit his human and just magically pops in, tall and imposing, glowing green eyes staring in the middle of the night in your room. It’s not much better when he decides to tap a claw against your window, trying to be more polite by asking to be let in.

He sheds every few months and hates it, he can't magic it away like he does most things that bother him as it can cause issues with scale growth if it's not taken care of carefully. Which is usually Silver, Sebek, or Lilia helping with pealing him gently and carefully like a very ripe fruit. However, as he’s gotten older, he can get rather embarrassed about the situation, particularly if you see or know about it.

If he is upset or angry, smoke may start to leak from his mouth and noise. You might notice a hint of brimstone in the air when this happens.

Uses a special oil to polish his horns and be rubbed into his scales. Helping him with the latter will lead to him making the weirdest but happy lizard noises while you get to work on rubbing the oil into his scales. He can't feel when you touch his horns but still enjoy you taking care of them. He can however feel you touching the base where they connect to his skull, and you will hear even more rumbling if you message the area.

He is a possessor of a long forked tongue that he may sometimes use to taste the air, as a result, you may catch him unintentionally bleping. You also may or may not notice him doing it more around you, likely when you get within “smelling” distance. It's pretty funny to see. Does Malleus smell something yummy? Air mlem. Yuu suddenly interred the room? Mlem the air. If the smell he’s tasting is unpleasant he might make a face like he ate something sour. Face scrunched up and tongue half out. The beasties don't blink an eye since it's not an uncommon thing here, though they do judge him if he's being overly obvious. Leona may call him out on how frequently he seems to do it around you, but the others are too scared too...aside from Lilia.

He is indeed cold-blooded, though he can handle the cold better than most reptile beastmen. He won’t feel warm when you touch him, but not cold either. His scales feel wonderfully smooth to the touch.

The area around the base and under his wings is relatively sensitive to touch, or at least the thinner areas that connect to others tend to be. It’s necessary to groom the area by using a wet cloth and help is often needed. Doing so can be considered platonic, but also even used as a form of courting or even to show sexual interest depending on the situation, as a result, be careful how you rub.

It’s not just his tail that may move to react unconsciously to his emotions, at times even his wings may suddenly spread because of it or even flap. Hopefully, no papers or anything light is around when it happens, the gusts of wind he sends can be rather strong.

As for mating and courting behavior, it can be a bit complicated as dragons share certain traits and traditions with birds, bats, various reptiles, and even some feline behavior.

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

The Eternal Night (Part 4)

Summary: On one of many nights, Sevatar reflects on his feelings for you.

Jago Sevatarion/fem!Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, power imbalance, violence, predator/prey

Word count: 1538

Author's note: there's nothing sexier than when a space marine who doesn't know what love is wants to kill you~

Song: She Wants Revenge - Red Flags and Long Nights

You can occupy my every sigh You can rent the space inside my mind At least until the price becomes too high

You are small and fragile as a mouse. You could easily be squeezed and crushed. Until your eyes become bloodshot and the air disappears from your lungs. The human body is viscous and fleshy. How many people lived their lives, dreamed, suffered, were living souls until they found themselves in the skinning pits?

Sevatar could do the same to you. Squeeze the life out of you and hang your skin around the ship like curtains. But then he will lose the peace that he has not felt in recent decades. He will lose you.

The last thought sits unpleasantly on the tongue. Sevatar has already allowed himself to become sentimental towards his distant relatives. Of course, if they were them. That's what he didn't expect, that he would worry about his little toy.

Nice and gentle. Small and fragile. Yes. That's what you were. Your whole image and the way you behaved, moved, took him far away. Far away in the rainy rain as black feathers swirled around him. But at the same time you brought a completely new feeling. To which he could not find a word.

It's a distraction. No, the first captain could lie to himself as much as he wanted, but this was not so. He still performed his duties properly. Even better. Now he could fully concentrate on them without thinking about his Gift. After all, you were always on hand to relieve stress.

And that's not to mention the sweet smell of fear. Eyes full of tears and unspoken pleas from soft lips. Quiet sobs in the depths of the night, when Sevatar had the idea of ​​playing with you. Complete dependence and submission to him and only him. The tattoo adorning your shoulder beckoned and tormented his thoughts. How could he resist licking the cocktail of ink, his blood and your sweat?

The primarch should not have waged a joint campaign with Fulgrim. The Nostroman language was already considered beautiful and sophisticated by the inhabitants of the Imperium. Now the Night Lords have picked up words from their fragrant cousins. Why so many words when everything is simple?

You are his servant, and he is your master.

Yes, it's simple. You are afraid of him, but he enjoys fear. Then why does he see in your eyes a plea not to stop, but to continue? Why do your moans of pain sound different at some moments? Why do you look at him as if he were your Emperor? The man only grinned at this funny comparison, which would give many mortals and Word Bearers a heart attack.

But that’s how it was. You depended on him because it was necessary. Because you wanted it. You liked it, he could feel it. He still remembers your eyes full of gratitude when he took revenge for you.

"Thank you"

Sevatar still sees this picture in front of him. You, trembling and tired, sit in a dark corner. Waiting for him. You cry from the pain that the mortal bastard (and Sevatar's hands squeezing your shoulders) caused you. Your pleading look. Your whole body, face, covered with someone else's blood that you shed. He would like to see you like this more often.

Never before had Sevatar enjoyed tormenting mortals so much. He did not deign to have the warden and the rapist disemboweled by his hand. But he was watching. Watching at the judgment. Punishment. Retribution. Sevatar did justice in the most perverted form.

"Thank you"

A spontaneous desire to tear out someone else's heart came to mind completely unexpectedly. As a child, the boy had to eat all parts of corpses. It was rare that he could take anything for himself, because all the homeless children he came across were weak and had nothing. Now he did not need trophies except for the skin on his armor.

So why don't you get the trophy you deserve? He will laugh at your reaction. Besides, you served the Night Lord. And at least the first captain liked your kind face and didn’t want to spoil you. You still needed to understand at least a little about the values ​​of your Legion. So that you could serve him better, understand, obey, open up -

"Thank you"

Your gratitude sounds like a parasite in his brain. This is how maggots usually find dead flesh and cannot stop eating it until there is not a piece left. Here's the same one. You are slowly eating away at Sevatar’s brains, forcing him to think about you.

Maybe Sevatar should get rid of you? Cut out the tattoo with the skin and send you to free floating. Until other Night Lords find you to have fun with you if you don't do a good job. Or one of them will realize how pretty you are and take you into his service.

No. He won't let this happen. You are his. You belong to him.

Your tears, your fear, your doom, your prayers and hope. It all belongs to him. Sevatar promised to take care of you. He was supposed to protect you. The tattoo was supposed to scare away your tormentor. But you had to defend yourself.

You didn’t say a word about this to Sevatar. And could you even blame your master for anything? But what the first captain didn't expect was gratitude. How something in you breaks and you, intoxicated by the feeling, put yourself in the hands of a man, trusting him in everything.

"Thank you"

Sevatar looks away from the ceiling and looks at the mattress at the far end of the room. You're having such a good dream. Surely you are now dreaming of the warm sun and the spiers of Terra which you will never see again. Not noticing the gaze of the Night Lord.

You are tender and fragile compared to him. Too kind and naive for this Legion. Too strange for the Imperium. The man did not know and did not want to know whether you were a hidden psyker. But even if that were the case, you would become even more dependent on the first captain. Only he can hide you from his brothers and the Black Ship. After all, you are so defenseless.

He wants crush you.

No, Sevatar did not want to kill you. And yet, lately he had a strange desire to squeeze you. A hot feeling, similar to anger, settled in his body and mind. He became even more fierce in training. His brothers were already openly avoiding him so as not to end up broken on the floor.

His obedient Terminators, his brotherhood say nothing, blindly carrying out the will of the first captain. But they noticed a change in him. They noticed that he was haunted by an obsessive thought, which Sevatar still could not throw into action. For now. He just didn't know what to do yet.

But the primarch clearly laughed at him. He knew what an unusual situation Sevatar found himself in. Konrad Curze sometimes looked at the Space Marine with such anticipation that any mortal would feel uncomfortable. Sevatar was only annoyed by this. He was devoted to his gene father, but sometimes it was difficult to be with him. He feels not like the first captain, but like a mother hen.

Sevatar will not ask Konrad Curze what is happening to him. Will not ask for advice. This type of relationship between Primarch and Space Marines is common to other Legions. Moreover, Sevatar, unlike his brothers, did not hang on every word of the primarch with anticipation. He was devoted to him, but he did not love him. If this feeling was even in his blood.

The man looks at your figure again, peering into your calm sleeping face. An entertaining spectacle. Calming. And yet the thought of your tears and moans seeps into Sevatar's mind again. Filling all the brain cells, leaving not a single space.

He would crush you under himself. Grab you in his arms. Lick his mark on you. Eat you. Subdue. Dominate.

These feelings, not inherent to space marines, no longer let the man out of his tenacious clutches. He should go to the Apothecary and get rid of them. Heal and start seeing you as a piece of meat. But he won't do it. Because he couldn’t and didn’t want to.

The white teeth of a predator sparkle in the darkness. A smile typical of a corpse appears on his face. But still sincere. There were few moments when something could amuse Sevatar, captivate him, or simply make him happy. But you did it.

The words of a mother from the distant past envelop the man like a blanket. A small clue that sheds light on his new feelings. Good girls always love bad boys. And vice versa.

