#like some with just the skull some with just leg bones some with just tail bones

[snail-day]

Kiss The Fish

Based off of this little blurb I did a while back <3

Yandere Siren! Gojo x Blind! Reader

TW: Yandere, Monsterfucking (two of them? tentacle like?), Cream pie, dubcon/noncon, body horror, gore, open ending, drowning, power imbalance, Death, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

WC: 6k

a/n: thank you @eevwrites for staying up late and yapping about this with me (and for playing minecraft while we yap <33) I hope you get the best sleepies in the world.

The last thing you remember before being swallowed whole by the icy Pacific was a push.

Not a stumble. Not some tragic misstep. A sharp, deliberate shove between your shoulder blades that sent you lurching forward into nothing.

Air was torn from your lungs before you even hit the water.

Your scream—high, broken, instinctual—shattered against the wind as you flailed, hands slicing through space. There was nothing to cling to. No railing. No mercy. Just the flutter of your ridiculous dress, too many ruffles, far too many bows, the weight of the fabric blooming outward like a funeral wreath as gravity dragged you down.

Down, down, down.

The water. It didn’t embrace you. Instead, it devoured you. Freezing and fast, it surged into every crevice—your nose, ears, mouth, anywhere it could reach. Your body convulsed from the shock, muscles seizing as icy tendrils coiled around your limbs, yanking you deeper into the obsidian belly of the ocean. There was no up or down. No light to orient yourself by. Just a cold so sharp it felt like knives against your skin.

You couldn’t see. You never could. But here, in the deep, it was different.

It wasn’t just darkness—it was nothingness.

Blindness on land meant familiarity. The warmth of your room. The soft echo of your breath. The subtle brush of breeze through the window.

 But this?

This was a vast, voiceless void. A pressure-cooked silence. A sensory grave. You didn’t know which way was the surface. Which way meant life?

Or which was meant to be death. 

You kicked, desperate. Clawed through water too thick to move in. Bubbles streamed from your lips like tiny screams, and still you sank. Panic howled inside your skull, thundering louder than the boat’s fading engine. You tried to remember how drowning worked - wasn’t there a moment where you blacked out? Where the pain stopped?

The cold chewed through your nerves. Your chest ached, lungs locked in an unbearable vice, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth. You thrashed, weightless and leaden all at once, your heartbeat a deafening war drum in your ears.

And then something touched you. 

Brushed against your ankle.

Too warm and sentient. It coiled around your leg like a serpent, slick and possessive.

Your mind screamed louder than your body ever could. Adrenaline surged in one final, useless wave: fight or flight. But you couldn’t fight, and you couldn’t flee. All you could do was feel.

Arms wrapped around you — solid, strong, inhuman.

Not cold. Not like the water. No, this was a heat that radiated into your bones, cradling you like a lover, lifting your limp body with agonizing gentleness. Hands - clawed, maybe - pressing you close to a chest that thrummed with something alien and melodic.

You were being carried.

Up. Or down. You couldn’t tell. You could never tell.

Were you still dying? Was this death? Were you hallucinating some mythical savior in your final moments? Something old and godlike from the sea?

You think you felt a tail. It curled and shimmered through the water like silk, bracing you tighter against something solid.

You suddenly felt something rough against your skin, sand, it scraped against your palms as you were laid down —  the shore, warm and coarse and real. You coughed violently, bile and salt and sea pouring from your lips in heaves. Your ribs burned. Your lungs clawed for air.

There were sounds now — real ones. Waves. Wind. The ragged sob of your breath. And something else.

Flapping.  Not wings. Fins? Something slick and heavy shifting just beside you.

You curled inward instinctively, salt-stiff dress sticking to your legs, the weight of it dragging at your limbs like seaweed. Your hands trembled as they tried to find purchase in the sand. Your mind reeled. Still blind and helpless. Still something’s prey.

But then — a touch.

Wet fingers grazed your cheek again. Long, reverent. A thumb ghosting under your eye, almost like it missed you. As if it had longed for you. A claw caught briefly on your skin — not enough to cut, but enough to remind you. It wasn’t human.

And neither, perhaps, were you anymore.

Warm breath fanned over your mouth. Close. So close. Your lips parted without thinking, tasting salt and something else. Something sweet and sea-born. Something his.

“...Thank you,” you rasped, voice nothing more than salt-burned air.

Silence followed.

And then finally, a hiss. Drawn out. Fragile. Starving. Not angry — at least, not yet. Just yearning.

And then it all shattered.

The thunder of boots on sand.  The crackle of dry seaweed under heavy feet. The roar of men cheering. A voice like rusted knives, thick with blood and fish oil and stale wine. Your father.

“The siren,” he breathed, awed. “You caught it.”

Caught?

Slender hands seized you next before you could think more on your father’s words. Delicate only in size, but not in touch. You knew her — one of the housemaids. She smelled like lavender soap and liniments used for scrubbing backs. Her fingers were cold, her grip clinical.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, dearie,” she murmured. Not unkind. But distant. Oblivious.

You were lifted roughly. Boneless in her arms, your soaked dress clinging like dead weight. Hair matted across your face. Lips split and slack. Your limbs swayed with every jarring step she took —  legs dangling, knees bumping against her hips.

And from the surf — he screamed.

A sound that did not belong on land. A noise that split open the air like lightning through rotted wood. Not pain or even fury. Something older. Hollow. Ancient.

And then came the metal. The rattle of chains. The dry hiss of nets. The guttural commands of armed men thick with salt and ego.  Shouts of strategy turned into panic.

“Harpoons — now!”

“Hold him down, he’s - he’s not —”

“Jesus Christ, what is that thing — ”

The air turned metallic. Heavy. The scent of copper and salt and him filled your nose like smoke before a firestorm.

Ripping.

You heard it. Felt it in your chest.  The wet, sickening tear of flesh split apart. The squelch of something soft and vital spilling onto the sand.

The maid’s hands clenched tighter. Her nails dug crescents into your skin. Her breath came faster. She started to run.

Those screams.

Not sharp anymore. But gargled. Choking. Drowning in their own blood.

And above it all, the low, keening hum of something monstrous. A sound no human throat could ever replicate. Beautiful. Terrifying. Your heart pounded like it might crack your ribs. Your breath caught in your throat. Your body knew before your mind could catch up —  something beautiful and horrific was behind you. Something not meant to be seen.

The maid hissed, as if realizing you were listening too hard.

“Be thankful you’re blind,” she whispered.

And for the first time in your life. 

You were.

Because you didn’t see the way he moved. Didn’t see the way his mouth unhinged. Didn’t see the bones he snapped like a twig or how the blood sprayed across the surf in thick, arterial arcs.

Didn’t see the smile.

But you sure felt it.

Every step the maid took trembled under the weight of it. You felt her flinch when something wet hit her back.  You heard a body collapse, still twitching, not far behind.

There, on the blood-soaked beach. He waited.  In the aftermath of the slaughter. In the salt-slick cradle of death.

Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

A small part of you had sunk inward long before you sank into the bath.

Now, half-limp in the scalding porcelain tub, you sat in silence while a new maid—young, quiet, smelling faintly of chamomile and starch—worked her fingers gently through your hair. Her hands were steady, but you could feel the tension in them, like she didn’t quite want to touch you.

You didn’t blame her.

The water had long since cooled from soothing to lukewarm, but you hadn’t moved. You let it swallow your body, inch by inch, up to your chin. Your fingertips had gone pruned. Your spine ached. Your throat still burned from salt and screaming.

The scent of blood clung to you, despite the scrubbing.

Despite everything.

Your father had come back.

Not quietly, and surely not clean.

You heard him retching in the next room. Heard the thick splatter of bile against tile, the wheezing gasps of a man whose stomach had turned itself inside out from guilt, grief, or perhaps just the stench of what he’d witnessed.

He didn’t say much when he staggered past the door — just offered a few garbled apologies. Maybe to you. Maybe to some half-forgotten god. Maybe to himself.

But at the end of it all, he lived.

He lived.

When twenty others didn’t. When blood soaked the beach like high tide. When something divine and dreadful rose from the surf and punished every hand that tried to pull you away.

You turned your face slightly toward the door, your voice still too hoarse to speak aloud.

Why him?

Why was he spared?

Out of everyone on that crew—strong, cruel, and desperate men—he was the only one left gasping on the shoreline. Shaking. Pale. Alive.

And you had a feeling. A terrible feeling. It wasn’t mercy. It was scent.

Yours.  

His.

You shared blood. Skin. Smell. Something primal. Maybe that was enough to keep your father breathing. Or perhaps, the creature in the water hadn’t spared your father out of grace. Maybe mercy had nothing to do with it.

It took nearly a month for things to return to a version of normal. Not true normal — not the warm, salty kind that clung to your skin after sunbathing, or the familiar creak of dockwood beneath your shoes — but something brittle. Fragile. Like a painting of normalcy stretched too thin over something dark and wet and unspeakable.

The beach was off-limits for weeks. You’d ask quietly, and your requests would be met with stammered refusals, soft curses, and sharp silences.

No walks. No wandering.  No tapping your cane along the pier. And certainly not alone.

Your father wouldn’t speak to you as much. Dinners were now quiet. His voice, once booming and sure, had dulled into a rasp. You could hear it catch in his throat like a hook when he thought you were asleep — prayers muttered to gods he hadn’t believed in before, hands shaking with what he claimed was fatigue but smelled like guilt.

When he returned from that cursed night, it was with blood crusted under his nails and a stench that clung to his skin for days. He brought no crew with him. Only the memory of the beach turned battlefield.

The authorities said there wasn’t enough evidence. The accounts were too conflicting. Too surreal.

Only one thing saved him: the maid.

The girl who dragged you off the shore, half-conscious, while the sea behind you boiled with screams. She testified. She lied. Beautifully. It was said that the storm had come in fast. Said the men panicked. That they’d drowned. That your father had saved you.

No one questioned her too deeply. No one wanted to know the truth.

And when the rumors cooled — when curiosity waned and fear became background noise — you were allowed to return.

Daylight only.

Never alone.

But you found a window. A moment. A lull in supervision.

The breeze was soft when you stepped onto the familiar path, cane in hand. The gentle tap-tap of its tip brushing the boardwalk comforted you, even as the stillness pressed in from all sides. The sand was warm beneath your soles. The breeze carried the same scent it always had — brine, distant saltweed, the breath of something old and watchful out beyond the rocks.

But something was missing.

No fishermen calling to one another or the creak of nets drawn tight with the morning’s catch. Not even the hum of boats lapping against the dock, thick with engine oil and fish blood.

Just silence. Thick, expectant silence. They were all out at sea, the rumors said. Hunting. Hoping to capture what your father failed to, or avenge those who never came back.

You found your way to the edge of the dock, your cane dipping once against the final plank before you lowered yourself to sit. Carefully. Cautiously.

Your dress bunched awkwardly at your hips. The hem hung limp, brushing the wooden slats. You let your legs dangle over the edge, the water licking just beneath your shoes.

And there, with the sun high and the shore silent, you felt it.

Not quite a touch or a sound, but the feeling of a presence. A weight that pressed against your back like the heat of a stare. The kind of attention that tightens your breath. That makes your throat dry. The kind that doesn’t feel threatening — not exactly. Just… knowing.

You stiffened. You gripped your cane tighter.

It could’ve been anxiety or even the wind. Perhaps, the memory of blood-soaked sand and the screams you never saw.

But it felt specific. Personal.

And then, without warning, the water beneath your feet shifted. Not violently. Not enough to splash. But enough to ripple. Enough to feel. A current brushed up against the dock post. A shiver licked across your ankle. Barely a whisper. Like a fingertip. Or perhaps a breath. 

And in the stillness, in that space between heartbeat and breath. 

You knew you weren’t alone.

The creature—your savior, your curse—had never left. Waiting.

You heard it first. A splash. Small. Intentional. Too precise to be the tide. Water stirred beneath your dangling feet, rippling gently, reverently, like the sea itself was exhaling just for you.

A hand, wet and cool, brushed against your ankle. The sensation made your breath catch. You didn’t recoil. You should have. But the contact was cautious, almost hesitant. Curious.

You could feel the texture of it: The webbing between long fingers. The faint resistance of slick skin. The subtle drag of scaled flesh against your calf, the way it clung like velvet soaked in salt.

And then—his voice. A sound so low and sorrowful it nearly unraveled you. “I missed you.” A whine, cracked at the edges. Yearnful. Soft. Like a child left out in the cold. Like something that didn’t know how to be anything other than lonely. His voice draped itself over your shoulders like a blanket of warm fog, soothing, silken, just a little too perfect.

You shivered. Not from cold. From the way his voice pulled at you.

That’s what sirens do, don’t they? Lure. Lull. Captivate.

Or so you’ve read.

Your knowledge was limited to what little information your fingers could find pressed into Braille pages. Most academic papers weren’t keen on accessibility. Myths don’t translate easily. Neither do monsters.

And yet — he did. Every syllable of his voice seemed designed to bypass logic. He didn’t speak so much as sing. A song without melody. A hum beneath his words that resonated somewhere deep in your ribs, like a forgotten chord being struck in your soul.

You opened your mouth, unsure if it was to scream or to respond. But no sound came.

Just the fragile press of breath against your lips. Just him, half in water, half in shadow.

You couldn’t see his face.

But you didn’t need to.

Not when you could feel the devotion in the way he touched you, like a man in prayer, reverent and trembling. His fingertips, half-wet, half-scaled, ghosted over your skin with the care of someone handling something sacred.

And you knew.

He hadn’t just missed you. He had ached.

“...You missed me?” you asked softly, breath catching in your throat.

There was a pause. Then the feeling of hair brushing against your calf, slick, heavy strands brushing against your leg as he leaned in, pressing the curve of his face against your calf like he was trying to memorize the shape of you all over again. A sigh left him content and broken.

Then came the kisses.

A trail of them. Quick, warm, damp down your shin, over your ankle, to the very tips of your toes. Little presses of lips, too eager, too desperate, like he didn’t care how strange or humiliating the act was.

You flinched, instinctively trying to pull back, only to feel a sharp pinch, a claw digging into your skin, just enough to stop you. Not enough to pierce — yet.

He didn’t lift his head.

“Mmm?” he hummed, a low vibration in your bones, amusement curling like smoke through every syllable. “You ask as if you don’t know.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. A wet, sticky joy.

“You torment me,” he whispered. “Bewitched me. How cruel of you… to make something like me weak.”

The last word hit like a bruise. But you wouldn’t use the word weak to describe him.

Never him.

Not when the sea had screamed for him.

Not when twenty men had died on the beach.

Not when your father still woke in the night, gasping your name and whispering his.

He wasn’t weak; instead, he was just starved.

For you.

“You’re confused,” was all you managed, the words small, almost a laugh—bitter at the edges. A weak protest. A failing defense.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort…”

But he didn’t like that.

The claw at your leg sank deeper, just enough to warn. Enough to draw a sharp sting, a gasp. You winced, your breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—you wanted to plead. To yield. To give in to whatever he was, whatever spell he had woven in the deep.

But then he hummed. Low. Lulling. Almost sweet.

On the other hand, his free one came up to cradle your face, as gentle as the claw was cruel. Cold, wet skin pressed against your cheek, thumb brushing across your lip like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth by touch alone.

You felt the tremble in his fingers. The ache in his stillness.

And then he muttered, more to himself than to you: “How good would you taste…?”

The words were soft. Almost tender. Almost human. “If I dragged you to the bottom of the ocean, held you there until your lungs collapsed, until your breath stopped struggling in your chest, until my teeth sank into your skin…”

His thumb dipped into the corner of your mouth. Not forceful. Curious. Possessive. “…and tore your throat out.”

You froze. Your blood pulsed behind your eyes. Your lips parted, not in response but in terror. A pause. A sound caught in his throat—not a growl. A whine. Fragile. Desperate.

“I dream of that,” he whispered, voice cracking like driftwood splitting in the tide. “Every night. For you.”

Another breathless pause. The confession was too heavy for even him. “To die at my hands. For your flesh to stain my teeth. For you…”

The claw on your face jerked. You felt it. Sharp. Sudden. A slice blooming just beneath your cheekbone. Warm blood welled. Traced a slow line down your jaw.

And still, he held your face like it was the most precious thing in the world. “For you to love me… as much as I love you.”

His voice shattered on the last word. Not rage. Not a command. Just heartbreak.

The kind of love that doesn’t know how to be gentle. The kind that drowns what it can’t bear to lose.