And Sevatar was bad, right? There were no good people among the Night Lords. Only monsters, murderers and sadists who fulfill the Imperial Truth and bring peace to the worlds of people. Facade, nothing more. But you were good. And you will remain like this forever. He'll take care of it. He will shed as much blood as necessary. If only you were nearby.

[t4tstarrailing]

harpy aventurine headcanons

@c00kieguy and his aven boss form thigh art got me thinking about my harpy aventurine hcs again, which actually evolved from a conversation about fucking boss form aven

contains mostly sfw but does discuss his ruts. i'm mosy yapping to get my thoughts out before I get into the finer details of my harpy!aven smut. dividers by cafekitsune

side note: while gender is not explicitly mentioned, I do write aventurine with exclusively male and gender neutral partners. so this is more leaning towards mlm/nblm content than anything. it's also not necessarily x reader or ship content, moreso just general headcanons, but there are references to his partner. also if you want to bitch and complain about how I write aven as being and make him chubby with estrogen tits, go argue with a wall I really do not care

aventurine's harpy form is the result of him using his cornerstone, giving him some.... unusual birdlike qualities. he isn't a full harpy a majority of the time, only at specific moments does he actually fully shift into a harpy (eg. rut, danger). most of the time, he just has small, soft feathers on his neck and chest that puff out rather animatedly. he gets the occasional peacock tail feathers growing from his scalp, forming a sort of underlayer of sorts for his hair. they usually get to about shoulder blade length before being shed.

harpy aventurine stands at about 7'6", mostly being legs but he does bulk up a bit. his human body remains mostly the same, chubby with soft tits from his low dose estrogen, but it is covered in short, soft dull, downy blue-green feathers. his legs are strong and thick, a royal blue-green shade with yellow talons that replace his feet. it's the same for his arms in that regard, covered in royal blue-green downy feathers and ending in hands turned yellow talons. there's a few longer feathers that grow from his biceps, but nothing that would allow him to fly. his feathers end at about mid chest, turning back into his usually rosey copper skin.

due to his low dose estrogen, he grows the occasional brown feathers and his plumage tends to not be as stand out as most male peacocks. but it is still impressive, regardless.

he can't hide his emotions anymore. at all. bit embarrassed? throat and chest feathers are puffed up. angry? whatever plumage he has at that time is puffing up defensively. he's already a naturally expressive guy, but his new feathers make it oh so much worse. it's bad when topaz decides to tease him playfully

he's picked up some bird like noises too, mostly cooing and squawking when he's surprised. his coo is very soft and hard to hear, mostly coming out when he's tired and waiting for his partner to go to bed. it's also a self-soothing thing for him, cooing when he happens to get especially stressed or anxious about something.

aven picked up a weird habit following the transformation. now instead of going to bed when he's tired, he'll sometimes just sit up straight and puff out his neck and chest feathers and doze off that way, cooing the entire time. this is mostly done when he's waiting for his partner to go to bed, or he's trying to fight off sleep for some reason or another.

he's also taken up a bad habit of nesting and being especially protective of his partner. whether it's from his experience in penacony or the bird like qualities, it's honestly hard to tell. but his bed will frequently consist of the softest blankets and some piece of clothing that his partner smells like.

self care has always been important for him, but it is especially important now. even though he doesn't have talons in his usual day to day life, he still gets scale like growths on his hands and feet. moisturizer is a big deal for him, constantly keeping his on hand to use whenever. if he itches, he tends to bleed. if his partner is comfortable handling it, he'll have them take care of his scratches as a form of sort of quiet love and devotion.

please cup his face and give him behind the ear scratches. he'll melt into a puddle of soft cooes and fall asleep immediately.

harpy aventurine though.... that's a whole different beast, literally.

all of his birdlike behaviors are magnified by like 100x. get ready for an especially clingy and overprotective aventurine.

because he's usually in his harpy form for his rut, he does not want his partner to leave him for longer than like five minutes. working from home? you've got this big ass harpy hanging over your shoulder or forcing you back into the "nest" he's made for you (it's something of a pillow fort with comforters). ordering something? please apologize to the terrified pizza delivery guy because your boyfriend is glaring at him over your shoulder.

also, ruts usually mean that he's kicking the AC down as much as possible. it's genuinely to keep him from overheating and being too irritable, but it does serve as a good excuse to keep his partner in bed as much as possible.

remember how i said that he's 7'6"? yeah good luck getting out from underneath him when he decides it's nap time and your chest is the best place to sleep. will take up his partner's entire bed happily.

massive thighs in his harpy form. likes to perch somewhat creepily as well... has fallen off the back of the sofa a couple of times while getting used to it

his eyes glow. it's more noticable at night or in the dark ofc, but they've always got this somewhat predatorial glow to them.

coming out of his rut is not a fun experience for him, especially if he fucked to get out of it. he'll be down and out for the entire day, sleeping in his bed. he's especially delicate during this time, needing quite a bit of reassurance from his partner. and while his bedding may be destroyed or dirty, he refuses to change them until he's completely out of his rut headspace.

the other Stonehearts are keeping a close eye on him, mostly to observe any possible changes they may face if using their own cornerstone. it's not unusual for his partner to get a semi serious, semi joking "hey, he hasn't killed or tried to kill anyone yet, right?"

oh and cloaca. won't expand too much here since I'm keeping it as sfw as possible, but harpy aventurine's got a cloaca

[seraphiism]

𓆩 ♡ 𓆪 ┊ 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 , 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

( AT THE END OF THIS STORY, I WALK INTO THE SEA & IT CHOOSES NOT TO DROWN ME. )

chara : scaramouche/wanderer fandom : genshin impact quote cr : jihyun yun a/n : contains scenes of drowning. reader is an angel. not meant to portray a romantic relationship.

ACT I :

A FUNERAL PROCESSION DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING WHEN IT'S YOURS. THE LOWERING OF THE CASKET / THE DIRT AND DECAY THAT COVERS THE ROOT OF BEING. IT IS VOID IN EXISTENCE, & IN PLACE OF WHERE A HEART RESIDES, THERE IS AN ECHO OF WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN HUMAN AND WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN HAPPY.

there is supposed to be a grief that accompanies acknowledgement of loss and death, but in the open wounds of mortality, flesh torn asunder in the killing of a body, a puppet feels nothing.

he stares at the funeral, desolate. it is his, yet he does not mourn. the sight before him is somber, but it is filled with deception, he thinks, and so he reminds himself over and over that he is the one that lies in that casket, dead.

it's easy to forget it's your funeral when everyone there is someone you don't know or someone who pretended to care until it was too late. he cannot recognize half of these faces.

if he opened the casket, would he recognize himself?

"you have experienced both life and death, dearest kabukimono. which do you find to be more beautiful?"

his train of thought is disrupted, gaze shifting to the figure beside him. you have always remained at his side for reasons unknown, denied the existence of guardian angels, but he cannot find any other explanation for the everlasting presence of some supposed divinity watching over him. he could laugh, really. even if you were a guardian angel, you were far too cynical, far too perfect a companion for someone like him.

"i have no heart." the words are filled with spite and hatred and devoured by anger, but beneath it, there is a loneliness, and the ache of it all almost makes you feel something. "you can't experience both if you were made to be a vessel of nothing."

you smile, amused. you study the crowd, its mess of black umbrellas and murmurs and cries. you hear the sobs, but you are certain that there are no tears shed.

"are they mourning for you?"

he laughs, bitter.

"no. not with that pathetic acting."

"they must be very selfish, then." you hum, words spoken more to yourself than anything. "it must be tragic, knowing that your funeral is not full of love and grief. i wonder what would have been more painful for you," you glance at him, but he does not dare look at you, "the absence of the mournful or the false pretenses of sorrow from those who never cared."

you stand next to each other, watch as the crowd disperses, until all that's left is a tombstone with a name he will soon rid of.

"desolate wanderer," your voice is soft, somber, "i am sorry for you. would you like me to say a prayer?"

he does not answer.

ACT I , REVERSED :

the scene changes. the black umbrellas blur into nothing. a coldness washes over him, envelops him entirely in something known as terror. suddenly, it is still. the wretched air is quiet, profound. frightening.

he stands in a body of water, the tides calm, the shore distant. he recognizes this feeling. it is not one he can forget, even when he tries. three times he has known this sensation, the creeping dread, the breaking of something deep inside the void in his chest.

you stand before him, watch as the water drips from your fingertips. your gaze is absent, unreadable, but maybe he sees something so incredibly sorrowful in it. he watches your reflections, notes the feathers that were once part of you. how they float on the surface, lonely and listless, and in the muddled waters, the pure white twists into something black.

"do not be afraid." you tell him, and he watches the droplets trail down your skin, descend into the water from which they came, one by one, slowly.

he could laugh at the words. he wants to say it's human nature to be afraid, but he stops himself-- he is not human, after all, so why does he succumb to fear?

"i'm not."

brash words. liar, you think. but that's okay. you tilt your head ever so slightly, lips curved in a subtle smile.

"are you ready?"

he nods. the water is cold, cruel, invades his senses. there's a numbness that sinks into his skin, but maybe that's an absolution, the cleansing, the awakening. you close the little distance between your bodies, hands cupping his face, tender. there is something in your eyes-- pride, maybe, but he denies himself the possibility. who would be proud of a failed creation?

he closes his eyes. the water grows colder, but there's something warm in his chest, and he does not know whether it is fear or hope he feels the most.