You slapped his hand away. A sharp, wet smack as your palm struck skin, slippery and cold and too real.

Perhaps it was a stupid mistake, but you didn’t regret it. Not even as silence stretched thin between you.

He didn’t growl or retaliate. Instead, he laughed.

A sound, soft, and breathless. Delighted, amused, like wind catching the edge of a bell. A beautiful sound. Inhuman in its lightness. The kind of laugh that said: You’ve misunderstood everything.

“You don’t know what love is,” you said, barely above a whisper. Your voice is low, firm, trembling at the edges. “You murdered them.”

There was no accusation in your tone—just quiet, weary horror. You heard him shift in the water. Felt the slight pull at your ankle where his claw still curled. A gentle splash as he exhaled through his nose.

And then—a hum. Resonant. Thoughtful. Like he was rolling the word ‘murder’ over in his mouth, tasting it. Considering it like one might consider a foreign language or a flawed metaphor.

“Is it murder?” he mused, tone feather-soft. “They threw you in, did they not?”

You flinched.

The memory hit like cold water again. The push. The fall. The salt clawing at your lungs.

“You were to be my meal that night,” he continued, almost dreamily. “A gift. An offering. Dressed in white, ribboned like a feast. I would’ve eaten you whole.”

Another pause. A breath. His lips ghosted across your knee as he whispered: “I still might.”

He said it with such tenderness that it made your stomach twist. As though devouring you was the most romantic thing he could imagine. 

As though that was what love was—possession so complete it leaves nothing behind.

And yet, he let you go. You weren’t sure why.

Perhaps he heard the distant churn of engines—ships cutting across the sea, their steel hulls humming with human voices and guns. Perhaps the scent of strangers carried on the breeze. Perhaps he didn’t want to share you with witnesses.

But he didn’t speak another word.

All you heard was a soft chuckle, low and breathy, and then the strange sensation of his cheek resting against your calf—warm, tender, almost shy.

You flinched when you felt the skin damp—wet. Not from seawater. From blood. Yours. And still, he stayed like that. Nuzzled close. Like he didn’t want to move. Like letting you go took more from him than the killings ever did.

But he did.

And the next morning, you returned. You weren’t sure why. You told yourself it was curiosity. That it was unfinished questions. That it was part of healing. But each day, your feet found their way back to the edge of the dock. Each day, you dipped your toes in and waited. And each day, the sea answered.

Eventually, you gave up the dock entirely.

It was Satoru who had guided you to the rocks, flat and warm beneath your hands, bleached by sun and tide. He would circle you as you sat, humming low, half-submerged, his voice curling around your ankles like ribbons. You never felt him fully. Just fragments. The brush of a hand. The flick of a tail. The soft splash of him surfacing beside you to let his fingers trace your wrist like he was memorizing the weight of your pulse.

You learned his name.

Satoru.

He said it as if it were something unspoken, something soft, something only you were allowed to speak.

Sirens were meant to be lonely — your fingers had told you that much, searching across faded braille in myth-soaked pages. Loneliness made them dangerous. Starved. But some texts spoke of others. Of merfolk. Creatures not quite siren, not quite human. How they have mates.

One day, without thinking, you asked: “Do you have one? A mate?”

The question left your mouth before you could stop it.

You were perched on the smooth spine of a seaside rock, sun warming your back, the sea misting your face. He floated beside you, so close you could hear the water sliding across his skin.

You don’t remember how that started, when you let him bring you here. When you stopped resisting the pull.

A foolish mistake. But not one you remembered making. Not clearly.

There was a pause. A shift in the water.  Then a hum, low, laced with amusement.

“I’ll tell you…” A cheeky laugh left his lips, “If you come in.” The words were playful. Lilting. Teasing like a lullaby. And as always, followed by touch—his fingers dragging along your calf, just enough pressure to remind you that you belonged to him, that he'd been patient, so patient.

Your throat tightened. “I can’t swim,” you said quietly.

You expected mockery. Dismissal. But instead, he laughed again.  Light, musical, pleased. A sound that would’ve been lovely if it weren’t brushing up against your fear like velvet against raw skin.

“Obviously,” he said, with a grin you could hear. “But I can guide you.”

One hand settled on your thigh. The weight of it was gentle, but beneath the surface, you felt his claws held back, barely restrained. His skin was slick and cool, damp from the tide, and his thumb rubbed small, slow circles against your leg like he was soothing a trembling animal.

You hesitated.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the rock, nails scraping over lichen-slick stone.

This was a bad idea.

Everything about this was a bad idea. Your mind was racing. 

This was a bad idea. One that could end horribly. An image appeared in your mind, one you would not like to reflect on. 

“Just fully submerged,” he coaxed. His voice dropped to a whisper. “We won’t leave the rock.”

The promise hung in the air between you like a web. Sticky. Shimmering. False.

You could feel the water now, lapping just below your knees. You could feel him, shifting beneath the surface, his tail brushing against the rock like a current, coiling and uncurling like a waiting serpent.

And his voice—soothing, low, beautifully wrong—threaded through your thoughts, warm as blood in your ears.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You’re not sure if you trust him or if you’re even sure it even matters anymore. Still, gently, cautiously, you slip deeper into the water. Your breath stutters. Your pulse flutters.

You’re an idiot.

His hands are already there to catch you. Guiding you.  Fingers curling around your wrists, pressing them to the slick surface of the rock. Anchoring you. Positioning you. His tail wraps around your legs next, slow and deliberate. The cool, scaled muscle coils up your thighs, tighter than it needs to be. You can feel every shimmer, every shift in his body as it glides over your skin. And then, his chest. Bare. Cold. Pressed flush against your back. You shudder. His breath ghosts over your shoulder, over your throat, thick with salt and something sweeter.

This is a mistake. You know it. Like prey entering the predator’s den. Because you can feel teeth. Just barely. Grazing. Waiting.

And yet, he speaks. “I suppose I owe you an answer,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, too calm for how tightly he’s holding you.  “It’s… complicated. There’s Suguru…”

Your brows knit. His tone is strange, bitter, breathless, threaded with something almost childishly resentful. As he speaks, one hand slips to your front, tracing the laces of your corset with idle curiosity.

Rrrrip. The fabric tears like paper in his claws. Your breath hitches. You go rigid in his hold. “But Suguru…” he sighs, soft and wistful. Pouting. You hear it in his voice, like a child denied something precious. “Suguru is a male.”

A simple statement, but full of meaning. A declaration. A boundary. A grievance.

Then, his soft lips on your neck. Soft, scattered kisses trailing downward. feather-light, open-mouthed, suckling gently like he’s soothing the places he wants to bite.

“Can’t have babies with a male, you know…” The words make your blood run cold. Your breath stutters.

His hands move again, greedy, unhurried. One cups your breast, his palm cold and slick, thumb brushing over your nipple as though curious how you'd react. The other slides downward, slipping beneath the ruined hem of your dress, fingers trailing heat and water in their wake. You remember hearing a snap earlier, like claws being clipped. 

The memory drifted away at the sound of another rip. Your tights. Then your panties. A mutter under his breath, “Useless things.”

He keeps you turned, body flush to the rock, your front pressed to sun-warmed stone, the rest of you buried in his hold. His tail tightens, muscles rippling beneath scaled flesh as he coils more tightly around your legs, locking you in place with a possessive firmness that trembles with restraint. 

The water churns around your waist, lapping against your hips like it’s breathing in time with him. His hands move like he’s sculpting you - mapping, claiming, memorizing. You can feel him everywhere. On your throat, your breasts, your thighs. Inside you.

And all you can do is hold on. Tremble as he explores your body, his hands tremble slightly. You guess not in fear, but rather in excitement.

“At first,” he murmurs, mouth dragging along your shoulder, his voice a purr of reverent confusion, “when I saw you, I thought it was mating season. I was a bit worried...”

Your breath hitched, then cracked into a silent scream as his teeth sank into the column of your throat. Sharp. Blunt. Too deep to be teasing. Pain bloomed across your skin, blooming hot and fast before it dissolved into something murky and unbearable.

He groaned—shuddered—like your blood, your taste, was a relief. “I was so confused,” he went on, voice hitching, breaking, as his hand dipped lower.

Between your thighs. 

Over your folds.

Inside you.

A moan punched through him, sudden and guttural, and he all but arched against your back, tail jerking with the force of his need.

“Fuck...” his breath trembled, lips trailing up your neck, nibbles against the skin, “you’re so warm, so fucking warm...” His fingers curled inside your core, slow and possessive, drawing wet sounds from your body like music only he was meant to hear.

“Because,” he gasped against your ear, voice raw with bewildered joy, “I’d already gotten rid of my eggs for the season. Guess we have to wait until the next.”

As if that meant something. As if that justified anything. You could feel the way he trembled behind you, his chest heaving, his cock hard and pressed against the small of your back, restrained only by the last thread of reverence still clinging to him.

“And yet—you, this soft little thing in the middle of the ocean—you ruined everything.”

He nuzzled against your cheek, pressing soft, wet kisses to the skin just above where your blood still trickled.

“My instincts told me to ignore you. But my soul—” he moaned again, thrusting his fingers deeper, spreading you open wider—“told me you were mine.”

You couldn’t do anything but moan—soft, broken, trembling—while he lapped at the blood trickling from your throat. Each stroke of his tongue was deliberate. Lingering. Worshipful.

You felt dizzy. Hollowed out. Heat curling in your belly like a fever that couldn’t break.

Then his fingers—still slick and buried deep—curled inside you with intent, spreading, stretching, preparing.

And that’s when you felt it. Something hard pressed against your back—thick, ridged, hot even through the water.

Not one. Two.

Your blood ran cold.

“There’s… two.” You whimpered out in between a moan, a sharp bite on your shoulder, and left your hands gripping the sun-kissed rocks for salvation.  The realization made your breath stutter in your chest, panic beginning to flicker beneath the haze.

He felt it.  Of course he did. He always felt everything. Immediately, his touch changed. Softer. His hands, once possessive and firm, became coaxing, stroking your face as he guided your chin toward his. A whisper of pressure. A kiss before the fall.

“Shhh,” he breathed, brushing your lips with his own, “It’s alright. You’re doing so good.”

His fingers slipped out of you, and one of his lengths took their place, pressing inside with a force that made your lungs seize.

The thrust was smooth. Deep. Too deep.

Your scream never made it past your mouth—his tongue was already there, swallowing it, muffling your panic with something wet and hot and hungry. His kiss was messy, teeth dragging across your lips, fangs nicking you just enough to remind you what he was.

Your hands scrambled against the stone. Your body fought to stretch, to fit around something it was never meant to take. As his other cock bounced against your clit, making the sensation so much more unbearable. 

He groaned—more a laugh than a sound of pleasure—as he sank deeper, letting you feel every inch, every twitch of his body moving inside yours.

“Hah…” he panted, voice thick with delight, “I’m not usually this gentle, you know…”

He gave a shallow thrust, just enough to make your body jerk forward. 

“You can ask Suguru when you meet him.” His voice dripped with amusement, cruel in its fondness “He’s always scolding me for being so — fuck — rough.”

You winced as the tip of him pressed up against your cervix, an ache blooming sharp and unforgiving somewhere behind your hips. The pain had teeth, hot and blossoming like fire underwater. And still, he kissed you again, lips wet and unrelenting, fangs dragging across the plush of your bottom lip like he was tasting you from the inside out.

“But with you…” he murmured, voice thick with wonder and ruin, a shudder rolling down his spine, “you’re worth savoring.”

You felt yourself begin to unravel, limp in his arms, breath shallow, nerves frayed like salt-wet lace. The drag of his cock was too much, too deep and consuming. His teeth mapped your skin with feverish precision, each bite sharper than the last, each one punctuating a devotion that veered far past human. The water churned around you, thick with heat and the iron-slick scent of blood.

He trembled behind you, groaning low and guttural as his hips pressed flush to yours, his body locking into place. You felt the full weight of him, the heat, the stretch, the sheer wrongness of it. And then, hot, sticky, release. A surge deep within you.

His moan, if you could call it that, was a high, pitchy, cracked thing. Like something old and lonely, remembering how to pray. Claws skimmed your belly and thighs, possessive, trembling. Holding you close. Ensuring every last drop stayed inside. 

Your hands slipped from the rock.  You didn’t remember letting go. He caught them easily—captured them—and pressed them flat to his chest, where something beat too fast, too shallow. Like a bird trapped beneath his ribs.

“S–Satoru,” you choked, voice thin and laced with salt, terror curling at the edges.

He pulled out of you, slowly or maybe those things, the lengths of him, were curling back into the shadow of his tail. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. Siren biology wasn’t recorded in braille. No one thought it was worth transcribing. Or maybe you’re the only one who survived to tell the tale. 

“Shhh…” he whispered, soft as a lullaby, “just taking you with me.”

He laughed, breathless, light, euphoric. Like you’d given him the greatest gift without ever meaning to. As if dying for him would be enough. His hands slid down your back, down your thighs, holding you tight like a bride. 

The rock’s warmth faded behind you. The warmth of the sun was lost to the cool ocean waves.  He nuzzled against your throat again, lapped away the drying blood with reverent little swipes of his tongue, then trailed up to kiss your jaw, your lips, soft and slow, as though you weren’t drowning.

Down. 

Down. 

 Down.

Into the dark. Surrounded by pressure. The water surged past your ears. You tried to breathe. Tried to scream. Tried to do anything, but his mouth was already on yours again, swallowing every desperate sound, every last shudder of protest.

You felt your body go slack. Felt your lungs burn. Your thoughts began to scatter like bubbles rising too slow to reach the surface.

And just before the black took you. 

You thought, distantly,

If this is death…

…maybe it’s better to not be awake for it.

[doumadono]

Warnings: smut w/o plot, ruthless s*x, dom!Dabi, demon!Dabi, Dabi is a warning himself, ass spanking, clit spanking, pussy fingering, dirty talk, unprotected p in v

Synopsis: you shouldn’t be playing with a Ouija board, but the need to know if something truly lurked on the other side outweighed your fear. Surely, you never expected a demon born of flame to answer your call. What starts as a desperate moment of desire quickly spirals into a brutal, inhuman claiming — because you called for a demon, he came to consume you

A/N: this fic was commissioned through my Ko-fi by @within-eyesight - thank you so much, sweetheart! If you enjoy my writing, please consider leaving a tip ♥

MY HERO ACADEMIA - 3

You’ll never dare summon a spirit again — not after this.

The sizzling shimmer of the portal snaps shut behind the creature, sealing your fate.

Smoke clings to the corners of your room, curling in ghostly tendrils as the air thickens — dense, hot, pulsing in waves that beat like a second heart. The figure standing in the shadows radiates that unnatural heat, its silhouette tall and lean, humanoid at first glance, but wrong in every detail.

He looks like a man scorched by the fire — his skin marred with horrific burns, raw and stretched taut between metallic staples that hold his broken flesh together. A pristine white, coat-like garment hangs off his shoulders, half-destroyed. Beneath it, his chest is bare — scarred but shredded.

The creature wears torn white pants, a size or two too large, slipping low on narrow hips. He’s barefoot. Just bare, silent feet pressing to your floor like he’s already home.

Your gaze flicks upward again and catches on the strange, curved horns — thin, arching back from his skull, razor-edged like obsidian blades. Behind him, a long, pointed tail sways lazily through the smoke-heavy air, as though the creature was some infernal cat, too amused to strike just yet.

He stands there, head tilting slightly, those eerie, turquoise eyes flicking around your bedroom with disinterest, like he’s deciding whether to burn it down.

The scarred demon stretches lazily, limbs too long, fingers tipped with blackened claws that scrape softly over your floorboards. His joints pop with deliberate slowness, one by one, the crack of bone like distant thunder. Blue flame coils around his shoulders and ribs, licking along the jagged patchwork of stapled flesh. His pale, unmarred skin glows faintly in the dark — eerily pristine, yet stretched taut like the flesh of a corpse clawed back from the depths of hell, and sewn together with nothing but rage to hold it upright.

And his eyes — gods, his eyes — gleam turquoise and raw hunger, locking onto you with the gaze of a starving predator who knows its prey can’t run.

“You’ve got no idea what you’ve done, inviting me in,” he murmurs, voice gravel and cinder, every word crawling out of his scarred mouth with heat. “Fucking around with your little Ouija board, whispering into the void, hoping someone’s listening.” His lips curl into a slow grin. “Guess what, sweetheart? Hell answered.”