"good night, kabukimono." you press a kiss to his forehead. "may you find something greater on the other side."

your hands slide down, delicate in the way they wrap around his throat, fragile, and in meaning of divinity and reincarnations and sacrifice for something better, you pull him into the waves, further and further and further down until his body loses all sensation, until he can no longer hear the violent sea, until his breath is gone and he is no more.

ACT II :

"balladeer. scaramouche. kunikuzushi. harbinger." you mumble the names to yourself, keep track of them by counting with your fingers. "have i missed any? shall i grant you another warm, endearing title?"

the balladeer scowls at you, though you find it amusing. perhaps in a previous life, you would have surely teased him, pushed it a little further. but in this life, there is a different kind of danger in his eyes, a deeper misery. you do not think you care enough to provoke him-- he could not hurt you, after all, even if he dared.

you contemplate the possibility. he could not hurt you-- not because he'd care too much about you to do so, but simply because you carry the blood of a higher being. he would most certainly try if he knew he could harm you, should you push him to the brink.

what a bitter feeling. you smile faintly at the realization and he does not like it.

"why are you here?"

"i am always here. you've just been given the impression that i'm a thorn in your side."

"are you not?"

"in your search for power and vengeance, have i failed you? was this my fault, the twists and turns in your path to greatness? i can only guide you so much, and all this time, i have watched you walk down the road to destruction." you pause, watch his expression darken with a kind of fury, some kind of hurt. "every name you are known as holds your past. you change it, try to cleanse yourself, but the truth is that you'll always carry it, unforgotten."

"so what did the sea do for me, angel? did you kill my spirit for the sake of your enjoyment?"

you tilt your head once more, smile so exhausted and worn.

"i did not kill your spirit, lonely wanderer. you already killed it long ago." your words hold a dreadful venom, bitterness on the tip of your tongue, rust lining your throat. "the sea could not save you, just as i could not."

he does not know how to respond. he hates that faint apathy you always manage to have, even when he knows it's only a facade at times. he hates that not even a higher power can help him -- but it's always been that way, hasn't it? just like everyone else, you've failed him too. that's what he'll tell himself because that's all he knows.

he turns on his heel, feels the razor edges of your brutality sink into his flesh. he walks, and he does not stop.

"we will try again." he states, command deep in his voice. "neither you or the sea are meant to save me."

you close your eyes, bow your head. somewhere in the silence, you say a prayer. you have never been a savior.

he is not meant for the saving.

ACT II , REVERSED :

the scene changes once more. it's the sea again, that familiar coldness that fails to abate. it's that strange fear again, that uncertainty. and then there's you, there's always you, he thinks. he stares at the reflections once more, distorted by the ripples of motion. your feathers look darker, the harbinger notes, and there are far more than before. he rests his hand in the water, watches as one floats into his palm. his grasp is gentle as he examines it, and there's a flicker of white, then black once more. he wonders if he imagined it.

"you didn't crush it." you comment.

"you thought i would?"

"i don't know." you reply. "you are not always made of carnage." and that familiar curve of the lips. "it wouldn't have hurt in the end, but thank you for your kindness."

his eye twitches, and you laugh. he doesn't know if you're being genuine, and he's going to dwell on this moment for a bit too long, he realizes.

the air becomes heavy once more. you wonder if he is certain in this decision. it is the second time, but the fear remains stagnant, unchanging.

"do not be afraid."

there is something you cannot quite decipher in his gaze-- determination? wrath? you are unsure. you don't bother to question it. you do it all over again, this familiarity-- the ripples in the water as you move closer, hands cupping his face once more. you press your forehead against his, close your eyes just as he does.

"good night, kunikuzushi. may you find something greater on the other side."

you open your eyes. your hands trail down, fingers wrapping around his throat in yet another means of reawakening. his hands rests over yours, eyes still shut, and you feel how they tremble ever so slightly.

the sea is cold, unwelcoming. the plunge is gentle, but the sensation still frightens him nonetheless. you are merciful even for an angel, comes the bittersweet thought, and maybe he isn't worth such benevolence. he's always wondered why you chose to stay by his side, anyway.

he feels the fight leave his body, feels the way your grip tightens to end this suffering just a little faster. your hands are warm, the balladeer thinks, and it is the last thing he remembers before it all goes void.

ACT III :

maybe you truly are not a guardian angel. you have not been at his side for a long while. he thought perhaps it was just that he had forgotten, that maybe you were nearby all along. but your absence has been all too noticed, and he does not like it.

it is... lonely, here. to be forgotten by all, to carry the weight of what was.

sumeru is vast. it is beautiful, bright, radiant. all the things he is not accustomed to. he stands on the highest of heights, watches the endless landscape below him. somewhere, he hears familiar footsteps : light, graceful.

"do you remember me?"

he stills. he's not sure if he wants to see your face, see that perplexed expression, see the way you tell him that you do not. no one else does.

you hum, deep in thought, and the sound is beautiful. how he misses it so. it sends an ache in the hollows of his chest, some kind of longing.

"won't you turn around? it's been a long while since i've seen that grumpy face."

you can practically hear him roll his eyes. it is a moment or two of gathering composure and courage before the vagabond finally turns, and of course, you have that same stupid smile on your face. this time, it is more genuine, and he's not sure how to quite process that.

"i remember you." you answer. "you're far too stubborn and annoying to forget."

he almost feels something beat wildly in his chest, but he does not understand the sensation. there is nothing there, no heart, yet some kind of heartache. you speak again.

"what do you call yourself now?"

he has taken many names, few of them significant. he has not granted one to himself-- no need, he thinks, though he knows that he would not rid of it if he had one. he thinks back to the sea, recalls your many conversations.

"wanderer."

you pause, and he notes that small flicker of recognition in your eyes.

"familiar and fitting." you muse. you close the distance just as you always have in the past, but this time, there is no water, no vicious wave to overtake him. "do you wish to see the sea?"

the words are heavy in meaning, but it is different this time. in your voice there is the quiet pondering of are you happy this time? have you found the right path? did you find it, that greatness? and he understands it.

he freezes. inhale, exhale. he stares at the sight before him, recalls when you once stood with him at his funeral. things have changed now. he is the same yet different, a harbor for sorrow and anger, but a home for something virtuous. his gaze shifts to you once more. this is not the outcome he intended, desired, nor expected. but there's forgiveness somewhere out there, and maybe he'll grant it to himself one day.

"no," he answers, and in his visage, there is just the faintest trace of kindness you once remembered from memories past, "i've had enough of you drowning me."

you laugh softly, see his lips curve just the smallest bit.

"i am glad, dearest wanderer."

[mercurygray]

Happy weekend Merc! How about 'gravel underfoot' and 'broken zipper' from the small details prompt list for Billie doing something ill advised 😏 Juno xx

Juno, these three little snips have been sitting in my drafts for the better part of a week now, so I suppose I'd better publish them if I'm not doing anything better.

Fair warning: this is a TDS AU where the Girl Gang is flying. And it is🌶️🌶️.

--

He'd known the girls would be trouble, but why was it always her?

Harding looked at the pilot across from his desk and exhaled heavily. "I need officers who obey orders, Mitchell. None of this write your own rules nonsense."

The woman herself didn't seem to think too much of that. "Seems to be fine when Major Cleven does it, sir."

And maybe it is - for Major Cleven. But not Lieutenant Billie Mitchell, fresh from the states and here only on the sufferance of God and the manpower needs of the United States Army Air Force. "Major Cleven is a decorated officer with more flying hours than you."

"And a man, sir."

"What do you want, Mitchell?" He was in front of his desk, his face inches from hers.

"A fuck against the wall would be fine, sir." She stared him down, her smile just visible in the midst of his stunned silence. "Come on, Colonel. Who lets you off your leash? It'll be fun."

"You tired of the squad room?" He was trying not to let her get to him, and he wasn't sure he was succeeding. Had she disobeyed orders just so she could be here, in front of his desk, in front of him, alone?

"I'm tired of boys who think they know what they're doing." Her smile widened knowledgeably, trying to coax him out. "Come on, sir. I've danced with you. How long's it been?"

Too damn long, he'd almost said. "Get out of my office" was what came out instead.

--

He gave in later.

He did not say her name - did not even speak - only grabbed for her wrist and pulled her away into the dark, cool shadows of the supply shed.

He only had to shut the door behind them then she'd pulled him back by his lapels to start undoing his jacket, her lips greedy for his as her hands fumbled with belts and buttons and the front of his fly and he was pulling the shirt out of her trousers and pushing her back against the wall. His hand pushed for a moment into the front of her now- open trousers, thinking he might try with his fingers first, but she laughed into their kiss and pushed his trousers open a bit more. "A fuck, sir," she said, like she was reminding him.

"Against the wall," he growled, rubbing himself against the mound of her body and their hands, her underwear and his own. He could smell her perfume, faint and distant on her skin. "I heard you the first time."

"A real one," she replied, groping him so that he moaned. "Don't take your time."

He didn't. And she dug her nails into the back of his neck and panted with pleasure into his ear for it, hot and urgent and human, until he remembered just in time where he was and who she was and pulled himself from her so he might come between them, breathless and heavy, his whole body wrung out and, impossibly, longing to do it again. How long had it been? Too long, and now he wanted it a second time, and a third. The night was dark and full of secrets and he wanted all of hers.

How dare she stand there like that, smiling and flushed and looking for all the world like she knew what he was thinking? "Damn you to hell, Billie."