Your back hits the wall when you try to retreat, fingers fumbling for the doorknob that suddenly isn’t where it should be. 

He laughs — low, amused, devilish. “You ain’t running. Maybe you’re not scared... maybe you’re just stupid,” he notes, tilting his head. His next words are a growl, blistering. “I’ll burn the innocence off your bones.” His smirk curls cruelly. “Wanna dance with me in hell?”

Before you can speak — before breath can even return — he’s on you.

“You didn’t say no. How sweet. I’ll take that as permission.”

His knee shoves between your thighs with a sharp, precise motion, forcing your legs apart. 

Instinct seizes you before thought can catch up. Your hips move on their own, grinding your clothed pussy against the hard muscle of his thigh, desperate for friction of any kind. Heat pools low in your belly, shame already rising and painting your cheeks in a pink hue, but you can’t stop. Your body betrays you in full, trembling with a hunger you don’t want to recognize. Is this how this creature toys with your mind — twisting your thoughts until all you can do is crave him? You can’t tell. 

Why are you like this? You, of all people. The sweet girl among your friends. The one who giggled nervously at dirty jokes and flushed red at movie scenes that showed too much. The girl who believed sex was something soft and quiet — done in the dark, under blankets, in missionary only, with someone who said “I love you” first. The same girl who once touched herself in silence, terrified, ashamed even to explore the heat between her legs — only daring to rub her clit in secrecy, once or twice, before guilt took over.

And now?

Rutting shamelessly against this otherworldly creature like some desperate, hungry bitch in a heat. A needy little thing reduced to nothing but aching flesh. Acting like the kind of woman you used to judge with cold disdain. Acting like the very image of what you swore you'd never be.

You feel filthy. You feel utterly degraded — you’re reduced to being a whore. And yet — you don't want to stop.

The demon chuckles darkly, smoke curling from between his lips as he leans in, breath scorching your cheek. “Look at ya,” he hisses, claws trailing along your thighs. “Soaked already. I can smell how needy you are, your arousal smells like a ripe peach just begging to be bitten into,” the demon growls, locking eyes with you. He then turns his head so he can whisper directly in your ear, “Makes me want to drag my tongue over that pretty, slick little cunt and see if you taste as sweet as you smell.”

The sound of his voice — its deep, rasping timbre — makes every fine hair on your neck stand on end. Your mouth parts, desperate for air, but it’s like you’re already suffocating under the weight of his presence alone.

Demon’s clawed fingers slip beneath your skirt, slow and possessive. You shudder when he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties — and then they’re gone. Not torn. Burned. The cotton material sizzles and smokes as it melts away under his touch, and your knees nearly give out.

He drags his claws through the slick heat between your parted legs. The rough pad of his index finger taps your clit once… twice… a third time, just enough to make you twitch. A low chuckle rolls from his chest as he feels that sensitive bundle of nerves swell beneath his touch, hardening in response like your body’s begging for him. His grin widens — cruel and carved across scarred lips — as he watches you unravel for him, knowing he hasn’t even fully started yet.

You barely gasp before he lifts you off the floor with ease, your legs locking around his hips like you were made to fit there. 

His tongue — long and split — drags slow and hot along the column of your neck, tracing from the edge of your collarbone to the shell of your ear. Every inch he licks leaves your skin tingling. Then his fangs sink in — sharp nips, deliberate, cruel — each bite sending jolts of stinging pleasure through your spine.

“Mmmhhmmm,” he hums darkly against your pulse point, voice thick like a suffocating smoke. “Call me Dabi, the Blueflame demon — since you were so eager to summon me, doll.”

He shifts you in his grasp with inhuman ease — one clawed hand improves the grip on your ass, holding you firm and open for him, while the other palms your breast through the thin cotton of your shirt, kneading it like he owns every inch of you.

“Didn’t think I could smell it on you, huh, little one?” Dabi murmurs, lips brushing your jaw between possessive kisses. “That ache between your thighs? That slick, desperate scent of your cunt soaking through? You're dripping for me already.” His grin curls against your throat, feral and amused. “Someone’s enjoying this far too much. You like the thrill, don’t you? That’s good, that’s good, I like it as much as you do, filthy little thing.”

Then he drops you down, flips you over with ruthless grace, pressing you back against the wall so hard your breasts press flat against the cold paint. You cry out at the force, and he hums in approval, pressing his body to yours, heat scorching through your clothes like fire through parchment.

“Stay still, doll,” he rasps, voice rough against your ear. “Don’t wanna tear you up too fast.”

He yanks the hem of your skirt up without ceremony, bunching the fabric around your hips as he spreads the soft swell of your ass open with both hands, thumbs pressing deep into the flesh. “Well, well, well… Would ya look at that,” he drawls, voice soaked in mockery and hunger. “This little pussy’s clenching on nothing. Human females, always so needy. Always aching. You think you can use those sweet cunts of yours to twist men around your finger — and you indeed can. You can easily weaponize your bodies. The scent alone could drive any male mad.” His lips graze the back of your shoulder. “But now the tables turn.”

Before you can reply, one long, clawed finger pushes into your slick heat, stretching you slowly. Your forehead drops to the wall with a soft thud as your hips arch back instinctively, offering him better access without thinking. “Yes, yes,” you whimper, voice breathless and broken. “Oh my God…”

Dabi’s low laugh curls against your ear like smoke. “God’s not here, doll,” he growls. “But hell? Hell has a monopoly on every filthy pleasure you’ve only ever dared to dream about.”

Your room echoes with the wet, obscene sound of his finger sliding deep inside you wet pussy. You sink your teeth into your lower lip, trying to hold back the desperate sounds building in your throat.

He thrusts his finger slowly in and out of you with a relentless rhythm, a feral grin spreading across his scarred face each time your walls clench tightly around his digit. After a long, torturous minute, the demon finally withdraws his finger, bringing it to his lips to lick it clean, savoring your slickness.  “Oh, fuck,” Dabi breathes, laughter rumbling in his chest, “You taste as good — no, even better — than you smell. I’m going to tear that sweet little pussy of yours apart.”

You don’t see what he’s doing next, but the sound of his pants unzipping reaches your ears, followed by the unmistakable noise of him jerking himself. Curiosity tempts you to glance back, to see the demon’s cock, but fear roots you in place — you have no idea what horrors to expect from something so utterly otherworldly.

Shortly after, you feel the head of his cock — thick, hot, and heavy — press against your entrance.

And then he pushes in.

You sob at the stretch, your walls struggling to take him. His cock is inhumanly veined. It isn’t overly thick, but it’s long enough to brush against your cervix, which makes a tear roll down your cheek as the pleasure is too immense for you to take.

Dabi groans, low and primal, hips snapping forward as he buries himself inside you, inch by inch. One hand clamps firmly around your throat from behind, holding you captive against the wall, while the other grips your hip with a bruising intensity. “Fuck, you take me so well,” he snarls, driving into you with a brutal, savage rhythm. “I knew you were made for this.”

Your scream catches and chokes in your throat, swallowed by the relentless pounding, and it only fans the fire burning in him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Dabi growls, voice thick with lust. “Scream for me, doll.”

His clawed fingers trail up your body, catching beneath your chin to tilt your head back. And you see him — really see him — his body flickering with blue flame, skin taut around surgical staples. He’s a walking corpse lit by hellfire.

His lips crash down on yours like a storm of vengeance, teeth dragging across your bottom lip until the metallic tang of copper fills your mouth. His tongue forces its way in — scorching, greedy, ruthless. His free hand tightens around your throat, thumb pressing just enough to blur your vision.

You can do nothing but moan for him, your nails scraping the wall, gouging shallow marks into the paint.

Dabi quickens his thrusts, then releases your throat, sliding his hand down between your legs, rubbing and spanking your aching clit with fierce, demanding strokes. “Bounce on my demon cock,” he growls. “Show me how much you crave the pain and pleasure I’m giving you.”

Like the obedient girl you are, you obey, rolling your hips, grinding your ass tight against his crotch. A needy, desperate whine slips from your lips, raw and unrestrained. “Just like that, just like that, ah!”

Dabi spanks your ass hard. One hand yanks your head back by the hair, forcing your throat bare, and he sinks his teeth into the exposed skin like a starving beast marking what’s his. 

A dizzying heat blooms in your core. Your pussy is soaked, dripping, flooded — whether it’s his unnatural surge of precum or if you’ve already come, over and over, without even realizing it, you can’t tell. 

“Oh, how I’ll miss this sweet little cunt,” the demon purrs, voice dripping with wicked delight as his breath fans hot against your ear. “It’s been a long time since a human made me feel this fucking good.” He laughs darkly. “But don’t you worry, doll. Summon me again, and I’ll drag you back into this abyss of pleasure. I don’t tire. I don’t need a break. And watching you beg me — sobbing, shaking — for mercy while I fuck you past the edge again and again?” His tongue flicks your earlobe. “That will be the real fun.”

Dabi suddenly pulls out of you, leaving you aching and empty, only to spit on his long, veiny cock. His hand wraps around the shaft, spreading the mix of your slick, his saliva, and dripping precum along every inch with a slow stroke.

Then he slams back in — hard, deep, relentless — his pace turning savage, feral, like a beast unleashed.

Your pussy aches, a raw, stinging pain blooming with every thrust, and you already know you’ll be bleeding after this brutal claiming. But you don’t care. You’d let him ruin you all over again. And all you can do is surrender — hips bruised beneath his merciless grip, legs trembling, voice lost, pussy dripping — because this demon doesn’t just answer your call.

He claims you, owns you, and devours every part of your being.

@pixelcafe-network

[specsthesecond]

Witch Troubles #3

It's a fairly common practice among witches to form pacts with demons.

The witch gains a stronger connection to magic and in exchange the demon gains easier access to the mortal realm.

You've debated this decision for awhile and you finally think you're ready to forge your own pact. Worst case scenario is the demon refuses your offer, which would be embarrassing but not the end of the world.

You shut the door of your room, close the black out curtains and light a few candles. Squinting at the diagram of the summoning circle in your grimoir you try to replicate it perfectly on the old wooden floorboards in white chalk. When it's done you dust off your hands and place the candles in the right places around the circle along with a good amount of enchanted salt around the circumference for your protection. You stand up and take a breath before reciting the ancient words in your book while channeling all your energy into the circle.

The flames burn higher, so hot you have to shrink back a little. It takes all your effort and concentration to keep the chant going without misspeaking or burning the house down. A giant fire now billows in the centre of the circle, something large rises from the middle. You finish the spell and the flames gradually flicker away to reveal exactly the entity you were trying to summon. The little candles around the circle are the only source of light now, barely illuminating your guest. Smoke smoulders off its skin as it rises to full height and stares right at you with it's flaming eyes.

The demon, male it seems, stands in the middle of the summoning circle as tall as your book shelf and just about as wide. True to the drawings and diagrams in your texts he stands on two thick furry goat-like legs. The soft looking tuft at the end of his long thin tail swishes against the old floorboards as they creak under his weight. The rest of his body is charcoal black but otherwise fairly human save for the large goat-like skull that is his head. Beautiful horns, much too majestic for a demon, sprout from the white bone and curl into a thick loop on either side of his skull.

In short; he's the definition of tall, dark and handsome.

Two flaming pits behind the eye holes in the skull serve as eyes, they burn red and hot like the flames of hell as he glares down at you. You assume it's a glare, it's hard to tell.

You clap your grimoir shut, unable to look away from the demon yet. He seems the same, quietly observing you.

"Good evening, I'm sure you know why I've summoned you."

You say as calmly as possible. The demon looks you up and down and hums lowly, sceptical.

He grunts and crosses his arms over his chest. You have to use all your self control not to look down at the incredibly distracting package he's carrying between his legs as it bobs with the movement. Obviously you were prepared for him to be naked, demons don't wear clothes but actually having to practice that self-control is another thing entirely.

You're snapped out of your thoughts when the demon speaks, low and gravely like you expected.

"Witches used to dance for us around fires, bathe in the blood of sacrifices, throw orgies. This is all I get for my pact proposal?"

That's not what you expected. You were expecting some doubt sure but he sounds... offended? He's complaining?

"I don't need to do any of that to show you my worth. You can already sense my magic capabilities, I can show you- ."

He growls again. When he speaks his jaw bone doesn't move, the voice sounds like it reverberates around the skull on its way out.

"Its about devotion, witch. You show me your devotion and I'll give mine in return. No one cares for presentation anymore."

Who needs presentation? Sure, devotion is important in a pact but he's being ridiculous. You look around the room for a moment before saying flatly,

"My apologies but I will not be sacrificing anything or throwing any orgies and I cannot dance."

The demon scoffs and adjusts his crossed arms, thick biceps flexing as he does.

"All witches dance. Your ancestors where very good at it."

You scoff, telling him about your magic capabilities definitely isn't going to work. Why'd you have to get a difficult demon? Why couldn't you get a normal power-hungry one?

"Are you truly that compelled by naked dancing women?"

You attempt to needle him in hopes of avoiding what you know is inevitable. He doesn't respond, just stands there expectantly.

Some demons may agree to pacts based only on the power of the witch but others don't care for power and value the devotion of the act much more. You were very much hoping for the former but you're going to have to deal with what you got.

After a few moments of staring at eachother you finally crack and bend down to make quick work of your shoes and socks. You dropped your skirt around your ankles, take a deep breath and slide your panties down your legs. You see the demon shift his weight in your peripheral but you don't look at him as you unbutton your blouse and unclip your bra. You leave your black pointy hat on your head, assuming that's part of the appeal.

You only look back at him when you're completely naked, standing Infront of him and crossing your arms over your tits, mirroring his own stance.

He seems amused at that, You can see the little flames in his skull move up and down in a way that indicates he's soaking in your nude body.

"Unfortunately, dancing naked around a fire was not passed down to me like the magic was."

"A pity."

You scowl and the demon huffs smoke through the holes in his skull, chuckling.

"You're a witch, magic exists in your very veins. Use it. Caress your body. Sway your hips. Feel the power in your body and worship it as you would a god."

He says it like it's incredibly obvious and you actually feel inclined to listen to him. You close your eyes and try to "feel the power" whatever that means. You uncross your arms and place them on your thighs, slowly moving them up your waist and back down again.

Your skin feels especially sensitive being completely bare in front of such a powerful being, who is also naked. Just the light touch of your hand makes your skin prickle as you move your fingers slowly across yourself.

You start to arch and sway, hands moving up your thighs, across your stomach, along your neck. You free yourself, offering your body to this demon. The demon growls lowly and says in a deeper tone than before,

"The point of the pact is the connection. You summoned me, This is your pact to forge so show me your devotion."

His fiery eyes follow your every move, every sway of your hips and bounce of your tits.

You carefully run your hands from your waist up to your tits, briefly feeling the soft fat before moving up your shoulders. You stretch your arms high, now putting your tits on full display for your demon guest, the attention and cool air makes your nipples harden.

You turn around, your back facing the demon and he huffs irritably at being denied the sight of your perfect tits. His grievances are smothered when you bend down and run your hands up the back of your legs all the way to your ass, gripping the fat just enough to make it jiggle for him.

You can feel the room getting hotter, you can see his cock getting harder and you can feel the wetness In-between your legs as you dance.

You give one last tantalising hip sway before slowly dropping to your knees in front of him, on the edge of the salt circle. You look up at him while sliding your hands up your thighs, from here you have a perfect view of his half hard cock, looking so thick and heavy the sight has you nearly panting like a dog.

You rest your hands behind you, now presenting your entire body to him, tits perked and pussy drooling, devilishly tempting.

"Does that satisfy."

You say gazing up at him sultry gaze flicking down to his cock, you swear you saw it twitch.

"You know exactly what would satisfy me."

His voice is deeper than before, more gutteral and it makes you squirm. You might have been embarrassed about being so open about his effect on you if it wasn't for his obvious arousal for you. You're honestly just glad this is going well so far.

You lean forward, shuffle closer to the salt barrier and stick your tongue out, mouth open and waiting, silently begging for him.

The demon's hand goes to hold his cock immediately and he steps towards the barrier holding his cock out, but before he can place the tip on your hot tongue, you pull back slightly with a sick grin on your face.

The demon tries to grab your face but you retreat further, past the salt circle and therefore out of reach. You look up at his collosal frame with a smug smirk as he growls in irritation and the candle flames flicker violently.

"Don't forget, this is a mutual pact, demon. You don't call the shots... I want to be on top."

"What makes you thin-“

"I'm on top or you can go back home."

He grumbles something unintelligible, shaking his head in disbelief. One hand goes back to his cock idly stroking the thick member as he nods his head, accepting the terms.

You stand and steel yourself before wiping away a portion of the salt line with your foot, breaking the circle. You reach out for his hand and he accepts it with the hand not stroking his dick, stepping out of the circle and into your bedroom. His hands are immediately on your skin, thick fingers running along your waist and down to your hip. His skin is so warm, like the blood running through his veins is boiling hot giving the surface skin a pleasant warmth.

He stares down at you in suspense waiting for your go ahead.

You bring your hands up his chest and around his broad shoulders, and pull him down to your height only to push him down your body until his skull face is right Infront of your pussy. You let him get a good sniff of your smell before pushing him down to the ground with your foot, standing above him looking very tryumphant.

He doesn't have much time to marvel at your figure above him because before he knows it you're sitting on his dick, pussy pressing right against his cock, he bucks on instinct, the wet warmth of your pussy against the heat of his cock makes him let out a gutteral moan.

You slowly rock your hips back and forth the length of his cock, an impressive length but one you could manage. Neither of you can stand the foreplay any longer, his hands grip your waist at the same time you finally slide his cock into your waiting cunt.

You both groan at the feeling as you pop the mushroom head into your cunt and you slide your pussy down to the hilt, feeling every vein of his hot cock against your walls. You're so slick and needy the fat cock slides in with surprisingly little resistance. That makes him chuckle, which you cut off with a deliberate thrust of your hips.

You plant your feet on either side of his waist, moving all the way up back to the tip and then plunging back down again taking him as deep as he'll go. You bounce and hump on this demons fat cock, tits bouncing in tandem, pretty face in the throws of pleasure. It's a sight to see and he loves every minute of it, clutching your hips but letting you control the pace.

The fur covering his legs is soft and warm against your ass as you ride your new pact mate. Your hands rest on his strong chest as you lose yourself even more in the intense pleasure. Panting and groaning, as you approach your high, your thrusts get more frantic as if you're trying to get him even deeper into your cunt. Your eyes are locked onto the way his pretty cock disappears Into to your cunt, the fur at the hilt becoming wet with your slick.

"Ah~ cum inside, cum inside, cum inside me!"

Your frantic pleas are heard when he wraps one arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his chest, his other hand firmly on your ass pushing into you as deep as possible. You finally cum around the throbbing cock clenching your walls deliciously, pressed into his chest. He cums seconds after you, shooting abnormally hot cum deep inside you. Your body stills as you cum down, his strong arms move you body against him in shallow thrusts as he bucks up into you, riding out his high.

You limply lie on his massive chest catching your breath as you come down, ignoring the drool you left on his pec. You realise he's eerily quiet and look up only to find he's staring at your face in a manner you think is expecant? Only then do you actually realise that his dick hasn't gone down at all. You can't help but laugh, pussy involuntarily clenching making the demon clutch your hips tighter.

"Is this all for me or is it just a demon thing?"

He huffs out camp fire smelling smoke from his skull and leans up into a seated position. The change in position makes his cock adjust and you moan softly at the feeling while grasping his large biceps.

"You've got jokes."

He looks down at you, you try to read his expression but it's really hard when his hands are massaging your hips so nicely and his cock is touching new spots inside you making your head all fuzzy. He smoothly lifts your thighs and flips you both over so that you're laying on your back and he's hovering above you.

It's such a glorious sight. This massive sexy otherworldly creature staring down at you with such lust. You can't stop yourself from pulling him in closer by the back of his neck and mumbling,

"Do demons kiss?"

The demon huffs again and opens his jaw showing his razor sharp teeth, from the darkness behind the skull comes three appendages, long and wet. Those are his tongues, and you moan a little when you realise that. He leans closer and the prehensile tongues worm their way to your mouth where you greet them, mouth ready and open. All three appendages slip into your mouth to explore and rub against your tongue, it's so messy and gross it makes you clench around his cock.

He grunts and thrusts into you, thrusting his tongues deeper into your mouth making you gag. You stick your head in his open maw, pulling him in closer by his thick horns. You take the tongues with vigor and suck on them like you would a cock. He seems to like this quite a bit as he grabs both your legs and pulls your knees up to your ears, bending you in half and presenting your dripping pussy to him. He starts thrusting his cock much deeper in your pussy than before while thrusting his tongues down your throat simultaneously.

The pleasure is so intense as he gradually speeds up, working up to a brutal pace. He fucks you into the floor, so deep, so good. It's so animalistic it makes you go feral. He tongue fucks your throat with fever, his dangerous maw wide open. Knowing that he could tear your flesh easily if he just closed his jaws around your head turns you on an unthinkable amount as you take his tongues deeper down your already full throat.

You want him deeper in your throat even as you choke and gag. You want him deeper in your pussy even as he pounds you raw and hard, reaching so deep he kisses your cervix. Your brain is mush and your thighs burn, you scratch and claw his back for some kind of grounding as you quickly reach your peak again.

Your screams are muffled and gargled but the sound of your wet pussy slapping and squelching around his cock as you cum echos throughout the room. He growls and snarls into your mouth when he gets close, tilting his head back in absolute bliss.

He wraps his arms under your thighs and around your back to lift you up and squeeze you against his hot body. He pounds you even harder now with gravity on his side, forcing you down on his cock as he thrusts up in time.

His tongues leaves your mouth suddenly as he cums hard, groaning loudly as he fucks his seed deeper into your already soaked cunt. With your mouth free you groan like an snimal, tongue out, tears streaking down your face, spit running down your neck. You soak up the feeling of being folded in half and filled to the fucking brim by this demonic beast.

Your moans mix in the hot air between you. His cum is so thick and hot inside you, filling you up once again. You're so full you can't contain it all as it pours out of you and onto the floor. He gives a few slow, deep thrusts, milking his cock with your tight pussy as you lay limply in his hold.

You sit on the floor for a few minutes holding each other close and catching your breath. He nuzzles his head into your sweaty neck and moves your body into a more relaxed position so that he's hugging around your waist and your legs rest around his torso. You feel each other for a moment, his cock still plugging up your messy cunt. Hes quiet, like he's thinking about something. You're not sure you can even speak but if you could you don't really know what you would say.

He leans back to look at your face, you realise you probably look an absolute mess, tear streaked face with spit all over your mouth and chin. He looks into your eyes like he's looking for something specific and you look back into his two small flames. He slightly nods and then holds you close to his chest once more, enveloping you with his body.

Suddenly your body gets hot, he gets hot. His hold is like a hot vice and you struggle against it on instinct but he just holds you tighter. You almost scream when you feel a red hot flash in every artery and vein in your body. The heat is gone just as quickly as it came and you sigh in relief before looking up at him in shock when you suddenly realise what he just did.

He accepted the pact proposal.

You let out a breathless laugh and lean up to place wet kisses all over his skull head.

He growls low and irritable like a cat.

"That's not necessary."

He grumbles like he's annoyed but doesn't move away from you as you give a few more kisses along his jaw. His tail swishes idly behind him.

"Well neither was fucking me. Twice."

You tease him while reaching for your discarded hat and plopping it back on your head. You shakily stand up on wobbly legs, he holds his hands out to your hips to stabilise you. Cum drips out of your cunt and his gaze is drawn to where it oozes down your thighs.

"Not that I'm complaining."

You balance yourself with your hands on his shoulders and clear your throat, trying to seem a little put together as he stares up at you. You very casually lift your leg to rest it on his shoulder, presenting your puffy, dripping cunt to him.

"Are you the fuck and leave type or do you stay for the cleanup? "

The demon chuckles and opens his maw again, wet tongues slipping out and reaching for you, licking up your cum covered thighs and up to the source of the mess.

You're both going to make very good use of this pact.

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Eleven: red ink

tw: animal cruelty/death

“But I don’t wanna go to bed.”

Joseph stands at the center of the living room in plaid pajamas, an airplane themed blanket tossed over his shoulders, and a pout on his face. A bright red dusts the waterline of his eyes as he rubs at them like he can will his prostration away and hide it beneath the blanket he pulls tighter around him. He wants to smother it until it vanishes, or is small enough to at least hide from his mother. 

“I know you’re excited, big guy, but you gotta. Stanta’s coming tonight, remember?” Beth coos. She’s kneeling in front of him, hands on his shoulders as if afraid he’ll lose balance and fall asleep at any moment. The poor thing is dead on his feet, swaying as the silent lullaby of slumber beckons him to give in. “He can’t do his job if you’re awake, now can he? Besides, the sooner you fall asleep, the sooner tomorrow will come.” 

Just as Joseph begins to yawn, Tommy swoops in behind him, arms wrapping around his small frame in a bear hug. He’s instantly swaddled, blanket pulled tight around him as if he were a mummy, leaving him no room to fight or struggle. Soporific giggles escape the boy’s chest as his father lifts him into the air, limp legs dangling and swaying as they begin to march off towards the back of the house. 

“C’mon,” he urges, playfully grunting as if the child’s weight is too heavy for him. “I’ll tuck ya in nice and tight. Gotta build up your energy for tomorrow, yeah?” 

“Okay,” Joseph yawns back just as his mother joins in behind them. 

Everything is warm. Viridity shrouds your eyes with rose tinted glasses and the glow of the Christmas tree diffuses like little halos. You are elated—happily content being shoved against Simon’s side, legs curled underneath yourself on the couch, head resting against his shoulder. Something sordid still lurks there between the fibers of your muscles; the sinews that hold you together. A pestilential rot that refuses to wash clean, but for the moment—at least—it’s nothing but a gentle vibration. A meaningless hum in your bones that doesn’t quite reach your brain. 

Mindless fingers trace Simon’s forearm as you study the ink that bleeds into his skin. It’s dark—sharp shapes and deep shadowing gives each piece depth, and still they blend together seamlessly. Many of the pieces blur in your vision—skulls and smoke—but there’s one that pops. One that steals the focus of your fingers as you circle it over and over again. 

It’s a fox. A simple, small fox. Every other piece on his arm is in black and white except for this one, which sports the same crimson fur you’re used to seeing. She’s a beautiful creature sitting proud and tall on the inside of Simon’s forearm with shining eyes and a curious, fluffy tail. Your index finger presses into her nose—his skin is so warm you swear you feel her exhale. 

“Havin’ fun?” Simon humors after a moment of letting you wander. 

“I like your fox,” you smile, head still pressed against his shoulder. 

“I like her, too,” he concurs with a hum. 

You trace the side of her chest before following the curve of her tail with your fingers. “Why is she the only color tattoo you have?”

“Cause she’s special.” 

“Special how?” 

Simon sucks in a deep breath. His ribcage expands, widening his shoulders and moving your body with his, and when he lets go, you sink back into him all over again. His fingers twitch, and you watch his tattoos dance with the movement of his muscles. 

“She was the first tattoo I ever got,” he admits. 

“Yeah? I like foxes. I think they’re neat. They’re very… cute.” You hum, fingers still dancing on his skin. “Why a fox?” 

Pausing, he tilts his head to the side as if it’s suddenly too heavy for him to hold up. He cautiously rests it on top of yours. “When Tommy ‘n I were kids, mum took us to see our grandparents. They lived in some old cottage in a rural town further north. Had a lot of land with it that we used to muck around in. We were always told not to cross the stream in the pasture because we’d be getting into the neighbors property, but we were kids so we did it anyway. 

“We found a trap in this small patch of trees. You know, one of those cages that shuts behind an animal to keep them there until someone comes along to let ‘em out? There was a fox in there. Scared out of her mind, too. Poor thing was spitting and crying at us when we got close, just thrashing around in the cage. I wanted to let her out, but Tommy said that someone else would come by to take care of her, so we didn’t bother.” 

As you listen to his story, you find your fingers slowly dwindling in their movements. Everything suddenly feels colder as you stare at this artwork. You wet your lips with your tongue. “And?” 

“And we left,” Simon continues. “Came back to Manchester. We didn’t visit our grandparents again for another year or two, but when we did, I crossed that pasture again. She was still there, stuck in that cage. Starved to death. Left to rot. Dunno why I got so mad. I ran out to the neighbors house and pounded on the door until my hands nearly bled. Mum dragged me off before I could do any real damage, but I never forgot it. Never forgave them for it, either. Guess I got this as a tribute to her. Not that it makes her any less dead.” 

You see his story clear as day as Simon shares this piece of himself with you. You see the verdant field with its hidden, rusty cage. The withered creature trapped behind bars as its fur darkens and decays over time. A young Simon Riley as he stomps up to some house and demands answers—demands justice. Your fingers trail further down his arm, ghosting by his wrists. It’s strange realizing that he’s always been this way; that he’s always been so selfless. 

Always helping poor creatures who spit and trash at the sign of help.

“That’s so nice of you, getting this for her,” you whisper. 

“Is it?” he challenges, unconvinced. 

“I think so,” you shrug. 

“It doesn’t really make much of a difference.” 

“It does,” you insist. “You get to keep her alive in some way. She might have died for nothing then, but she lives for something now.” 

Simon doesn’t answer you. You’re not sure if he believes you or not, but you’re glad you’ve at least sowed that thought into his mind. When the silence drones on for too long, your jaw unhinges in an uncomfortable yawn as your eyes begin to water, exhaustion pulling at your body like the damned attempting to drag you into your grave. 

“Tired, sweetheart?” Simon asks. He doesn’t move—he stays politely still as you blink the bleariness from your eyes. 

“Maybe a little,” you admit with a chuckle. You lift your head from his shoulder, and the absence of him feels wrong. When you turn to look at him, you find Simon already staring at you. 

“Been a long day,” he agrees. Long legs stretch out in the empty space in front of him before he scoots away from you and stands. “C’mon, let's get you settled. I’ll show you the room.” 

A weightlessness lifts you off the couch as you trudge after Simon, following in line behind him as you wander into the back of the house. Quiet giggles bleed through one of the doors you pass in the hallway, and you can’t help but chuckle as Joseph—once again—declares his excitement for Christmas tomorrow. His joy emanates from the door as if the room is too small to hold back the cheer of a young soul. 

Simon leads you to the end of the hallway at the very back of the house. A room sits tucked just across the bathroom where a lamp illuminates a queen sized bed with argentine sheets. Barren walls close the room in, but you find that if you squint hard enough you can see old marks. Tiny holes from long gone tacks—perhaps used to hold up posters. It’s painted over; hardly even visible. A slight dent makes its home next to the door where the doorknob rests against the wall. 

“Used to be my bedroom,” Simon informs, shoulder leaning against the doorway as you step in. “Well, mine ‘n Tommy’s anyway.” 

Your thoughts are flooded as you picture Simon as a child again. Small frame, smooth skin—or maybe he was always large. A heavy, broad boy who gave his parents trouble as he ran around the house causing mayhem. An imagined giggle echoes in your mind, a shrill squeal of unadulterated joy. You wonder how often the two of them played together here, the secrets they would whisper to one another at night, and the endless bickering and kvetching. 

You’re only brought back into your body when you notice that his bag is sitting next to yours at the foot of the bed. 

A blink clears your vision and it’s still there. Two bags. A single bed. The steady thudding of your heart leaps into your throat where it makes its new home. It’s impossible to swallow, to force it into submission, back into the cage where it belongs. Stiff joints refuse to work with you as you turn to face Simon. He looks around the room wistfully, yet with a tinge of something darker. Something haunted. 

“Are… are you and I sharing this room?” you ask timidly. 

He nods. “Mum’s got her bedroom upstairs, Tommy ‘n them got the old office, so we get the guest room.” He pauses, eye scrutinizing your face before he pushes away from the door, heavy feet causing the floor beneath him to creak. “That alright?” 

Choking on your words, you stutter through a sheepish smile, though you’re not sure it’s enough to cover how mortified you are. Molten blood suffocates your veins, and you feel it coagulate and clot. Really, it shouldn’t mean anything; sharing a bed with someone. You and Aelin have shared beds plenty of times together and it’s never meant a thing. 

Does it only feel terrifying because you want it to mean something this time?

“Yeah, no, that’s fine. I just- I’ve never- erm.” All you can do is spew nonsense. It worsens the heat building in your face, bleeding through your skin, antagonizing the tips of your ears—you wish you would just shut up but you always have to explain yourself in some way. 