“I thought we were already here,” she said with a smile. “Might as well make the most of it.”

--

Wasn't it always the same story?

Marion's office had a view of the supply shed door - hardly busy on a Friday afternoon without a mission in the air tomorrow. The sound of footsteps on the gravel made her look up. Who was it this time, looking for privacy?

Billie Mitchell, hair a mess and uniform crumpled, was struggling with a zipper that was probably broken, looking for all the world like the cat that ate the canary. Not a surprise - those blue eyes and red hair had never had a problem getting a date for a dance, or for something after, either. Marion couldn't help watching the door, wondering whose heart she would be breaking in a few days time when she moved on to her next conquest, who would be mooning after her when she told him no.

But the face that emerged next was not one she expected to see looking around with boyish, fearful eyes like he expected to be caught, carefully closing the door behind him. Oh, no. Not you. In the moment she could smell his aftershave.

He stepped out from the supply shed and looked carefully around in the approaching evening light, adjusting his tie, smoothing his jacket, and then, somehow, impossibly, his eyes found her window and the semi-open shade. The guilt in his eyes went straight through and left her breathless. She stepped back from the window, feeling shaken. He'd seen her - and seen that she knew.

Oh, Chick. What have you done?

[misc-obeyme]

Do you think barbatos sheds his whole body or just his tail and stuff. Do you think he'd have a split tongue like I hc Levi does? Like yeah, sure it makes sense for Levi to shed his whole body but would barbatos have to? From his demon form he looks like some kind of reptile. A demonic lizard kinda.

- bows for barb

You know, I think it depends on how many animal characteristics the demons actually have. The game doesn't really specify, so I kinda think you get to make up whatever you want about it.

In Levi's case, it's easy enough to base how all that would work on snakes, what with the shedding of skin and the forked tongue and all.

But we don't really know if Barbatos is supposed to be a specific animal. I've heard a lot of different opinions on it, but I think the one that makes the most sense to me is salamander. Because the only thing we know about his tail, other than what it looks like, is that it's kinda slimy. And lizards are always dry, as far as I know.

Of course, you could easily explain that away by saying his is a demonic variant of lizard that is also slimy. And maybe there are slimy lizards irl that I'm unaware of lol.

If we go with salamander, though, I don't think they shed? I don't actually know. I don't think they have split tongues, either. I always think of them as lizard shaped frogs. You know, amphibious.

And if you really wanna be technical about it, humans also shed all the skin on their body. They just do it a little at a time as opposed to a snake situation where you get the whole thing all at once.

I kinda lean toward him not having to deal with that just because that butler has enough stuff to do without having to worry about shedding his entire skin at once. Can you imagine? I feel like it'd stress him out so bad, he'd lock himself away until it was done. I think it can take weeks for a snake to shed their whole skin. So if Barbatos had like a week long skin shedding phase, I think he'd just be like okay going into seclusion now because no one can see me.

And like I'm not even thinking about the horns they're like wing hands? That says bat to me, not lizard. What is he some kind of amphibious mammal? Dear god, is he a platypus?!? Nope no, I'm stopping this train of thought right there.

Anyway, I think it's whatever you want. I kinda like the idea that the demons have forms that are even more demonic than the one we normally see. So I would headcanon that Barb has a forked tongue when he's in his most demonic state. Mostly because I think it's hot it could match his forked tail, you know?

But I personally would spare him the full body shed lol. Though it would be a really sweet and intimate moment for MC to care for him through the process. :')

[snubulous]

chapter 377 overview

spoilers ahead. also a long post as well, just a fair warning.

opening the chapter with another reference to violent weather - which is supposed to represent the turmoil our heroes and villains are going through right now. Also notice the hand closing when the wind “blew violently” - likely a visual representation of how both sides are hesitant to reach out or interact with each other in a positive way. And the cherry blossom tree tying everything back to where this story all began: UA.

the FEELS. can’t even imagine what’s going through aizawa’s head when he sees kurogiri roaming free - so many conflicting emotions. He seems quite horrified though, after all if kurogiri is here then the delicate balance keeping shigaraki under control is at serious risk.

based on the last panel, kurogiri seems to almost destabilize when he sees aizawa with his eyes going all wonky and his form losing all shape and human features. just food for thought.

aizawa and manual doing everything they can to shield monoma and ultimately failing is honestly heartbreaking. you can see aizawa reaching out, trying to keep the connection flowing even as he’s knocked over - but it’s no use. monoma and aizawa are definitely going to beat themselves up about this later.

shigaraki just fucking molts when his quirk reactivates. i knew that horikoshi likes comparing him to moths and butterflies, but this is a little heavy-handed in the best way possible.

UA just straight up explodes as well, hoping none of the injured or anyone present actually died in that explosion - though going by later panels, it didn’t seem to be as harmful as it looked, simply blowing away some of the cage trapping shigaraki. Though it looks as if UA’s destruction is pretty much inevitable at this point, and everyone present is going to have to get their asses out of there soon if they don’t want to die a fiery death.

shigaraki uses his shed skin as a new waist coat, seeing as he lost his old one. All jokes aside, that is genuinely terrifying and probably incredibly traumatic for shigaraki.

our #1 mom kurogiri is here to help and protect shigaraki while he’s vulnerable. dude is clearly floored by whatever the fuck just happened to him.

FINALLY, shigaraki is back! looks as if this whole skin shedding sequence was him emerging as a more mentally resilient version of himself, able to fight afo and take charge of his own body - though afo isn’t truly gone just yet.

Shigaraki making a callback to the mall encounter and calling himself midoriya’s nemesis is just perfect here - shigaraki has never cared about another hero as much as he does midoriya, and midoriya doesn’t care about the other villains like he does shigaraki. Their dynamic has become increasingly personal and this scene reflects that. Don’t forget that midoriya’s chosen to selfishly risk losing this battle by not killing shigaraki and instead trying to save him despite everything, while shigaraki wants to kill midoriya specifically because of how much of a nuisance midoriya has been to him in particular. The two of them have practically destined themselves to become locked in this battle, everyone else be damned despite their best intentions.

also note that shigaraki is doing the signature “crazy eye” thing, making a strikingly similar facial expression that instantly reminded of bakugo upon seeing it. shit is about to hit the fan.

we get our answer as to why to second’s quirk has a time limit, and i’m honestly a little disappointed. I expected more from the second’s quirk, as did most people - though perhaps I should save my criticism until the fight is actually over and we get a full explanation for this quirk. there’s still a lot of questions surrounding it.

as suspected, afo is losing control over shigaraki and now he’s resorted to coming to UA in person to fix things up before his original body dies. midoriya is about to have a very bad day.

overall, I really liked this chapter: lots of great Emotions and symbolism going on. can’t wait for the next one!

[comfy-whumpee]

Significance

Whumptober 4: "I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”

-

Northlight had stopped crying by the time the time the laboratory started to awaken. When the full lights came on and voices began to trickle down the vast corridors outside of their chamber, they were sure their cheeks were no longer flushed, their eyes dried, to hide the moment of weakness. Poor, idiotic Kurt, going along with so much for so little. Naïve, foolish Lachlan, gambling his life for his brother's.

Caroline was present in passing, checking they were still secure and leading a group of initiates to look at them, but otherwise didn't approach.

There was tension in the air. Caroline stood on the other side of the observation glass, a handful of students behind her staring and listening. Kurt sat on the chair beside Northlight's trolley, book resting on his knee, keeping watch peacefully. The siblings had not spoken to each other. Northlight knew Caroline must have found out about the visit. Perhaps she even guessed that Kurt had removed the muzzle.

Of course, whatever happened as a result wouldn't be explained to the body. Kurt would simply disappear one day, or worse, nothing would change at all. They probably wouldn't have a confrontation in front of the students, either, to keep rumours from swirling. Northlight passed the time by imagining how they would retell the story later.

Caroline: (with great feeling) How could you betray me, brother? But worse, how could you betray the cause?

Kurt: I did not intend to harm you, sister.

Caroline: Oh, of course you did not intend anything.

Kurt: Truly. The creature, it… It has such eyes. They stare so deeply into you.

Caroline: Romantic nonsense.

Kurt: It is true. Yesterday, it shed tears of sorrow, could you not see?

Caroline: I saw only the crocodile tears of a monster mimicking human feeling. Your emotions always get the better of you, brother.

Kurt: (turning away) I am sorry. I know our Lady's orders were to never allow them to speak.

Caroline: Then why?

Kurt: (after a deep breath) I believe the creature does feel. If not exactly as your or I do, then as well and as deeply to be compared. Why else would it show sadness when none of us around it did? It thinks, it feels, it has its own life. I have tried to ignore it, but I can no longer. We must act. They must not be treated as a monster any longer.

Northlight stopped the script there. Even in their own imagination, they knew the story had gone astray. Kurt wasn’t able to go that far. He needed time, and maybe some bad times.

If they could, they thought they would ask him why he had joined. It was clear that Caroline was senior between the two, so perhaps it was her own doing. Or was there once a condition or illness that affected him or his family? Was he here to save others or save himself? Had Caroline honestly believed it would be better for him to sit around next to a body on a tray, instead of practising family medicine?

But then… What doctor didn't want a miracle cure for all their poor patients? Maybe the career itself had driven Kurt here.

It was horribly unclear. Their head was full of words they couldn't get out. They needed to talk. They needed so badly to just talk.

Caroline led the students away. The hallway was empty. Northlight wondered if their voice would ever move normally again. The weight and pressure of the muzzle only grew worse each day. When it came off, would their skin come with it? Would their jaw and tongue? Or would it always be part of them like the scars and the drip?

Their treasures were all lost. That hurt the most. Maybe they were kept somewhere, or they could already be destroyed. Maybe they were being pored over by some underpaid clerk who was tasked with divining their significance. The hair tie from Patience Penrose. The folded tamale wrapper from the clinic. The geode. The wooden star. Their beloved scarf.

Their thoughts were too miserable to sustain, and eventually, Northlight let them drift away into stories. Easier for them to remember their loved ones that way. There were stories they told where they didn't even remember the events they were based on, and they probably changed a little each time they were told. But at least, those old and future friends would be brought to some semblance of immortality in Northlight's mind.

And then, when these stories were told, they live on in others, and that was the greatest gift Northlight could give. Immortality without cost.

The next few days passed in relative peace. Lachlan remained elsewhere, his entire healing process laboriously recorded. Caroline stayed clear of Kurt, and Kurt stayed clear of Caroline. When she came with her trainees to experiment, her brother became scarce. Her students took notes, dug out sampled of flesh, and one even took nail clippings. Northlight had barely slept, was dizzy with the eternal electric lights, and dissolved into hysterics at the feeling. Locked in an underground laboratory for vampiric bloodletting, and some middle-aged medic was cutting their nails. What, was he going to try eating them?

Eventually, Lachlan was deemed ready. He had healed enough. Northlight knew it was coming when they were taken on their trolley-bed back to the room where it happened. The one with the other bed, and the lockers of supplies that nobody would use.

Lachlan walked in a moment later, unaided. He didn’t look at anyone. There was a dark line across his throat, but even Northlight could tell it was far better healed than should be possible. Caroline, who had probably examined it in minute detail, was confident she could get away with more.

Lachlan lay on the clean table. The chest scars were also fading fast. They now looked more like the one scar he had before the experiments began, closer to it than to the cut at his neck. Northlight wished they could feel impressed, or even proud, of the work their blood had done. Instead, there was only tired horror and shame.

Caroline arranged her devices to capture every moment. Lachlan tipped his head back, then dropped it again.

The other doctors watched. Kurt watched. It was the first time that the Swindon siblings had been in the same room this week.

“Head back,” Caroline ordered, her tone as flat as if she was reading from a sign.

Lachlan tensed, spine arcing, and his chin tucked in. He stared straight up, his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths.

Caroline put a hand on his shoulder, and the noise he made broke Northlight’s heart. It was a small, soft, round noise, stuffed to the brim with fear.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out sharply. “I-I’m sorry, I, I can’t.”

Caroline leaned over him, forcing his eyes to meet hers. Lachlan wasn’t one of her students, and she treated him like little more than a servant, but Lachlan’s respect for her was obvious. He tried to calm himself. His hands were pale knuckles around the edges of the table.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I-I’m weak.”

If he was watching for disappointment, there was none to be found. Caroline merely asked, “Do you need to be restrained?”

His eyelids fluttered closed in shame. “Yes, please.”

Northlight looked away. The process was silent and methodical, and he couldn’t bear to watch Lachlan start to relax as his freedom was taken away. Willingly given, his freedom and his life, it was impossible to witness.

They closed their eyes and let their tears fall again freely. If Kurt was watching, let him believe it was the sign he had been waiting for.

Caroline and her scalpel produced a guttural noise of pain, kicking legs, and a noise that might have been words if it wasn’t for how she had killed him. Lachlan fought, helplessly, but at least he tried. Northlight was grateful for it; at least some part of the boy knew there was nothing to gain by dignity. Neither of them had the respect to lose by being pathetic.

Lachlan’s struggles stilled alarmingly quickly. Northlight tried not to look, knowing the blood would be part of this. The healing may have already started, before death could take him. Would it be faster or slower? He didn’t want to know. Either way would lead to more blood taken.

They wondered if Caroline would stop bringing them into the room for these murders. They were her emergency blood bag, but soon she would grow confident in her ability to resurrect her dead. Then, they might not see Lachlan at all. He would always be recovering from some almost-mortal wound.

Almost-mortal, they think again. A good term for these laboratory vampires.

Absent-mindedly, their eyes opened. Their head was tilted towards the doctor, who watched in silence as the others began to quietly discuss the process happening, not stunned speechless anymore. Kurt kept his eyes on Lachlan.

Northlight couldn’t bear it. They turned their head.

The pale blue scrubs were stained with lurid blood. Lachlan lay unconscious, head turned away from them all, hands slack where they rested, strapped to the side of the bed. Northlight couldn’t see if he had healed – Caroline had moved her camera to capture that, and the screens were above their head. But after a moment, they noticed what had caught Kurt’s gaze.

Lachlan’s knuckles were still pale, off-colour, as if he had maintained his death grip on the side of the bed. The tips of his fingers were sallow too. Bloodless.

Northlight turned their head slowly, and the deliberate motion drew Kurt’s eye back to them. They met his gaze.

With a jerk of his head, the doctor looked away. He rose, and went to speak to Caroline.

[erabundus]

it  feels  as  though  he's  been  laying  there  for  an  ETERNITY.  (  the  flow  of  time  gone  syrupy  and  indecipherable.  )  the  table  is  cold  against  his  back;  his  body  produces  so  little  heat,  it's  unlikely  to  warm  at any point  soon.  there  are  restraints  placed  at  strategic  locations  around  his  body  —  over  his  wrists,  at  the  bend  of  his  arms  and  legs.  conventional  anesthetics  aren't  strong  enough  to  work  on  such  an  ABNORMAL  specimen;  it's  more  efficient  to  simply  keep  him  from  moving.  that's  fine,  the  puppet  thinks.  pain  is  only  a  temporary  feeling  —  he's  strong.  strong  enough  that  something  so  fleeting  won't  be  able  to  faze  him.  that  (  unsympathetic,  clinical,  terrifying  )  familiar  voice  tells  him  they're  going  to  be  testing  the  limits  of  his  regeneration  today.  that's  fine  too. he's determined to prove he's more than the unwanted child his mother so callously threw away. he isn't fragile. he isn't useless. if this is what he needs to do to become PERFECT ... so be it.

that human makes the first incision.

it  hurts.  it  hurts.  it  hurts.  skin  peels,  muscle  tears.  his  ribcage  is  cracked  to  expose  the  delicate  vitals  underneath  —  and  the  puppet  can  feel  the  snap  of  every  bone  as  they  go,  one  by  one  by  one  sending  shudders  through  his  entire  frame.  teeth  sink  into  his  tongue,  deeper  and  deeper  until  thin  rivulets  of  blood  spill  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  it  hurts.  his  body  jerks  against  the  restraints.  there  are  black  spots  gathering  at  the  edges  of  his  vision  and  he  would  pray  for  unconsciousness  if  he  knew  any  DEITY  would  listen.  (  they  never  do.  )  eyes  roll  back  and  he  can  see  through  blurry  gaze  the  faces  peering  down  at  him  from  the  upper  levels  of  the  operating  theater.  people  from  his  past.  people  who  betrayed  him.  their  lips  move  without  making  a  sound.  you  wanted  this.  you  wanted  this.  you  wanted  this. you wanted to be stronger.

his  mother  stares  dispassionately from the very back,  wreathed  in  an  ethereal  lavender  glow.  she  alone  does  not  speak  —  she  merely  observes,  waiting  for  the  moment  her  creation  sheds  those  SHAMEFUL  TEARS  and  brands  himself  a  failure  once  more.  he  won't.  he's  not  going  to.  he's  not  going  to  cry ...

but  he  already  is,  even  if  he  doesn't  realize  it  —  because  the  visceral  images  flashing  through  his  mind  are  but  a  dream.  (  a  hallucination.  a  nightmare.  a  memory,  albeit warped  and  particularly vile.  )  the  wanderer  doesn't  make  it  a  habit  to  SLEEP  —  and  frankly,  he  would  avoid  it  altogether  if  given  the  option.  yet  kazuha's  presence  has  a  tendency  to  make  him  feel  dangerously  relaxed,  as  though  a  bit  of  the  ronin's  natural  tranquility  somehow  infects  him  by  proxy.  occasionally, he even feels relaxed enough to fall asleep.  ren always  cries;  it  seems  to  be  a  flaw  that's  HAUNTED  him  from  the  moment  of  his  creation.  those  pitiful  tears  that  sealed  his  fate. this is ... different.

full  body  sobs  wrack  the  wanderer's  frame.  he's  clinging  to  kazuha's  clothes  with  everything  he  has  —  desperately,  like  a  lifeline.  ❝  it  hurts.  ❞  the  mantra  from  his  dream  (  from  a  time  before  he  grew  numb  )  bleeds  into  reality.  ❝  i  can't ...  no  more,  please ...  ❞

@momijiba everything hurts ic AND ooc ...

[phantasmiafxndom]

Does Homunculous Au Rindou molt? I think it would be interesting, especially considering how spiders are very vulnerable while their new exoskeleton hardens and that during the process they can get stuck in the old shed if they're in a bad environment or state, the possibilities...

Yep, I think it would be fun if he does! >:D It wouldn't be a full-body thing, most likely, but even having the parts of his body that do have an exoskeleton come off and leave such terribly soft, delicate skin behind would be an absolute nightmare for Rindou. And of course, humans have only made it worse— molts are the perfect time to threaten punishment, after all, when even the slightest touch can be agony. All he wants to do is curl up and be left alone while he's so vulnerable and weak, but he's never allowed that much peace.