“Hey,” he says, raising a hand to stop you. “If you’re not comfortable with it, that’s fine. I can always sleep on the floor, or out in the livin’ room if you don’t want me here at all.” 

For a moment, your brain entertains the idea of him in both scenarios. A hardwood floor is hardly a proper surface to sleep on, and the thought of him shoving his large frame onto Mrs. Riley’s small loveseat nearly makes you cringe. 

“What? No, I can’t do that to you. I’m not gonna make you sleep on the floor in your own home. Or, at least your family’s home,” you retort earnestly. “I can take the couch.” 

“Not happenin’ sweetheart,” Simon says as a small smirk pulls at his lips. “Really think I’m lettin’ you sleep anywhere but a proper bed? If you’re comfortable with it, we’ll both take the bed, and if not, then I’ll take the floor, or you can kick me to the couch. Those are your three options.” 

“But-”

“No. No nuances here.” It isn’t until his hand brushes against your arm that you realize just how close he is to you. His attention drifts, fingers picking at a piece of fuzz on your clothes before flicking it somewhere to be forgotten on the ground. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, I’ve slept on worse before. And you’ll only hurt my feelings a little bit,” he teases. 

While your body freezes, your mind is nothing but a whirlwind of thought. Torturous, you feel trapped; unable to speak your thoughts. How do you tell him that you don’t think you can sleep next to him not because you’re uncomfortable, but because you’ll crumble at his touch? Because you’ll fade into nothing but soot and ash that would blow away at the mere huff of his mirth? You’d lay next to him, and like Icarus, you’d melt before you even get to brush against his warmth. 

And still—you refuse to let him sleep on the floor. 

“No. No, it’s fine. The bed is good,” you say with a stiff nod. 

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Certain?”

“Certain,” you repeat. 

He stares at you for a moment too long and you feel your bones morph into jello. He’s giving you an out—the time to change your mind. Gelatin muscles and rubber tendons; you’d collapse if it weren’t for the panic constricting in a spiral around your body. You swallow it down, willing it away just long enough to convince him you’ll be fine. 

“Alright,” he says as he takes a step back. He glances at your bags, still sitting neatly next to one another, before nodding. “I’ll step out. Let you change. Gotta grab presents out of the car anyway, so take your time.” 

After confirming the plan, Simon begins to back out of the room. Hand on the door, he begins to shut himself out, though he quickly pauses in order to point at the bed. “I get the side closest to the door, yeah?” 

“Okay,” you nod.

You aren’t able to breathe properly until the door latches shut behind him. Your knees nearly give out as you sigh. Stumbling back, you collapse onto the springy mattress and throw your face into your hands in an attempt to muffle your groan. How anyone can stand to be around you when you’re so gauche is beyond you. Your mother always told you that you would outgrow this awkwardness one day. Turns out, you’re just as small as you’ve always been—you haven’t outgrown a single thing. 

The only thing that calms your thoughts is a series of gentle, controlled respires. Anxiety sizzles then fizzles out, leaving your nerves scorched, but not completely useless. You rise. You shuck off your dirty clothes and allow fresh pajamas to hold you close—something you’ve yet to ruin. 

You stare at the bed, and it stares right back at you, just as confused. How the hell are you going to have any room on this thing with someone as large as Simon laying next to you? 

A problem for later. 

Simon is in the hallway when you open the door. He stands with his hands shoved into his pockets as he faces the wall, eyes blankly staring at picture frames. Dozens of them sit in asymmetrical lines, haphazardly shoved together. Nothing but a collage that had suddenly grown too large to fit properly. If he notices you—which you’re certain he does—he doesn’t say anything as you cautiously approach him, eyeing the glinting glass. 

Some of the pictures are old—much older than either you or Simon. Black and white film displays a young, happily married couple. They grow and morph throughout the series of photos. Love slowly decays over time until it rots into nothing but contemptment. There’s undersaturated photos with brutal lens flares burning the images, and other digital pictures with crisp quality. The younger the film becomes, the older the couple gets. The more their smiles fade. 

Swallowing, you stare at the man. There’s something familiar about him with his dark eyes and tight lips, but that recognition fades as he gets older. He becomes skinnier. Wastes until his flesh pulls at his bones like a skeleton with sunken eyes, gaunt face, and sallow skin. His stomach distends, dark eyes dull with a benevolent hate for anything within his gaze. He vanishes from the pictures eventually where he’s replaced by kinder, softer faces. 

“Who’s that?” you ask. Your finger points to the wasting man as if the gesture alone might shatter the frame. 

Simon is silent for a moment before he responds. “My father.” 

“Oh,” you chirp meekly. A part of you already guessed. You see the parts that Simon shares with him—how eerily similar they are to one another. 

“He’s dead,” he says, answering the question burning on your tongue. 

You swallow. “I’m… I’m sorry.” 

Huffing, Simon shakes his head. His weight shifts but his eyes stay glued to the pictures. It takes a moment for him to loosen his jaw enough to respond. “I’m not. Glad he’s gone. His bad habits had to catch up to him eventually.” 

His brutal reply catches you off guard. You don’t think you could ever be glad about either of your parents being dead. It’s… a strange thought to have. One you’re not sure you can hold against him. Never for a moment did you revel at either of your parents' funerals. Really, you couldn’t stop crying. 

Then, you think of sharp blades—gasping breaths—blood on linoleum—and you remember that some people’s parents don’t deserve to be mourned. 

“Well, that’s something we have in common at least. Dead dads, and all,” you attempt to humor. 

Much to your surprise, it works. A gentle titter reverberates in Simon’s throat as he finally tears his eyes away from that dead, wasted man and looks at you. His eyes gleam in the pale living room light that bleeds into the hallway. The gentle glow melts the darkness of his irises until they’re pulsing and smooth. He’d melt in the palm of your hands if you asked him to. 

Maybe he already has. 

It isn’t long before you’re under freshly washed covers with your head on an unfamiliar pillow. The only thing that is familiar is Simon—the scent of him especially. That faint, smothered nicotine and fresh cotton. You wonder if he can feel the thud of your heart ring throughout the mattress, or if its reverberations crawl up his spine like the heat of him crawls up yours. 

There is something strange about forcing yourself to be apart from him after being glued to his side for most of the evening. Like driving a wedge between two magnets, you feel his pull like you’re the earth and he’s the sun. Forever caught in the cosmic storm of one another. Yet, something even stronger holds you back. 

It’s all consuming—this terrible obloquy that fluctuates in weight. One moment, it’s as light as a feather. Some timid thing that can do no more harm than a single flake of snow. Other times, it’s a brutal storm. Unrelenting and frigid, tearing you apart at the seams. Perhaps it’s the bed. The connotation. The blood that has yet to soak the sheets and stain the mattress. 

Your blood. Your tears. 

My offer is still on the table if you find yourself having trouble.

Your heart trips. It stumbles on itself, skipping a beat and forcing your blood to run cold. No matter what, you always carry a piece of him with you. He shoved it inside of you like a blade, and you’ve been too terrified to rip it out. Too afraid to see how much blood would come with it. Too afraid to witness the rot that’s festered inside of you because of him. You’re choking. Breath caught in your throat like a windpipe between slender fingers. Eyes bulging. Ears ringing. Soft lips on skin hiding sharp teeth waiting to tear you apart. 

You sit up like you’re able to run from the feeling and leave it far behind, but it doesn’t help. It’s still here. Writhing beneath your skin like maggots. Burrowing into your bones. It’s always here. It will always be here. Dormant and waiting to erupt. To tear open the tender flesh that only a monster covets. Your body has not belonged to you in years—you fear that it never did to begin with. 

You might never belong to yourself again—not with this infection. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Simon’s gentle susurrus hardly reaches you. It’s dull and cottony. Your head snaps to look at him in the darkness of the room and you see the fuzzy outline of his frame laid flat on his back. One hand rests behind his head, opening up the arm closest to you like an invitation. You swallow. Your throat is dry and sticking to itself. You try not to tremble. 

“Can’t sleep.” It’s blunt. Quick. If you speak any further you swear you’ll deteriorate. 

Cautious fingers brush against your arm, forcing your skin to twitch at his presence. He pauses, then moves slower, torso curling as he lifts himself off the bed to further his reach. His arm snakes around your back, and then to your shoulder before he carefully pulls you back down to earth. 

“C’mere,” he says before leaning you back with him. 

Anxiety quells into confusion as Simon situates you on your side, head resting on his chest. His arm stays around you, supporting your head as his hand lays politely on your waist. Ragdolling, you go along with him as his free hand grabs yours. His thumb gently prods your fingers, prompting your fist to relax and unfurl before he places your palm flat on his chest and right above his heart. His breaths come heavy and deep, chest expanding beneath your palm, prompting your own diaphragm to do the same. 

Your eyes grow heavy as you listen—breathe and listen. Your good ear presses against his chest, and you can feel his steady pulse beat against your cheek. It’s strong—hypnotic. Eventually, the tightness in your chest wanes and your body goes limp in Simon’s arms as you’re lulled to sleep while he rubs soft circles over the back of your hand.

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[briebo-is-a-dragon]

welp. a tumblr post made me absolutely feral and so i kind of wrote a 2800 word microfic in like 3.5 hours, have this utterly unedited short little thing about a therian dragon rider and her dragon LMAO

Every step towards the stables eased the weight on her heart, allowed her to breathe just that little bit easier. Concern radiated across the bond as she approached, but no words were exchanged. They both knew she’d be there soon enough.

Her keys clinking together were almost deafeningly loud in the otherwise silent hallway, sending her heart racing as she carefully and slowly unlocked the gate. This late at night, there was nobody needed to guard the entrance to the stables – after all, who would be stupid enough to try and break into a building filled with sleeping dragons?

There was a spike of amusement over the bond at that thought, and a smile involuntarily tugged at the corners of her mouth as she slipped inside, locking the gate behind her.

It wasn’t long after she approached the familiar archway, a curtain of beads drawn across it. It was quite massive, as was necessary for a creature of her mounts size, the top of it some four or five times taller than her arms could reach.

She thought she could hold out for longer, hoped that she could at least put on a good face despite the turmoil that the dragon would so obviously be able to feel over their bond, she didn’t want to cause worry.

As she pushed through the beads, parting them with a hand she could not bear to look at, she called out.

“Fa-hir—” Her voice immediately cracked, hitching on just stating her companions name.

The beast was a blur, yanking her off her feet and into an embrace before she could even so much as breathe.

“Oh little hatchling,” the dragon rumbled, “What is hurting you?”

Fahir was warm, and so so much larger than her. From her vantage point, in the creatures arms and on her side, she could only truly see its silver underbelly. In moments, however, its golden snout was pressing into her hair, gently nuzzling her in a way that made the tension melt from her body.

She buried her face into the dragons chest, skin against scales, as she allowed herself to indulge in the bond. Her view of what constituted her became fuzzy, indistinct, blurring and mixing with that of her companions. If she closed her eyes she could almost… she could feel the scales on her skin, the wings shifting nervously, the tail gently wrapping around the soft little things leg in her arms—

“Amara.”

Amara opened her eyes, her vision still taken up entirely by the underside of the dragon holding her. Despite all her swirling negative feelings, she couldn’t help but smile at hearing that name.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, only to be cut off by a snort from above her. The scent of raw beef and smoke tickled her nostrils as the breath washed over her.

“Do not thank me for using your name, little thing, I won’t allow it.”

Nobody else knew to call her by that name, nor to even think of her as ‘she’, but Amara knew that the performative ease with which the dragon presented her acceptance was, in of itself, part of the intended affirmation.

Another gentle nuzzling brought her out of her own thoughts.

“Speak, little thing. Why run all the way here so quickly, and in so much pain?”

Amara could simultaneously hear and feel the dragons words, being as close to her chest as she was. The vibrations of her speech resonated in her bones, causing her brain to rattle around pleasantly in her skull.

It did little to help her answer the question, however.

Her mouth flapped open and closed as she attempted to find how to describe the ache in her soul, to attempt to put words to the vague feelings that haunted her evenings and tore at her heart. It was only when she looked up, into her companions eyes, that she finally began to speak.

“I just- I- Being so far from you, from the bond, having it be so weak—”

Amara caught herself, taking a breath as her eyes drifted downwards and away from Fahir’s snout.

“It reminded me of all the ways in which I’m not like you, and- that… hurt.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt concern swell over the bond, curling up within the dragon’s embrace. Fahir’s voice was a sad growl that Amara felt in her chest, the dragons snout ever so gently pressed into the back of her neck.

“Oh, dear hatchling, I am so sorry.”

The tightness of the dragons arms was slowly replaced by her tail. It advanced from Amara’s ankles, coiling around her in an affectionate, possessive embrace.

“It’s nothing you need to apologize for,” Amara mumbled into Fahir’s scales, “It’s just- well- inevitable when I’m like this. Just because I want to be like you, doesn’t mean that reality can’t have sharp teeth when it reminds me of what I actually am.”

Fahir’s warning growl sent goosebumps prickling over her spine as the dragon tightened her grip around her rider.

“Amara. What have I told you about saying such things about yourself?”

She squirmed uselessly within the dragons coiled tail, letting out a noise of protest before quickly giving up. She’d had this sort of confrontation many times before, she knew she couldn’t escape unless the dragon let her.

… Amara hoped the feelings associated with that thought weren’t too transparent over the bond.

“You told me not to, Fahir, as you wouldn’t accept me being in denial, but—”

“No. No buts, or ifs, or interruptions. I won’t have them. I know what you are, little thing, and I won’t hear otherwise. Especially not from you.”

Amara couldn’t help but feel her exasperation rise as she shot back at the beast.

“But look at me!” She managed to wrench an arm free from Fahir’s grip, and waved it in front of her snout, “How does this at all resemble a dragon? How does any of me? I don’t have scales, nor claws, nor wings- I’m just human, Fahir, as much a-as that might- h-hurt – It’s the truth. It’s just…”

She trailed off as a massive claw was pressed to her lips, stopping her outburst in its tracks long enough for her to realize she had tears in her eyes. Again.

“Did you come to me tonight with the express purpose of harming yourself, Amara?”

The dragons tone was dangerous, a low no-nonsense growl that made her head spin and her hair stand on end. The claw wasn’t removed from her lips, and so she was made to speak around it.

“N-no, I- um, I apologize, Fahir,”

“Hush. You need not apologize to me – I was not the target of those statements.”

The claw migrated to beneath Amara’s chin, and tilted her head up until she was looking down the dragons snout and into her vivid blue eyes.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you, hatchling?”

What poured over the bond was almost oppressive – utter confidence in her words, a demand for her attention, a piercing request for her honesty… Amara wasn’t certain that if she opened her mouth she’d be able to form actual words.

Instead, she gently nodded her head – Fahir had told her before, even if she hadn’t been able to believe it. The dragon’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, I am going to tell you again.”

A second claw joined the first, this time softly tracing her cheek. A hint of adoration zapped Amara over the bond, of utter possessive affection, and it took all of her will not to let out some manner of reaction.

Fahir’s voice lowered until Amara felt it almost entirely in her chest, resonating in her skull and making her teeth rattle in their sockets.

“I see a dragoness, still perhaps unable to step out of her shell – fleshy and human in appearance it may be – but burning so bright and clear that I cannot fathom how anyone else could be so blind as not to see it.”

Amara let out an animal whimper, melting into the embrace as Fahir squeezed her for a brief moment, claw now tracing her jaw.

“It is how I’ve seen you since I first laid my eyes upon you, little treasure, and if I could somehow force you to see it too I would in a heartbeat. However, I cannot, not in a way that won’t stick unless you believe me.”

The claw under her chin dug in just a little bit, enough to remind her of its sharpness but not enough to draw blood.

“Do you remember what I told you when you asked why a dragon as old as I would stay here in the stables, allowing a stranger to ride me, when by all means I had the strength to leave if I wanted? When all the other dragons here are children who still yearn for the thrill of fighting and battle?”

Amara let out another incoherent noise, causing Fahir to break character to chuckle.

“Use your words, little thing – this I’d like to hear you say yourself.”

It took some effort to reorganize her brain, as scrambled as it was, though Amara somehow managed. The process and concentration involved only seemed to amuse Fahir further, if the feelings over the bond were anything to go by, which made it all significantly harder.

“Y-you said that you being here was a choice,” Amara murmured, averting her eyes, “And that you could leave if you chose, but that you staying here was evidence of my being interesting enough to keep you in one place.”

The dragon hummed in satisfaction, right before the claw once again applied pressure to the underside of Amara’s chin once again, and the amusement quickly fell away.