[elegomez]

This is an old piece of writing, romantic and a touch sad. It's about an elf and a human, but this is the dnd website, so hey.

Ariel lets herself sleep.

It's not something she does often - she's had too many years of meditation. But wrapped up in Talia, it's easy to let it go and drift away.

In her dreams the Talia she's with now flickers between the decade they spent together and now. They're wonderful dreams, and Ariel wakes up needful.

She turns over to look at Talia in the early morning. Talia had changed so much, in little steps - her face is lined and her long hair is gray. Her cheeks have a weight to them, similar to her breasts. Humans, Ariel thinks with an aching wonder. They're so fleeting, but all the brighter for it. She traces her hand down Talia's side, and her body still swells in the same places. Ariel wishes she would look like Talia when she's older, breasts and all the rest. Stretchmarks and thin skin.

Talia's eyes flutter open, and she blinks for a moment, then smiles. Ariel reaches in to kiss her, open mouthed and slow, and there's no hiding her reaction to Talia, not when they're both naked.

Talia giggles, and her voice is changed too. "You make me feel young, waking me up like that."

"You are young," Ariel says. "Younger than me." Talia snorts, hard, because she's sixty-two and Ariel's a hundred and those years mean nothing. Ariel kisses Talia's chin, neck, and down her body until Talia obligingly shifts her legs.

Later, when Ariel is lining herself up, Talia reaches out to hold her face. "Okay?" Ariel asks, breathlessly.

"I missed you," Talia says quietly. "I know I ended it, but--I missed you."

Old hurts scrape at the back of Ariel's spine before she gathers herself. "I haven't been with anyone since you."

Ariel sees the shift of emotions - pain to grief to a tenderness so deep she has to close her eyes. Lips as soft as they were thirty years ago brush her collarbone; thin, dry hands rest flat on Ariel's chest. "Sweet," Talia breathes, just like she used to, and Ariel's eyes sting, but it's enough. She presses herself into Talia and sets a rhythm for the morning.

After isn't really after, that day, it's just time between the points their bodies intersect. Talia does have to get up and play healer for the town, work on brews Ariel doesn't understand, and do her duty as a midwife; for all Ariel has studied human medicine, she is barred from that domain.

At some point, Ariel and Talia sit on the stoop of the cottage, legs touching and talking - and it's strange, because Talia is still the woman she was, but there's an irony to her words, laughing at ideas they used to talk about in earnest. Ariel buries the hurt.

"Kalen and his wife live closer to the village… I'm sure I'll join them eventually, but June needs me more."

The townspeople, more like. Ariel regarded the chickens scratching in the yard. "Does Kalen…know about--"

Talia shakes her head. "I've told him he's not going to run into any half siblings around here, except the ones I had with Vin, and that's what matters."

Ariel disagrees, but looks away instead of answering. Her eyes find an old, cracked mirror propped against the shed.

A young elf sits next to an older human woman. Their long face, not quite past the fullness of youth, is framed with hair the same color as the sorghum growing in the fields beyond. Their eyes betray their age (her eyes have always done so, before there was an age to betray) and in the mirror their skin looks smooth and clean. A youth, a beautiful teenager, what, twenty by human reckoning? The black cloak and skin a shade of copper - literal, metallic copper - makes them seem like some creature from a fable, a spirit or ghost. Next to them, the woman in her colorful skirts, gray hair, and colorful skin seems just what she is - a human, alive, a grandmother.

Ariel blinks, shaking the distance away. Two old friends sit on the porch. They made their choices long ago, but they both have many, many more to make.

"Would you take me back now, if I asked?" Ariel asks, impulsively and without regret - she needs to know. She watches surprise bloom on Talia's face, and before she can betray the answer, Ariel looks down at their feet, together.

She isn't expecting the kiss, but, it's okay if she doesn't remember this one. There are many more to come.

[joz-yyh]

Acta Est Fabula - Ch. 4

SUMMARY: Crimson Court AU. It took but one taste for his addiction to start. What's to become of their arrangement now? No Beta. Read at your own risk.

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant

RATING: M (sexual themes / messy handjobs / vampirism)

WORD COUNT: 3,724  

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: The moment this story earns its M-rating. It only took me three chapters to dive into the smut this time. A new record! XD

Please consider dropping a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed! :3 (Reynauld and Dismas as well as Junia and Boudica will be appearing next chappie! Hope ya'll are looking forward to it!)

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Tardif was in word: worried. It was unlike him, being so uncertain, Damian most assuredly the cause.

He didn't feel right leaving the vampire behind (even with Sebastian around to protect him), but the flagellant hadn't given him much of a choice in the matter.

So the hunter does as he had done prior, finding a spot just far enough away from the grisly scene to hold up, waiting in case the nobleman called for him.

He's never had such troublesome thoughts before, even when he tries to think of something else, anything else, his thoughts always steer toward that roiling taboo, lips and tongue still so full of longing.

Tardif had seen his fair share of bloodsuckers before, but none were as pale and pink and bloody as Damian. And damn, those wings. The way they shined like abalone shells, a labyrinth of intricate pieces like a dragonfly's, they were among the prettiest he'd ever come across.

Fascination builds at discovering such a rare creature as this, wanting to dissect him with his hands, pull him apart piece by piece until he learns all his secret parts.

With such daydreams in mind, the brute lays out across the boughs of a tree, arms crossed over his chest until exhaustion claims him, eyes slipping shut.

He's not sure how long he's dozing for, long enough that the sky is dark with shadow, the harsh squeal of a whistle jarring him awake.

So startled from his slumber, the unassuming brute falls from his perch, landing on the sodden turf below with a painful groan.

“My, my, it seems I found you first, my dear vampire hunter,” the flagellant purrs, delighting in what mischief he's caused.

Considering how they left things, Tardif is glad to see him alive, baser instincts subdued, inherited by his more human half. He could have done without the sneak attack, though.

“Wot are ye doin’ here,” the tired warrior grumbles, reorienting himself after his unceremonious fall, working out the cricks in his back.

“Perhaps,” Damian drawls, raking eyes over his partner in crime, “I’ve missed you.”

That comment has Tardif standing a little straighter, suddenly concerned with appearances.

The vampire insists on stalking circles around him, judging which part of his body he would like to indulge in more, the danger stoking the heat in the huntsman's stomach.

“Missed your lips,” the nobleman continues, sounding more feral with each passing word, “your blood.”

Oh.

“Is it really ye,” scrutinizes the axeman, noticing a remarkable change from the last time he saw him, “Are ye still Damian?”

He is different somehow. More cutthroat than before, shedding his hapless exterior in favor of allure and power, his skin seeming to glow with a sheen of iridescent scales if it catches the stars just right. He remembers the same coloring from the soft membrane of wings, but they're absent now, tucked out of sight.

“Do you require proof,” the vampire jests, having far too much fun with his food.

“Maybe,” the brute drawls, reminding himself to stay on guard, that his friend might not have regained full control over himself yet.

The brute follows his movements from the corner of his eye, twisting just enough to watch as the nobleman creeps around his back, almost out of sight.

Tardif jumps, flinching as the devious flagellant slashes a hole in his pants, playful near his tail bone, just above his buttocks.

Bastard. Who does he think he is?

Slack-jawed by this pursuit, it takes a moment for his senses to catch up, the muddled warrior spinning on his heel, turning to face his offender with a growl.

“I know of a party happening soon,” Damian chuckles, watching as his companion checks for blood, but he was precise in his application, sparing his delicate human pelt.

Tardif snorts at the attempt. “Any bloodsucker worth their marrow would know that.”

“Then, what can I offer you, vampire hunter,” he taunts, a blonde eyebrow raised in intrigue.

“Can think of a few things,” Tardif teases, though his thoughts are far from innocent.

“Pick one and maybe I'll consider it,” the vampire prompts, head canted with thinly veiled interest.

“How bout, I give ye more of my blood?”

“But my dear hunter,” Damian argues, amused by his unorthodox choice of tactics, “that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

All too vividly, he remembers how Tardif had severed skin, the wellspring that poured down the razor's edge of the knife, wishes to reenact the same profane ritual again.

“Sure, but ye haven't heard the rest yet.”

“Oh yes, do tell.”

“Wanna see wot ye got under those bloomer shorts of yers, first.”

Seems Damian wasn't expecting that, his face turning gibbous with surprise, a slip in his suave demeanor that he never truly recovers.

“That would be moving things rather quickly, wouldn't you say?”

“Pretty sure, that's how ye want it.”

Tardif isn’t afraid to blame the spiral of debauchery onto his companion, but the dubious aristocrat has a counter ready.

“Hm, perhaps your hunger exceeds mine.”

“Depends on how big of a drink yer takin’.”

“Just how much are you willing to give?’

“Depends on how far ye want to go.”

They speak in loops, dancing around each other when Damian breaks first, revealing the true extent of his craving.

“I want to bite you, claw you, eat you,” the flagellant admits, barely able to contain his desire.

“A lot to fit into one night, wouldn't ye say,” the huntsman teases, flattered by the extensive to-do list.

“Sebastian will make sure we're not bothered,” the vampire breathes, bringing himself closer, chest to chest, claws tracing around argyle armor.