“So then,” Fahir growled, “Do you think that I am coddling you? That I am lying to you, when I say these things? Do you think I’d have any reason to?”

Amara let out a sharp exhalation, thoughts running through her brain at a rapid pace. So many of them ended up in some form of denial, only to meet the surety of Fahir’s words and confidence over the bond together and be overturned.

“No.”

The pressure of the claw under her chin released, coming forward to join the other in gently tracing down the side of Amara’s neck.

“No objections? No buts or ifs, hatchling?”

“No, Fahir. Thank you.”

Finally, then, did the veil of seriousness fall away. Warmth and adoration flooded the bond, and Amara was pressed tightly into Fahir’s chest, where her long neck met her shoulders.

“Perfect,” the dragon hummed, “Thank you for indulging me, little thing, and you are welcome.”

Amara smiled even as she buried her face into the dragons scutes, closing her eyes. However, it wasn’t long before that smile wavered.

“I’m sorry you had to do this with me again, Fahir, I just- well, you know how I feel better than I do a lot of the time,”

Amara melted underneath the gentle nuzzling from above, the dragon letting out a content rumbling noise.

“Do not apologize, little thing. Your doubts are deep-rooted. Though I may need to remind you on occasion, each time they become a bit looser I’d think.”

Amara simply grunted in response, allowing herself to relax into the dragons chest as Fahir gently laid them both on their side once again. The beast was warm, and comfortingly so. Her size meant it came nearly from all directions, quickly allowing one to relax into the tight embrace.

After a few moments – or a few minutes, she always found it hard to tell in times like this – Amara stirred.

“I think I’m going to leave, Fahir, but thank you for your help.”

Wordlessly, the dragon unravelled from around her rider, allowing her to stand up and brush herself off.

“This was an immense help to me, I- yes. Thank you.”

Amara felt stiff, giving an uncomfortable bow before turning to leave the room.

Her companion was oddly silent, simply watching her as she somewhat awkwardly shuffled over to the exit, lost in her own swirling thoughts.

It wasn’t until she felt the tugging sensation around her ankle, when she was just at the archway, that she realized that Fahir had not actually fully let go of her.

The dragon yawned theatrically, tapping the end of her snout with a claw.

“No, I think not, little thing.”

The grip around her ankle tightened.

“Pardon?” Amara whispered hoarsely.

Deviously slowly, the dragons tail began advancing up her body.

“I don’t think I’m going to let you leave, Amara. Not until you actually want to, that is. Did I ever tell you that you were being a disturbance to me?”

“No but- ah—"

Before she could finish her rebuttal, she was yanked off her feet and back towards the dragon.

“Hush, hatchling. You want to stay, yes? Be honest.”

Amara averted her eyes, nodding.

“Alright,” Fahir purred, “Then you are staying.”

She let out a noise of protest, but was quickly silenced as Fahir began drawing her claws over her scalp.

“What have I said about your desires, treasure?”

“That dragons claw at what they want with all their might, and don’t deny themselves,” Amara mumbled as she was reduced to putty beneath the dragons attention.

“Indeed. I think I’ll soon have it ingrained into you well enough, and you’ll be happier for it.”

Fahir hummed with satisfaction as Amara so easily yielded under her touch. Soon enough, however, the dragon yawned in earnest.

“Mm, may I try something with you, Amara?”

She blinked away the haze she’d been under, looking up at her companion.

“What is it?”

A claw traced its way along her jaw as Fahir let out a contemplative growl.

“The bond helps comfort you when you’re feeling particularly disconnected from yourself, yes? I could feel you sink into it when you first arrived.”

Amara nodded, if not hesitantly then embarrassedly.

“Then I would like to try something. Please, relax.”

Then, almost as there was a mental hand grasping hers, Amara felt herself being pulled. Gently and ever so slowly, she was led across the mental link she shared with her dragon, and the edges of her being became fuzzy and indistinct.

She came to the threshold that had already been her comfort prior, the extent to which she was able to sink into Fahir’s side of the bond. Once again, the phantom sensations of wings, of scales, of claws, all began to form. Ghostly and indistinct, but very much present.

The pulling almost seemed to stall at that point, as if allowing her to acclimate – or, rather, to receive contrast for what occurred next. The pulling became a tug, and suddenly she tumbled, and the phantom sensations became so very real.

Amara gasped with Fahir’s lungs, feeling them expand as she breathed in so much more than she was ever used to. Her wings shifted, stretching to the edges of the room she was in. Her wings, her lungs—

Her eyes were sharp in the darkness, what had previously been gloomy and indistinct becoming sharp and bright. The moon played against her golden hide, glinting off each individual scale.

She could feel a draft play over her scales, and shivered despite the warmth emanating constantly from her core. It was so completely alien compared to how it felt against skin.

And then there was the little thing in her arms, sleeping so soundly. The little dragoness, as seen through Fahir’s eyes, curled and wrapped up in her tail. Little treasure. Amara wanted to cry.

She had never felt comfort like this, had never felt right like this.

Fahir’s voice spoke gently in her mind.

“Is this comfortable, little one?”

Amara nodded, only realizing as she did it that she was still being given the reign over Fahir’s body. The chuckle came mentally, and yet was familiar nonetheless.

“I am so, so very happy, little treasure. Now, let us rest.”

Slowly, Amara could feel herself being brought out from being in control, and with it came the reminder of her fatigue. She had not slept at all that night, and it had already been late when she’d come to Fahir’s room in the stables. Rest… Rest sounded good.

Mentally, Amara allowed herself to nestle against Fahir within their bond, a mirror of them in physicality. In this in-between space, she could both feel the dragons chest rising and falling behind her back, while also feeling the sensation of that breathing as if it were her own.

She drank in the hybrid sensations greedily and deeply, allowing herself to truly relax for perhaps the first time in her memory.

Amara slept, and Fahir curled up protectively around her.

[iamthekaijuking]

My phylogeny of brute wyverns as of the release of wilds

Pantyrannosaur brutes

Anjanath: A belligerent and snotty species of monster. Anjanath are forest creatures that navigate the rough terrain with their narrow bodies and opposable first toes.

Two subspecies exist, the Ancient Forest Anjanath and the Fulgur Anjanath. Despite being labeled a subspecies of the forest variety, Fulgurs are in fact the original species from which Ancient Forest Anjanaths descend from. While they are nomadic, Fulgurs have a preference for boreal forests, where their large size and feathers insulate themselves. They’re notable for their electrogenesis, which is produced by a subcutaneous layer of tissue between the skin and muscles. The sails serve as threat displays and aid in electrical management. Their electricity is transferred to their bite and nasal passages, electrifying their snot as they lob it at opponents.

At some point a population of Fulgur Anjanath in the hoarfrost reach found their way to the ancient forest and adapted. They gave up their extravagant silver orange and blue colors for a black and pink vulture-like color. They also switched from electrogenesis to fire breathing, and this is accomplished thanks to a bioluminescent fluid Ancient Forest Anjanaths produce in their throats. When regurgitated into the mouth, mixed with snorted up snot, exposed to the open air and charged with electricity, this fluid ignites and produces the flames the subspecies is known for. Forest Anjanaths have also repurposed their sails for thermoregulation in their hotter habitat.

The head of the Anjanath is perhaps its most striking feature. The tooth row on the bottom jaw is zigzagged with some of the teeth sitting outside of the mouth and adapted into tusks. The Anjanath’s sense of smell is among the best in the animal kingdom and nasal system is vast and accordion-like. The nasal bones are not ossified and can flip back to allow the nasal passages to extend out the skull when flushed with blood and improve its scent. They often mark territory with snot.

The cartilaginous nature of the nasal bones is interesting as these bones are usually very robust within the tyrannosaur family due to their importance in bite stress handling. This indicates that Anjanath may have a proportionally weaker bite than its kin, and it does seem to have adaptations to compensate. The mandibles, normally not fused and kept separate in most diapsids, fuse together at the front like a crocodilian or mammal and have many stress handling adaptations, meaning that when biting most of the stress is transferred to the mandibles and not the cranium. And instead of overwhelming crushing bite force the species may opt for a good grip and to thrash prey like a crocodile.

The species is normally solitary but when confronted with its own kind it has a very complex series of behaviors meant to ward off competition. Interactions usually start (and end) with the sizing up phase, where either party flairs their sails and nostrils, mouths open and roaring to appear bigger and meaner. If that doesn’t work then they begin nipping each other’s sensitive snouts. If either party fails to back down then all bets are off and a full blown fight takes place, complete with them cutting each other with their spiny tails and leg spurs.

Anjanath offer a glimpse into the evolutionary history of pantyrannosaur brutes. It seems like the group split off from other tyrannosaurs right before they lost their third fingers, but just as they were developing powerful jaws.

Deviljho: A ravenous and dangerous species of tyrannosaur known to inflict terror within the ecosystem and hearts of hunters.

Deviljho are notable for two major things. Their insatiable appetite and production of dragon element. Deviljho are never not hungry and will attempt to eat anything that moves or smells semi edible. Their powerful jaws and numerous chin teeth propelled by a massively muscled neck serve as a deadly mace that can easily kill and cripple. Hides unable to be opened by their bone crushing jaws are melted by their acidic saliva. Deviljho are not opposed to eating rotting carcasses either, which their powerful immune system can deal with thanks to dragon element (dragon element is likely something produced by the immune system of monsters often in contact with things such as rotting flesh). The presence of a single Deviljho creates a massive landscape of fear and many species will flee their habitats just to get away from the cetacean sized tyrannosaur. One case of a Deviljho that was stranded on an island ended in the elimination of all other megafauna. The species is nomadic, and can walk for days on end thanks to hypertrophied caudofemoralis muscles that give their tails such a thick shape.

Most fascinating however, are the numerous indications that Deviljho as a species is not doing very well and either suffered a horrible population bottleneck in the past or may very well be on its last legs.

Deviljho do not live very long, which is the opposite of what’s expected from such a large animal. Numerous cranial adaptations also seem to indicate inbreeding. Deviljho have poor hearing, vision, and smell which is the opposite of what it should be for a tyrannosaur. The teeth grow at a near cancerous rate, especially on the mandibles, and this causes much pain and discomfort. In old world populations teeth grow out of where their lip muscles would attach to the cranium and their liplessness might indicate that their lips were ripped off their face by their own teeth. New world Deviljho are doing even worse. Nearly 50% of their cranium is the maxilla bones, which their teeth look like they’re exploding out of and give them a lobed look. The maxilla are so hypertrophied that they’re enveloping the premaxilla and pushing back the nasals and jugal bones, scrunching up the nose like a brachycephalic dog.

Generally if an inbred animal looks bad on the outside, it’s doing even worse on the inside. Their horrible digestive efficiency is likely a result of inbreeding, and many Deviljho are noted to be sterile. Their dragon production can even become dangerous, with the deleterious mutation resulting in the terminal Savage variant being common.

Why might such a powerful species of animal be doing so poorly in the world? Well, it could be that this just isn’t Deviljho’s world anymore. One hypothesis by UHC suggests that in the last ice age Jhos were predators of large proboscideans and sauropods like Gammoth and Larinoth. Deviljho are nomadic simply because they followed their food for days via their caudofemoralis muscles and used their face (which likely had less teeth and might resembled something like a robust Anjanath) to inflict crippling wounds on prey which they would eat for days on end. But now large elephants and sauropods are a rarity and with its main food source gone, the once mighty Deviljho is not far behind…

Glavenus: Striking and flamboyant carnivores who’re best known for their heavily biomineralized sword tails. Their placement in this group is controversial, but it seems they are the closest living relatives to the Rugu family, which are themselves related to Deviljho and Anjanath.

Much of what we know of the species actually comes from males, as those are the only individuals ever hunted. Glavenus are much like peacocks in that they invest heavily in their appearance, with large horns, back plates, and their iconic tails (it’s presumed that these features are less prominent on females). The tail sword is formed by metal that is secreted into the skin, and this ore is ingested by the Glavenus. Males are very choosy over the metals they eat for their swords and fiercely guard their favorite ore spots. In the months leading up to mating season they even migrate to volcanic environments for the high quality metals found within.

So precisely maintained are their swords that they even have anti rust and sharpening adaptations. The armored face of a Glavenus is an adaptation for tail maintenance, complete with ridges to prevent sparks from getting in the eyes and clamp like structures on their armor. When their sword gets dull or rusty they bring their tail to their mouth, and these clamps both scrape away rust and sharpen the blade. The waste is then collected within their mouth and stored in a special gizzard called the Bursa.

While the sword tail is mostly for show, Glavenus are not afraid to use it for defense. Swinging it around with remarkable dexterity and even jumping to slam it down, and they have wide feet and ankle spurs to help stick their landings and to allow the footwork necessary for their twirling. If push comes to shove they can even drive up their metabolism and heat up their tails (which they also heat with friction) and the contents of their bursa, making the former hot enough to glow and making the latter hot enough to take a liquid form that can be regurgitated at threats. They have special heat resistant tissues in these areas to combat the burning temperatures, and their back plates flush with blood to help thermoregulate.

A subspecies is known to be native to the rotten vale of the new world, known as Acidic Glavenus. While still fussy about the ores on their sword tails, they also secrete crystal sulfur onto their tails filtered from the effluvium they breathe in. This crystal sulfur acts as a protective sheath and further indicator of fitness, as a male with a powerful immune system can better filter effluvium and thus extract more sulfur.

This sulfur has defensive properties as well. The rotten vale is a wet environment, and as an Acidic Glavenus rubs and swings its tail around the acid crystals come in contact with water and oxygen, forming sulfuric acid. If sufficiently pressed, an Acidic Glavenus will shed the sulfur and engage property with its sword, and their attacks feature more jabs and half swings than their cousins due to the cramped environment of the vale.

Glavenus do not hunt with their tails and instead kill with their bone crushing jaws.

Giaorugu: A poorly studied arctic species. Giaorugu take whatever they can in their harsh habitat, killing with their large tusks and making short work of kills with their acidic saliva. They defend themselves from larger predators with their sword tail and water they store in a gizzard that freezes in the open air due to the extreme temperatures of their surroundings.

Males have a larger frill and back plates.

Abiorugu: A species descended from Giaorugu populations around the new world and have been encroaching eastward. They have repurposed their gizzard into a flame sack. The frill present in Giaorugu does not fully come together in Abiorugu, instead forming brow crests. Mated pairs stick together.

Neoceratosaur brutes

Barroth: Theropods that live in arid regions and are known for their distinct heads and diet of bugs.

Barroth are found in deserts and not far from water. They live in ponds and watering holes which they diligently maintain and transform with their crowns and broad hands into muddy homes where they spend most of their time. Fitting for something that spends a lot of time submerged, the species has semiaquatic adaptations. Their feet are flat, broad, and each have two fleshy lobes to increase their surface area. This helps Barroth both swim and not sink into mud they’re standing on. Their nostrils are also situated at the top of their crown, and when submerged the tip is all that’s visible.

These mud holes are primarily for protection against aggressors such as members of the parave blos genus and against the heat of the sun, and Barroth are violently protective of their mud holes.

Despite spending most of their time in mud, they do not eat anything in it. Barroth are in fact myrmecophages, and they must leave the safety of their beloved mud holes to search for food. Before leaving their homes, they roll around in mud to affix large clumps of it to their thick carapace. This mud armor serves many purposes. It acts as a shield against the hot sun, protection against parasites, and even hides their scent. Bits may occasionally fall off and these provide important sources of minerals and water for any flora growing along the path a Barroth might take.

Upon finding an anthill they smash it with their crown and eat any ants coming out at their leisure. Unlike many other myrmecophages, Barroth lack a long flexible tongue, and this is because in the old world where they evolved they primarily target Altaroth which are large enough to negate this issue. New world Barroths get around this not because their prey is large enough to not warrant a tongue, but because Carrier Ants are so numerous and omnipresent it’s not an issue. Like many myrmecophages, Barroths have very specialized guts and actually need to ingest dirt with their prey in order to digest them properly, and may even have a trick to extract energy from chitin.

When threatened, Barroths hit their attackers with their tail clubs and lower their massive heads and charge with the force of a freight train. But because they have such poor eyesight they may become hostile to things that don’t pose a threat or things that are protected by a threat, such as blos young. Barroths have five nostrils, or rather one trifurcated nostril and one bifurcated one. It’s unclear why this is, but it could be that when charging at objects they risk damaging and collapsing their nostrils and being unable to breathe through them, and by simply having more they can negate this issue.