“Ye planned this,” Tardif muses, impressed as he listens to nails outline the embellishments of his pauldron, then down his arm, making him shiver.

“Planned isn’t quite the word,” Damian hums, meditating on it, “Improvised. Impulsively sought out. Needed. Any of those are more apt.”

“Then, how's ‘bout we try that kiss again,” Tardif smirks, making himself all the more delectable, “If yer up to it.”

Damian is eager for this, quickly sealing the distance, gripping the huntsman's cowl, digging claws into fabric, though, he'd rather carve marks into him.

They're fumbling with impatience, sloppy and wet with no amount of finesse, but neither of them care, not at all.

It's more satisfying than last time, more sensation to be felt in his human flesh than the dichotomy of an insect, unable to resist placing small nips against the hunter’s mouth, never quite daring enough to break the skin.

The hunter wastes no time, one hand clutching at a resplendent hip to grind them, the other reaching between puffy clothing to paw around the bulge between his partner's thighs.

“Hmm,” Damian groans, breaking off their kiss, the two panting fervently, “not the wisest course of action.”

“Oh, no,” Tardif retorts, his seduction not deterred in the slightest, “Said so, didn't I?”

“I've tried to warn you.”

“Really,” Tardif taunts, expecting more of a fight.

“You forget we have an audience.”

“Yeah? Who?”

Damian points in regards to the hunter’s skepticism, angling his attention to his ever-present scouter.

“You need not be awake for this little one,” the nobleman remarks, casting an interim spell to make the innocent Pierre curl up in sleep.

“So proper,” Tardif mocks, unlatching the now decommissioned insect from his belt, setting it aside in the brush, covering it with a shawl.

“One of us must be,” the vampire insists, waiting for his partner to reunite with him.

“Teh, not fer long,” Tardif taunts, flicking his eyes over the other man's arousal in illicit suggestion, “got somethin’ to show me dontcha?”

With no more excuses and flame tingling his cheeks, the vampire gives in, pulling his tights down just enough to free his cock, the form-fitting fabric a swathe around the base, exposing the head of his length.

Oh, well that was interesting. There are scales here too, shimmering with pink, a few ridges of rose on each side of his flared tip.

He wants to touch, so he does, the hunter throwing off his gloves, taking a portion of what’s been revealed to him by the hand, squeezing a bit too tightly.

Damian moans, losing that debonair composure he was totting not so long ago and Tardif likes seeing him unravel.

“Do be careful,” the blonde gasps, resisting the urge to buck his hips, “I am quite close.”

“Should’ve come prepared then,” the warrior smirks, easing up just slightly, letting callous fingers rub cautiously against sensitive adaptations.

“This is not a need I usually attend to,” the vampire admits, moving his hands to rest upon the sturdy huntsman’s shoulders, feeling unstable on his own two feet.

“Well, too bad for ye,” his willful partner says, stroking along the delicate ridges with his thumb, their texture both soft and rigid at the same time.

“If … if you insist on continuing, I can’t be held responsible for what I will do.”

“Heh, when are ye gunna learn, I like a challenge?”

That line has Damian bucking into his grip, driving them together faster, five-prong claws scratching lancets around his neck, panting with grandeur and Tardif eats it all up.

The hunter contemplates slowing down, giving his prudish partner a longer courtship, but then he’s addicted to this transient pace, wanting to see the inevitable conclusion, pumping him without remorse.

It has been too long and the sensation too good, the vampire grasping for purchase as the suffocating rush takes hold.

“Tardif,” he cries, cumming in his hand, cock pulsating with the thrill of release.

For what temporal relief Damian feels, his passion does not dissipate, realizing that maybe his wanton appetite was not for blood, but for the man who contained it.

“How's that hunger if yers doin’ now,” asks the smug brunette, offering gentle, coaxing strokes throughout his orgasm, “Better?”

“Unfortunately for you, dear hunter,” the flagellant says, eyes a deep ruby red, “that is not entirely the case.”

The complacent hunter is rammed up against the very tree he fell out of earlier, fronds rattling from the impact.

There's a pause, Tardif groaning from the rough treatment of his back, leaves fluttering down around them, adjusting to this new dynamic.

“As delicious as you are,” Damian propounds, boundlessly thirsty, “You may want to sit down for this. I doubt you will be able to remain upright.”

“Yer the one jerkin' me ‘round wit’ yer cock out,” he snickers, attempting to slide further up the woody trunk he's crammed against, defying recommendation.

“Teh,” the vampire scoffs in distaste, covering himself up with a cloying snap of his tights so the other would have no more room to talk.

“Wot, cock too vulgar fer ye or somethin’?”

“You're too vulgar for me,” he pants, another terse accusation meant to insult, and yet it doesn't, “but I like that about you.”

Instead of intricately undoing his belts like Tardif had expected him to, the vampire yanks his britches off as if they never had seams, the fabric falling to his ankles in tatters, exposing him completely.

Damian takes a moment to appreciate his handiwork, boring over his lower half as he was gazing at a sculpted masterpiece.

“It seems I am not the only one pent up,” the flagellant teases, dragging a nail under a heavy girth, his partner thick and raging with unspent release.

“Shut up,” he growls, his once cool attitude suddenly nowhere to be found.

He can’t very well show up naked to his superiors, will have to find some means to repair his clothes before then, but he supposes he can worry about that later.

“How long since another has done this for you?”

“Months,” he admits reluctantly, though, after thinking about it more, he amends his timeline, “Maybe years.”

“I will have to take my time with you, then.”

Tardif expected his partner to use the same enthusiasm as he used on his pants and yet the vampire decides now to torture him, dragging his fangs over dark curls, so close to his throbbing erection.

The warrior watches on as a blonde head of hair places kisses along the crease of his leg, wondering if he’ll make use of that long tongue again, if it’s something he’ll only brandish while transformed.

Claws drag languid around his other leg, drawing faint abstract shapes, palm folding flat, molding around muscle, messaging, squeezing, tempting.

Much to the brunette's frustration, demure lips stray further away from his intent, his swollen member left straining with unmet want while Damian mouths around the grooves of his pelvic bone, nipping as he had done in their kiss, making the hunter jerk and flinch.

The vampire can feel his partner’s eyes on him, loves the unadulterated fixation, especially when a fist tugs at his hair by the handful.

Damian wants to give him a show, a taste of the pleasure that still flows in his veins, mouth opening wide, biting into a tanned thigh with reckless abandon.

“Fuck,” Tardif moans, essence shooting out from his length, blazing white across his partner’s jacket.

The warrior is shaking from the force of his orgasm, needing to grasp onto the tree to keep his knees from dropping down, groaning out into the night as if he’s some felled beast.

It’s as much of a surprise for Tardif as it is for Damian, the vampire realizing the brutality of his bite, pulling back with blood smeared across his lips.

“Ye damn lunatic,” the hunter pants, liquid pleasure coursing through him, vibrating with pinpricks, “need a little warnin’ next time, before ye do that.”

“And miss such an enrapturing display,” Damian breathes, marveling at his partner's resilience, “never.”

At least he has the decency to clean him up, tongue laving over both of his dripping wounds.

—---

Their intense affections sated, now cooled to a low ember, the two men laze amidst the grass, Damian stretched out on his stomach, draped over the huntsman's legs.

Tardif had retrieved the blanket from his pack, using it now for them to cuddle upon, the humidity of the swamp doused with chill, but it was hardly noticeable, the mortal radiating enough heat to salvage them both, flushing the vampire's cool skin with warmth.

Both men are a hodgepodge of semi-nude, the flagellant's chest bare, his jacket resting over his back like a cloak while his lower half remains dressed, his partner sporting just the opposite, too many straps and buckles to trifle with divesting, his bottom half exposed.

Damian's eyes keep straying towards the coagulated sores of bite marks, his long fingers soon caressing over the twin indentations he'd left on his lover.

“I should heal this for you,” he says, worry coating his voice, remorseful of what his indulgence had wrought.

“Don't. Leave it be,” Tardif grunts, having grown attached to the ache.

“I don't understand,” the blonde says, confusion reflected in his scarlet eyes, “Why would you keep it?”

“I like it,” Tardif shrugs, “Reminds me of ye. Don't expect anyone to go lookin’ there to find it anyway.”

He’s only known the Order to check for bites on the neck, a mandated strip search not yet a standard.

“Perhaps, I should ask you to give me one to match,” the vampire offers, raising a brow of invitation as well as his leg.

The warrior laughs, a terse exclamation, instead reaching for the modest silver whistle Damian has elected to wear around his neck.

“Ye got this,” Tardif reasons, turning the trinket around in his hand, watching it gleam, thinking it suits his partner's pale complexion rather well.

“True, I do,” the vampire nods, returning his leg to its proper position, snuggling more comfortably.

Tardif lets him wrap lanky arms around his middle, bury his head into the wedge of his hip.

He passes time by playing with the fine strands of Damian's unruly hair, flaxen curls weaving through his bronze hands, practically mesmerized. It was uncommon to see another man with longer hair like his own, never truly appreciating the benefits of such soothing comforts until this moment. As serene as this sanctuary is, he doesn't imagine he'll be getting much sleep, Damian either.

“Guess we should talk more ‘bout this party,” Tardif suggests.

“Ah yes, the viscount's annual banquet,” lips mumble against hot-blooded skin, “Even if they catch wind of what's happened, it will carry on as planned. He cannot afford to look weak in front of the other members of the court.”