A poorly studied arctic species has been documented, and has a vibrant blue and green hide and even bigger crown, but it’s unclear what it might prey on.

Both Barroth and the surprising relative Brachydios can trace their evolutionary history back to small omnivorous swamp dwelling ceratosaurs that rooted around for bugs, mushrooms, and tubers. As the environment changed, some decided to maintain their swamps while others adapted to the harsh volcanoes.

Brachydios: Agressive ceratosaurs famous for their pounders, blue obsidian-like carapace, and symbiotic slime mold.

In the harsh environment of volcanoes, Brachydios have become carnivores that prefer burrowing animals, but if a golden opportunity presents itself then they will take prey as large as Uragaan. Kills are processed by the two large claws on each hand, normally kept tucked away under the pounders.

Brachydios have a unique relationship with a species of myxomycete with possible relation to Physarum polycephalum, and this can be traced back to their evolutionary history. Because their ancestors were rootling creatures that searched in dark damp places for food such as under logs, they would have occasionally come into contact with the slime mold. This frequent contact would result in this amoeboid eventually growing on the ancestral Bracy’s carapace and sometimes eating it. Becoming a hitchhiking nuisance. But this slime also had a very literally explosive reproduction, which would be beneficial for unearthing food. Brachydios eventually learned to tolerate the amoeba eating its skin because it could be used to better forage. Modern Brachydios grow the carapace on their horn and pounders quicker than other parts of the body since that’s where most of the slime lives, with most of it living within the spongy bone and keratin of its forehead pounder and requiring compounds in its saliva to reproduce.

Exceptionally large and old Brachydios may acquire the poorly researched Fashpoint Slime and become known as Raging Brachydios. The flashpoint dazzles potential mates with its bright colors, but this may prove to be a detriment to the population in an area. Only the individuals that carry flashpoint can survive its blasts, and if any normal Brachydios survive mating with a raging then any young will certainly be killed by flashpoint slime that takes root on their shells.

Heterodontosaur brutes

Quematrice: A recently discovered species native to the forbidden lands that is exclusively a scavenger.

Despite their theropod-like appearance they and others like them are actually descended from heterodontosaurs. The ancestor of the entire family was likely primarily herbivorous with carrion and insect eating habits; essentially being adapted to a low protein diet rich in macronutrients. Many different taxa would either retain or lose the predentary or tusks.

Quematrice itself has lost the predentary but kept its tusks. The rest of the teeth have minimal serrations but are thick and sharp, perfect for piercing and cracking bone. This diet of dead flesh and bone may provide insight into how Uragaan gained its unique diet. By eating the bones of other monsters, which in the world of monster hunter are highly mineralized, the ancestors of Uragaan might have gradually evolved a gut microbiome that could better process other metals.

Quematrice are able to secrete an oil onto their skin on their tail, and use friction to ignite it and create threat displays. This unique oily skin secretion is a further link between it and the aans.

Radobaan: A member of the aan genus native to the rotten vale.

Radobaan has pointed spike scutes on its back as opposed to the flat studs of Uragaan, possibly as an adaptation for traction in the vale, and instead of cranial bosses it has horns. Outside of these physical differences though, Radobaan are outwardly the same as their sister species, with the biggest difference being internal. Radobaan has a different gut microbiome than Uragaan, and it can be thought of as somewhat in between Quematrice and Uragaan’s guts. Radobaan primarily feast on bone which is abundant in the vale, as well as the occasional plant and fungi to round out their diet.

Both anns process their food via their very unique cranial anatomy. Their mandibles are incredibly robust and the bones have largely fused together. This massive bludgeoning chin, while excellent at defending them from danger, can also crush meals into more manageable chunks. Their predentary forms a “lip” that can hook food and debris, and food shoveled into the mouth is processed by the teeth. The teeth of Uragaan and Radobaan are large, flat, and arranged in a zigzag, with two noticeable tusks. These teeth can grind food down into a fine powder and have deep roots.

Food is gradually broken down by a multi-chambered stomach. Gases extracted from the digestive process have narcotic effects and can be released through abdominal vents in self defense.

Both species can secrete a tar-like oil from their skin that they use to affix their food to their bodies for defense and to carry a portable meal.

Both species can curl themselves into a wheel shape to move quickly and efficiently across slanted terrain, and have appropriately tough backs for this task. It’s possible that their ancestors merely curled into a ball for protection like an armadillo or pangolin, but in the uneven terrain of volcanoes this might have accidentally resulted in rolling down hills away from danger. This eventually became an instinctual behavior to roll from danger and was further expanded into a method of movement.

Uragaan: A sister species to Radobaan found anywhere in the world with a volcano.

As explained above, Uragaan differ from Radobaan in that their back and cranial armor form flat pegs (which grow continuously throughout their lives), but their diet and gut biome are different as well. Uragaans are ore eaters, using the same tools useful in cracking and grinding bone to crush rock. To digest their meals they have an incredibly complex gut biome able to consume inorganic material and create organic byproducts that Uragaan itself can consume, much like the symbiotic microbes of creatures living around hydrothermal vents. The caveat to this is that these heterodontosaurs are choosy eaters and live life slowly. Much of their time is spent just digesting their meals.

Because of their diet of ore, Uragaan decorate themselves in metal as opposed to the bone of their sister species, making their bodies heavier. They also affix explosive rocks to their tails, which they can fling at threats and set off with an earth shattering chin slam. The chin itself is coated in melted metals. The gases they extract from digestion are also more diverse, and on top of narcotics they can also vent a hot combustible gas.

Uragaan start life small and herbivorous and don’t begin eating ore until strong enough to crack it. The species is also somewhat social and may engage in rough shoving matches as a form of play. During breeding season males dress themselves in colorful jewels and ore to impress mates. Particularly old individuals may even have crystals growing on them.

A subspecies exists called Steel Uragaan which makes excursions deeper into volcanoes for sulfur rich minerals. Because of this diet it cannot make sleep gas but can create foul smelling sulfuric gas. This repeated traversal between cooler and hotter areas of volcanoes effectively heat treats the metals on their bodies, which explains the colors.

Duramboros: A massive Heterodontosaur that lives in large forests.

Duramboros are primarily tree eaters, felling trees with their tails and eating the bark and other woody tissue. Like the aans they have multi-chambered stomachs for ruminating, and Duramboros do spend a lot of time just digesting food, and can sit in areas for so long that moss and fungi can grow on their shells. The species will also round out their diets by eating dead trees for the arthropods and fungi within. Their feeding can create open areas in dense forests, making them ecosystem engineers. Excess nutrients are stored in large fatty humps on their backs for lean periods.

Duramboros are incredibly well protected even outside of their sheer size. Their hide alone is like that of a rhino, and their massive horns supported by huge muscles on their humped back can gore and throw any lesser creatures with ease. Their massive tails are their greatest weapon, and sport a large club with axe-like thagomizers to completely obliterate any threat. They infamously use these tails as a counterbalance while spinning in place before launching their massive bodies at whatever it is they want to die.

The species usually lives in small herds composed of a few family groups, and newborns eat the dung of their mothers to gain the gut bacteria needed for fermentation, as is common with many fermenting herbivores.

A desert dwelling subspecies known as Rust Duramboros exists and is the largest brute wyvern on average. Due to their environment they are absent of any moss on their hide, and their tail club forms a double edged axe that they use more violently.

Dalthydon: A recently discovered species native to the windward plains and other savannas.

These small relatives of Duramboros primarily eat grass, which they graze using remarkably mammal-like lips which are only possible due to the complete loss of the predentary. Their social dynamics and method of digestion is largely the same as their bigger relatives.

Their head is adorned with a shield made entirely of horn, which is supported by large muscles that anchor to their humpback. Their tails also have rhino-like plating. Both are like duramboros.

Dalthydon are unusual for their production of milk, something dinosaurs can’t make as they lack sweat glands. It could be possible this structure is derived from a preening gland of some kind.

Banbaro: These heterodontosaurs inhabit regions with drastic seasonal differences.

These herbivores eat wood, other plants, and fungi which they ferment in their stomach. In terms of niche they’re like a more cold adapted Duramboros, and sport a thick coat of feathers and subcutaneous fat. During warmer periods they can raise their feathers and their carapace to better release heat. They also have a small nasal crest that lays flat but can be flipped up when angry as a form of display.

Duramboros, Banbaro, and their relatives all have hoofs, likely as a better method of shock absorption and weight bearing than normal toes.

Gastodon: A volcanic species with a puffy feather mane.

Both it and Kestodon have retained the predentary. Unlike the robust buffalo-like cranial structures of their relatives, their three curved horns are mostly for display but can gore threats.

Kestodon: A close relative to Gastodon with distinct sexual dimorphism and cranial anatomy.

Kestodons lack horns and instead have domeheads like pachycephalosaurs, and are used much the same way. Males are much bigger than females, and a typical heard consists of two sibling males and a small harem of females.

Other notes

Skull in the Jurassic frontier: A giant skull present within the Jurassic Frontier, its anatomy is unmistakably tyrannosaurid. But tyrannosaurids are no longer present in the world, meaning that they might have recently gone extinct. It’s possible that a radiation of kaiju sized tyrannosaurids were present within the world and were predators of other kaiju sized monsters such as the god wyverns or massive elders like Zorah, but may have gone extinct due to the decline in the diversity of massive monsters after the last ice age.

[dramizz-0207]

I redisinged these four because their kind just seasonal varinants of the same dragon

And I've actually changed the Woolly howl a lot more that the rest so I'll describe this version:

A dragon found mostly in snowy forest, it tents to messure 3-4 meters to the shoulder and about 15 meters in length.

It has plates similar to those of Rumblehorns and Deathgrippers, that line up mostly with the skeleton, giving it a malnourished look, they completely envelope it's head and they're cool to the touch. The fur-looking paches are actually overgrown loose spines, some still atached to skin, but most just tangled between the rest, if touched they will leave dozens of small but incredibly irritating cuts.

It's hunting and fighting methods are all about decepcion, when it isn't in combat or hasn't seen prey, it moves slughisly appearing sickly and weak, even ocasionally making fake howls of pain, but the instant it sees something to eat, it springs foward with a speed surprising for it's size, and depending on the size of their opponent it will either put all it's weight in it's front half and pounce with it's front legs aimed to the head in an attempt (and usually succes) to crush it's skull, or tackle them to the floor and hold them there while it's back talons tear into their stomach.

In the case of combat, it will still try it's tactic of trowing all of it's way to it's opponent in hopes of incapacitating or crushing them, but if that isn't viable they breathe a cold mist that makes breathing difficult and uncomfortable, they also can swat with their tail, wich will create more of those previusly mention cuts and maybe even enbeding some spines into the oppenent.

Whenever it kills, it eats extremely sloppily, getting blood, skin and fur all over itself, but this is intentional, since getting that messy makes it's deception even more credible with the stench of death and rot covering it.

If your a dragon trainer, first you could only tame a new born, since even teen Wooly howls are extremely antisocial AND asocial, and will ingnore you if they know that you see trough their disguse (they always know) To socialize with them you will have to provide animal carcasses to them (and if that's to grotesque for you, separated furs, meats and bones also work) for their disgussing, because if you don't do it on their behalf and haven't made a stable bond yet, they will search it themselfs to never return. Do not clean them, they will get extremily grumpy since all of the dirt they spend so much time getting on their skin will wash away, for this same reason they despise the rain, make sure to have a little ("little") hut for them to stay during rainy days. Having skeletons in your closet will get them to like you more, and by that I mean adding some bones to your clothes.

[artechoceneexplorer]

I had a lot of fun with the dryad piece, so I'm making another piece similar to that one, featuring another creature I really like from it, the Kelpie

Full piece view

It's definitely not the most realistic design, as the legs of a horse are not adapted for underwater movement in the slightest, and would create much more drag than the small propulsion force they would generate.

So I chose an approach to make it a bit more realistic. Similarly to a hippo, they have bones so dense they don't float, and instead mainly move by walking on the floor of whatever body of water they are in. Still, its hoofs are flattened to help it move on muddy substrate and to help slightly with propulsion whenever it does swim.

But I also had to make it able to swim, that's what the tail is for, to propel it when swimming, so I used a bit of information from the manga. Its organs are said to be able to be used to make flotation devices, so they must play some role in buoyancy control. Some places where normal horses already produce and keep gases produced by symbiotic bacteria are their fermenting chambers in their intestines, mainly the colon and caecum.

So, since they are no longer mainly herbivorous, they could instead develop a symbiotic relationship specifically with hydrogen producing bacteria (which are a thing and hydrogen is a very light gas that could lift up that much weight in those conditions) and house them in expandable chambers derived from one of these fermenting chambers, that they can control the capacity of by expelling gas via their mouths, or regulating the activity of the bacteria inside the chamber. This would allow it to go up into the water column and swim up to the surface.

I would imagine they would also curl their legs as close to the body as possible to reduce drag and mainly use their tail when swimming, even though the bubbler and hair probably makes them more hydrodynamic than a normal horse.

The skull is probably my favourite part of the original design, I don't know a horse head but with sharp carnivore teeth is just so cool to me, so it was also very fun to design for this piece. For inspiration, apart from the images from the anime and manga themselves, I used not only primitive horses like Palaeotherium, which had teeth much less specialised for herbivory, and the quintessential large hoofed predators of the Cenozoic, the entelodonts, or "hell pigs", mainly Archaeotherium.

Palaeotherium skull | Archaeotherium skull

The frontal incisors, like the original design, are extremely sharp and guillotine-like, which I would imagine would be mainly useful for cutting food, either meat or plants, and passing it down to the rest of the mouth. The canines, long and robust, I would imagine are for holding down and subduing prey as shown by the original design, locking the jaw and lowering its buoyancy to take it under. The premolars could act as a sort of teeth of flexible use, being able to aid in holding onto pret, but also be used for further shredding food inside the mouth. The molars I'd imagine would be robust and blunt, especially towards the back of the mouth, to not only chew plants and other general food stuff, but crush the shells of invertebrates it finds on the substrate or the bones of unlucky terrestrial prey...

Now onto my other favourite feature of the Kelpie, its algae mane. It is specifically said to be kelp, so I didn't change that, but I'd imagine they wouldn't have only kelp growing on that mane, and that other algae would be present, for how this would happen, it's not that difficult to imagine, specially if we consider that Kelpies probably stay still while waiting for prey for a long time, because there's an aquatic mammal that grows algae on top of it, manatees! Sloths are also an example of a mammal that grows algae on top of it, specifically on top of its fur, so I took those as inspiration.

The reason for that horse mane like shape the kelp takes also has a reason I came up with that I think is pretty fun. Since Kelpie are omnivores, they probably can and do eat algae, and they need to keep themselves hydrodynamic enough to kill prey, so they regularly graze on themselves to keep that algae short so it doesn't become a hindrance. But because they self-groom they can't reach their neck and head kelp until it gets long enough for their heads to reach, so it keeps that characteristic horse mane shape.

And because this mane is established algae, and not part of the actual hair, they're not born with it, and develop it over time as they grow, so the foals are completely smooth and seemingly bald (however they are still covered by a short layer of hair).

The scientific name is pretty simple this time. The genus name, Abyssohippus, means "horse (-hippus) of the abyss (Abysso-)", and the species name, fallaciter, is Latin for "deceiver". So its full name means "Deceiving horse of the abyss", which I think is very fitting for this creature...

I Hope you enjoyed this glimpse into the creative process to create this design and see you soon! :>

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Cryptid's Keeper | Yandere Obanai Iguro

When you were called to bring aid to an isolated village you were prepared to execute a minor cryptid that was probably picking at crops occasionally. It would make sense for a small town to consider that an emergency: it’s there supply. What you weren’t expecting was the threat to have been ravenously feasting on the residents of the town itself. The town was far too afraid to meet you at the border of their land without all of them linked to one another by each other’s hands. Elders and children, women and men, teens, and young adults alike tightly grasping at each other while they bowed in greeting.

They told of a mighty beast wrapped in pearl white scales with eyes red as the blood of it’s victims. Swallowing hordes of men armed with pitchforks and torches in one single night. The tales they told of this cryptid varied in all matter of atrocities–from swallowing the living to strangulating children to crushing those lucky enough to flee. But the stand-alone trait of ever story told to you was of the ghost eyed witch that’d walk the streets of the town. Without fail this witch would wear a thin veil that had the pattern similar to that of a zebra. They suspected their ghost eyes which they must have plucked from the peach trees themselves and an stone of jade from some treasure hidden deep in the forest. It would appear that any who crossed paths with the witch would be dead before morning on account of the beast, sometimes it’d be their whole family as well. 