“Well, aren't they goin’ to be surprised when we show up,” the brute smirks, enjoying the thought of ruining yet another rich elitist’s exploits.

The vampire shifts from his spot, sitting up on his arms, staring at his lover in reproach.

“We cannot go barging in there and claim an easy victory like we did before,” Damian scoffs, deathly serious, “He'll be expecting us. We'll need a new plan, a better plan."

“The plan worked just fine last time. We won.”

Damian sighs, “Yes, but with no amount of grace. We could have been more elegant with our delivery, minimized the risk.”

Tardif shrugs, “Yeah, but we still won. And it will be harder fer them to pinpoint the perp who did it. We left no survivors.”

Maybe the flagellant is still wound up from the whirlwind of emotions the hunter had evoked in him, but he finds it necessary to humble the wall of impudence.

“I swear to you, the viscount is nothing like the baron. He has greater wealth, superior protection, better experience. The risk will be exponentially higher.”

“So, yer worried somethin’ might happen to me,” Tardif teases, a little wag of his furry brows.

The flagellant bites his tongue to keep from agreeing to that. It’s true, of course, but he doesn't like catering to the man's ego too much, inflating it more than it already is.

“You’re forgetting about Sebastian and Pierre. They could get hurt too.”

“It’s fine,” Tardif dismisses, seeing nothing to worry about, “Ye can just heal us if we do. Problem solved.”

“I’d still prefer to avoid unnecessary bloodshed,” the flagellant presses, firm in his views, “I cannot reverse death.”

"Hn, fine," Tardif relents, “We'll go over battle plans in the mornin'.

Satisfied with that, the flagellant goes lax, lounging upon the other's scaffold of muscle.

“Damian…,” the hunter drawls, hooking onto a pale shoulder, working up the courage to speak.

“Hmm,” he hums, “what is it?”

“I ... have to leave after.”

The rugged note of apprehension is not lost on the vampire's ears.

“What do you mean,” he asks, flipping over.

Tardif wants to take it back, almost hates the heartache that coats his lover’s face, knowing he marred such a beautiful smile.

“I've already taken too long. The Order, they'll send someone else to complete the mission if I don't report back. ”

It was harder to get the words out than he thought, the brute’s throat corroded with sand while his partner retreats further inward, contemplating the many consequences.

“I …I understand,” he nods, looking away, “I can take care of myself.”

“Not very well,” the brute teases, a less than perfect self-image made destitute by the endless string of flagellation.

Damian scoffs, knowing he’s right, but chooses to be blissfully ignorant on the matter.

“I don't know wots goin’ to happen when I tell them,” Tardif continues, mirroring the vampire’s distant look, ‘Nothin’ good most likely. Might even have me locked up.”

The blonde chuckles, fixing him with cheerful eyes, adopting one of Tardif’s favorite catch-phrases. “Even if they do, you fear nothing, remember?”

The hunter stares at him in awe, belief in his credence restored.

“Heh, that's right. Glad yer finally catchin’ on.”

He reaches out, holding Damian’s cheek in reward, absently running a thumb against it. The man he was a few days ago would have never guessed this arrangement to be possible, that he would be here now, thanking the Light that this bloodsucker was real. It’s what makes this next confession so painfully difficult.

“Wot I am sayin’ is,” the axeman starts, “after I tell them I killed ye and the baron, they’ll have no reason not to believe it. I’ll be held responsible for everythin’. And … if I don't come back … I want ye to run. Find somewhere else to be happy.”

The vampire’s face crumples, overrun with tragedy, unable to fulfill this wish no matter how much his lover wants him to.

“Tardif …” his voice is trembling, reaching for the hunter's wrist, mooring himself to it, “I am sorry, but I cannot turn back now. I knew when I agreed, that I would be seeing this to the end. I will die fighting for what we've made, what we started. There is nothing left for me, but this. I will destroy the Order too if I must.”

The brute can’t say he’s happy with Damian’s decision, but there is one tactic he can use to dissuade him, low as it is.

“Wot ‘bout Sebastian? Ye can't protect him if yer dead.”

Damian snarls, tears welling in his eyes at the thought of his dear friend slain in the name of such ordeals.

“Please, do not say these things. I cannot bear to think about it.” Fist clenched, determination prickling his skin, the vampire can only see victory, “Our conduct at the banquet must be flawless. We cannot fail.”

Tardif is in awe again, his own dedication to a near impossible vendetta all the more solidified thanks to his partner, refusing to give up when the other still believes in them.

“We won't, trust me.” It’s a promise and pledge, said from the bottom of his heart.

The vampire finally meets his gaze, happiness sparkling in his eyes, unfaltering loyalty. “I do.”

Warmth spreads inside the hunter’s chest at hearing that. He wonders how he could be so lucky, but then again, going renegade on a solo mission and betraying the very church he serves would convince a person to swoon his way.

Tardif returns his smile, taking his lover’s face between his hands, pushing him to lie on his back, his own body following him down.

“Then, just be wit’ me,” the brute whispers, leaning in for a kiss, Damian holding him close beneath the canvas of twilight stars.

[dontlookatmytmntcollection]

My SUPER LONG Bayverse Turtle Headcanons

PART ONE - Their 'Anatomy' Edition

(Bruh, I've been thinking so hard about this shit. Based off real turtle anatomy and problems!)

Nocturnal eyesight. Mostly. It's not perfect but still pretty good. They're eyes glow in the dark (2014). It's a sign of reflecting light in the eyeball. Cats have it.

They all have third eyelids. They look like a milky white film. They can't really control it, and they only appear when they are sick, underwater, under bright sudden light, during combat, or sometimes when they are unconscious. They can see just fine through them.

Churrs are rare. Even rarer the older they get. Sounds like a super deep, rabid fire, 'thuckthuckthuckthuckthuck-' in their chest. It's a vulnerable sound and it's super inhuman- they hate it about themselves. Continuous churrs usually only happen when they are asleep (they can't help it). But you might hear it on an exhale as he cuddles you.

They shed. Their scutes and skin get EXTREMELY dry and tight before the layers start peeling off. Large areas of their exposed body are humanoid epidermis, but it still sheds off. They prefer to stay in the water during shedding weeks. The faster they get this itchy shit off, the better-

Shells have sensation, but it's weird, and your turtle will NOT be able to explain it in a way that makes sense. Yes, they feel your hand. No, they are not in crippling pain when shot with a bullet. The sensitivity is just...weird.

They 'hibernate'. But not in a way you think. Outsiders see it as an extreme case of 'winter blues'. Their routines, personalities, and/or rationality don't change a bit. But they are way more tired, irritable, and lazy than usual. You will see each turtle passed out holding a mug of hot coco at least once during winter.

Next up, they do have mating season. But its way WAY less sexy than you'd think. Just getting out of 'Winter Blues', Spring Fever is a two week window when they are extra hormonal, super hungry, extremely irritable to each other and absolutely chalk FULL of energy. Frequent sexy times are a good way to release all this pent up stress😏

They have stripes. Not really a headcanon. Donnie literally has stripes on his neck and Mikey has the zebra shell. Leo and Mikey have pretty color patterns on their plasteron. Raph kinda does too. I'm sure all four have them in places, they're just super faint.

Shell-rot is something they have to watch out for constantly. So they take daily showers to keep bacteria from staying on their scales and shell too long. Mold can eat away their plasteron, like how sugar causes cavities in your teeth. But it's less about 'holes'; Their shells get squishy, bloody, stink like rotten flesh and it's utter agony. AND if the infection gets in their blood- that's super bad news. Donnie has signs of shell rot scarring under his backpack (top of his shell). Leo has some rot scars on his plasteron. Raph needs to REALLY look out for it because of the cracks in his shell.

Pyramiding is scary as shit. All the turtles except MIKEY show bad signs of it. It's a sign of poor diet and lighting. Too much protein and not enough sunlight can cause their scutes to build up and grow weird, until their shell starts growing INWARD like a bowl instead of outward like a hill.

Turtle eye infections are super easy to get and they HATE IT. Their eyes get irritated and goopy, sometimes going bloodshot and it's hard to open their third eyelid. The eyeballs were mutated a lot, but not so much as to spare them from easy eye infections. They treat these infections with turtle eye drops they get from the pet store. It works.

They produce a LOT of body heat. A lot. A kiss from a ninja turtle is just as warm as a human. They mutated into endothermic humanoid organisms, capable of maintaining a constant body temperature on their own. They are also big guys with big bodies 😂 (Sweating in the plane in Oots, hardly no blankets in cold sewer, no shivering while running around in the snow in the first movie, or the outside ceremony at the end of oots, ect, ect.) While cuddling, your turtles cooler plastron will be your only savior when trying not to die of heat. No, you really won't need blankets. Trust me.

Their shells are super light. Listen, the shells look and sound like they add maybe two hundred pounds to each turtle. But they walk around and do ninja stuff without dying immediately from horrific internal injuries.

Their shell is supported by their ribcages. Like an internal hug around the chest. Their spine and ribs look a lot more like our own. They have a moving diaphragm. Mutated cartilage systems create support and space between their spine and carapace, creating a 'bullet proof' system to absorb impact, and space for things like 'shoulder bones' and 'diaphrams' to move. AND flexibility to tuck into their shells.

Cracking the shell could still be lethal. Much like cracking the shell of an actual turtle. But that is much more difficult to do with these guys. Raph was walking around with zip ties glued to his shell for a while (after the first movie) and he had to tell April what they were for.