The townspeople were willing to pay a hefty sum for your services, practically begging you to save them. Naturally you agreed. This was your job to hunt and trap troublesome cryptids in a world that knew nothing better. The aspect of the witch intrigued you the most. In your many travels you found that witch was just a word to label humans more in tune with their mystical side. Heck your sure if you hadn’t made a career of it you’d be labeled one yourself.

It was easy to track the beast, the clear mark of scales and muscle slithering on the ground led into the forest on an unmarked but used path. It made you wonder if they attempted to investigate at all. Trudging onward you prepared for the hassle it’d be to subdue a creature with track marks so much bigger than yourself.

It led to a cave near a river; a peaceful place for the horror that supposedly lived there. You head in, stepping over a wall of bones sticking up like spikes. Eyeing a few human skulls creating a path deeper inside. This place clearly has a human’s touch, while the decoration was dismal and dark there was clearly a sense of pride present. Navigating with the skulls it eventually led to a large opening where you found the cryptid culprits. 

Wrapped around itself was a giant white snake which reflected the minimal light given by one lone torch on the wall; giving it an orange glow. In the middle of it was a man, with long black hair a scar across his mouth and a single loin cloth draped between his legs. Feeling the heat on your cheeks, you knocked your staff on the rocky floor to alert them. You felt as though you were intruding on something private. Sure enough they startled awake both on the defense at your unexpected arrival. 

“Hello there! I’ve heard you two have been giving the town quite a few problems!”

You smile while dodging the giant snake’s strike, somersaulting over the expanse of their tail. It set you up to parry the primitive spear jutting at you from the wild man. He only responded in grunts and shouts that helped the snake coordinate attacks at you. But none of it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle; ultimately analyzing their teamwork.

“You two seem close,” you made an aerial over the snakes striking maw delivering a kick to the wild man who was charging a new weapon, “Makes me wonder why you’d bother the people in the village in the first place.”

An orange and green pair of eyes widened at that, standing a ways away while the snake hissed at you before attempting to strangle you again. This was getting more and more interesting. “So you can understand me? Then tell me why?”

The snake was getting tired and the man was getting irritated. This–by your prediction–would be ending very soon.

Once again taking the man head on you blocked with your staff as you egged him on. Despite not having the technique you did he had strength and a swiftness that rivaled the snake’s.

“All…deserved to be punished.” 

The voice that came was hoarse, like it wasn’t used often. The voice was so sudden it caught you off-guard, leaving you barely enough time to block and kick him back. The look on your face must’ve said enough.

“All of them deserve death!”

“Why? What did they do?”

He paused his attack, his pupils shaking with the answer to that question–looking down to compose himself. Sensing his distress the snake slithered from you curling around the man to comfort him. You also lowered your defenses your heart preparing for the pain he would hopefully share.

“They made me this way,” he sounded like he was fighting tears as he tightened his fists, “by trying to sacrifice me…for this they all must pay…Including You!”

He launched at you on the head of his snake, using the speed of snake and his own jumping to aim at your head. Like before you dodged this time shoving your staff into the ground. Without your staff occupying your hands you weaved underneath the snake and through it’s coils to strike at the reptile’s pressure points. The cave shook as the snake slammed limply on the ground. Rolling off to safety the wild man shouted running to cradle the snake’s snout, “Kabamaru!?” 

Hearing the light sound of sniffles you cursed yourself for going too far. Sitting down on the ground you leaned along the rocky wall opposite to the two. Pulling out a bottle of sake and two cups you brought with you, setting them down. 

“He’s not dead. Just sleeping.” he turned to look at you his eyes softening from a glare. You continued,”I figured without him egging you on you can tell me a bit more about yourself.” 

Offering a cup to him you took a sip of yours, letting out a happy sigh as the liquid tingled down your throat. Showing him that it was safe you let him down his zebra skin and come in closer to you. 

There you were able to piece lesser rumors with his own testimony. Apparently the town used to be ran by a tribe of women who idolized a giant snake in the forest. Organizing gatherings and practices to honor said snake. This tribe of women for generations had daughters to uphold it’s legacy of a matriarch loyal to this snake. Alas when they birthed a boy those in town deemed him a curse making the women decide that his death at the hands of the snake would be their blessing and atonement for his existence. Part of the ceremony included slicing his mouth wider and tying him with the carcass of the exotic creature—the zebra—in the forest to be eaten by their deity: the White Snake. Come to find that the snake was a peaceful creature that was truly infuriated at finding the poor boy in the state he was. Sheltering him, feeding him, protecting him, and one day attacking the people he identified as revenge for him. 

“I see now, why you attack them so viciously. What you went through was awful.”

You took another swig from the bottle looking at the man who was leaning on a sluggish Kaburamaru. He was watching you intently probably gauging your reactions to his story, it made you wonder when was the last time he spoke with any one properly.

It is then you yawned, standing up and stretching. Disregarding both their suspicious looks you walked to your staff, resting it on your shoulders casually as the both got into a defensive stance. You walked up that rocky path, waving over your shoulder with a smile.

“Tomorrow Iguro. I’ll bring you something sweet from the town. Until then.”

Just like that you returned to the townspeople all eager to know if you’ve slain the beast. Only for you to yawn in their faces and say your still investigating, retreating to the inn you were gifted for your stay here.

As expected violent cryptids were never just that in a world that knows no better. 

And as such it was your job to help.

Whether that was teaching the world or the cryptid themself.

In this case the cryptid and his keeper.

_____________________________________________________________

Obanai Iguro didn’t kill for no reason. 

When he walked through the town he was being gracious. An olive branch extended to an unforgiving people. All he was asking was that he be able to walk into town without injury or insult. Without fail though someone in town would either yell obscenities or attempt to attack him. 

He vowed the day he could freely walk in town would be the day no one would suffer his wrath. 

That day had never come. 

But the day someone looked in his eyes with no fear for him had come. A missionary with dyed hair and smile brighter than the sun was the first. She happened to catch him by his lonesome, asking for directions to the town. 

He cursed himself for letting his naivete consume him. 

Doing as she asked he hoped foolishly that the townspeople could learn. Take the missionary’s optimism and kindness as a symbol for peace. That when they saw the absolute vision of beauty hand in hand with a freak him they’d have a change of heart or at least touch the hearts of a few.

He was wrong.

So so wrong.

The collective gasps were a precursor to the violent screaming that followed. Rocks, fruit, eventually knives were thrown at both of them. He remembered taking the brunt of it turning the nun away from the spiteful horde. Looking down at her, even in the face of their berating she was smiling up at him. It warmed his heart. It made him willing to forgive. Until she caught sight of her convent, fellow missionaries standing silently aside, running to them with renewed vigor. She happily proclaimed that she’d found her mission aiming to help bridge the gap between the misunderstood and the collective. She recited different teachings looking pridefully as she waited for their response. Dropping her smile when they finally spoke.

“You’ve transgressed for the last time, Mitsuri. We had such high hopes.”

They pulled at her hair, they stripped her of her robes before encouraging the town to bring all their aggressions to her. Claiming it was a just punishment for the young and unruly nun who continued to fail with every task they gave her. 

He doubted he could’ve waited for Kaburamaru if he tried. Using his bare fists to pummel anyone who’s hand was raised to attack Mitsuri. Fighting them as best as he could but he was only one man. 

Strong but not strong enough.

By the time Kaburamaru arrived and had begun to swallow majority of the fleeing mob, it was already too late. Poor Mitsuri. The sun in Iguro’s night had set, giving him one last smile and an indirect kiss on the scar across his face. 

It broke his heart further. 

Shuffling his already broken heart, he took it’s shards and made a wall. A thorny wall that took his graciousness and shrivelled it to nothing. Now transgressions he would have chosen mercy for invoked his wrath all the same. Calling on Kaburamaru to help quell his fury. 

Once again returning to his precious solitude with Kaburamaru by his side. 

But fate would refuse this again sending a monster catcher to disrupt his peace. Agile, sly, and a powerful fighter the monster catcher was like no one he’d met before. Iguro did have a few encounters with unexplainable creatures and violent entities but none were like them. Never had he and Kaburamaru been brought to their knees (coils?) by  a single person, all who casually invites him to chat over a drink. 

“Come come its a creation of my own. This game is going to get us drunk so fast!”

Mitsuri was casual too but the interaction was surface. It was their first and last time meeting after all. The monster hunter spoke much more often, returning with another alcoholic beverage and cups to share while talking about nothing in paticular. Once again that estranged normalcy was creeping up again and Iguro refused to fall for it again.

“Oh wow that came out of nowhere, Iguro. Now let’s get back to drinking shall we?”

Holding the tip of his spear between two fingers the monster hunter continued to smile at him. Thwarting his attempts to chase them away or at least save himself the pain he was bound to feel. Even Kaburamaru wasn’t attempting to fight anymore, only watching when Iguro attempted to attack. 

He hated how little it offended them. And how much it hurt him. Already he was feeling the same warmth he felt back then. When he wasn’t trying to attack, the smile they shared was like the moon. Reflecting the light given to him so long ago. But he feared he’d lose it again. Like Mitsuri they were far too kind when regarding the people in town.

“At least the kids don’t know any better. Leave them out of it, okay Iguro?”

The night-terrors would start again picturing his hunter bloodied and defeated at the feet of an angry crowd. Hand-in-hand with Mitsuri as they both smiled up at him with incomplete smiles.

“You’ll forgive them, right?”

“For us you’ll be kind, right?”

He was tired of seeing that image again. The one where the only lights in his world were doused by the same people that bred hatred with every generation. It didn’t matter that the hunter was strong, that the hunter planned to leave. Iguro needed to keep them by his side, away from the darkness that had always engulfed his life. 

“I refuse to let them have you.”

To block out the new sun he needed the warmth of. It didn’t matter that the sun may burn or their anger would be his–they’d be safe. That was all that mattered at this point.

“The rest don’t deserve to feel your warmth.”

__________________________________________________________

You didn’t expect such an adverse reaction. Your plan to finally leave the duo with a warning and spend your time changing the town was going to be shot. You wanted to spin whatever narrative you needed to, to fix the town for good. Give them a healthier outlook and some mock defense against other cryptids would do the trick. But iguro didn’t seem to like that. More seriously neither did Kaburamru, hissing at you as he curled into himself.

“Look Iguro if you’d prefer you can come with me! Leave this town behind and find a place worthy of you both!”

“Not before I end it. They’d never let me have you if they can help it!”

He instructed Kaburamaru to slam his tail near you making you dodge further away from the exit. Already sensing where he was going with this, you stood your ground.

“Iguro. Stop this.”

Kaburamaru was curling around itself blocking the entirety of the single exit, with Iguro standing on his head. He was wielding his spear pointing it at you with a twisted smile. 

“I know we’re no match for you on our own. But you’re so eager to protect those rotten meatbags even you’d have trouble fending me off.”

“Iguro!”

He seemed to laugh to himself as he ducked down low, sliding on the snake’s back as the reptile slid through the exit en route to the town.

“By the time you arrive (Y/n) you’ll find we’ll be on the same level or they’ll all be dead. Either way I can’t wait to see how brightly you’ll burn!”

You immediately followed their trail falling behind; you were amazed at the speed they made darting through the forest. He planned to defeat you, by taking advantage of your divided attention. Running with nothing but the forest around you, you had to applaud him. 

“I’ve got to give it to him he’s greedier than any cryptids I’ve met. The world’s definitely going to learn about him if they survive him first.”

[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

What would an anthro/humanoid shark person look like? From a speculative viewpoint; I have an oc that is an anthro shark and I’ve been certain how their anatomy would work.

if you're going for more realism, you can check out this post I reblogged with a fish skeleton drawn to human proportions.

if you're going for a more fun look, I've just drawn a tiger shark anthro as an example:

(image description: digital art of an anthropomorphic tiger shark with a light blue overlay to show the simplified skeletal structure. they have a pale belly, a grey back, and dark grey stripes and spots all over. they have a curved neck connecting directly to the back of their skull, their legs are short and their hips look different from human hips because the muscles of their thick, stiff tail merge fully with their lower back muscles. their body also curves smoothly between the legs to continue the line between their tail and their belly. the main dorsal fin is on their back just below the neck. the hands and feet are more flat like flippers with small finger and toe points. end description.)

I've seen a lot of anthro shark designs that just take the same body shape as mammalian anthro characters and just toss on a shark tail and some sharky facial features and call it good, and tbh I wish more people would actually lean into the unique features of the animals they're drawing as anthros and maybe stop giving everything toe beans and fluffy fur, even if those things are cute and fun. I do get it! it's the most iconic and classic furry character design, so it's what people stick with. it's just a mild pet peeve of mine.

since sharks don't have an actual pelvis and limb bones in the way land animals do, giving an anthro shark arms and legs in any form is just something you have to fudge until it looks decent to you. I prefer a more stiff tail than a floppy one, because I feel like it retains the Shark look more effectively.

anyway, I hope that helps! have fun with your character!

[yandere-sins]

Im loving this naga stuff sm omg and it’s got me thinking.

What if they were to leave reader for a few minutes, only for someone to find them and maybe try and take them back? Or them just talking to the reader in general

Had an idea for a scenario with Ghost! Thanks for requesting ^-^

Warnings: Yandere, Sexual Content (Attempted Non-Con), Violence (Death of minor character, Brutal Death), Monsters

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

"Thank-- Thanks!"

You barely had the breath to utter a word, but neither did your savior, coughing and panting in front of you. If it hadn't been for the fact that you two were racing through the forest mindlessly, "escaping" being the drive to keep you running, you might have expressed your thankfulness a little more. This had to do for now. Even though you two still weren't in the comfort of a town with big, sturdy walls and guards with weapons, you had gotten quite far in your mad dash through the thicket, every inch away from the hell that was the lair you had been kidnapped to, feeling like you were finally free.

"Thank you so much!" you croaked, your voice hoarse and your mouth dry despite sweating profusely. "You can't imagine," you added, swallowing hard as your throat stung. "That monster in the woods... that... snake... it captured me and held me there for some reason. I wouldn't have been able to escape without you!"

The man—a hunter or soldier, you reckoned, considering he knew the forest so well—waved his hand dismissively, stretching out his back and taking deep breaths, collecting himself. 

"Please, anyone would help when they found someone in such a dire situation as you were," he comforted you. You tried to smile through the pain aching through your whole body, the impromptu workout rattling every bone after weeks of being carried around and doing nothing.

Steadily, the man was regaining his composure, so you tried your best to keep up, not wanting to look lousy in front of your savior. He looked around, scanning the area, before pointing his finger somewhere further south and turning towards you. "There's a hut just a few minutes from here. It's getting dark, and we should stay out of sight in case we're being followed. What do you say?"

Gulping, you wished his suggestion had been more like, "The city is just a few more steps from here. Let's take shelter behind a safe stone wall full of guards and trained soldiers to protect you." Then again, you wouldn't be as ungrateful to his efforts as to suggest you two kept going until you could truly settle into the safety and protection of civilization. You didn't want to stay one more night out in the forest, but a hut sounded better than to be found wandering out and about in his habitat.

There was a lot to unpack, and you weren't sure if you'd ever get over what happened to you. Still, when your savior closed the wooden door, drew the curtains over the windows, and handed you a blanket to bundle up, you felt like the first step towards healing had been made. A fire might have given away your presence, so you wrapped the blanket tightly around you. However, it was barely enough to cover everything, your legs sticking out if you didn't pull them against your chest.

It wasn't comfy or warm, but it was the first time you truly realized you made it out. Things had been rough living with that thing. People would call your stories crazy if you talked about a strong half-man, half-snake, feeding you raw meat and occasionally fruits while keeping you coiled in his tail. They'd think you'd gone mad if you told them about the white, skull-like marks on his body and face or how he'd bury his face in the crook of your neck, jittering happily. The worst part was that he couldn't speak to you, even though you thought he tried a few times, but there were no words spoken between you two ever. You couldn't explain his intentions or thoughts to anyone, not even yourself.

For a while, you two sat in silence, breaths calming down. The man handed you some dried meat and his water flask, sharing what little he had, and you gobbled it up with your gratitude, thanking him again and again. You could feel him watching you, even through the darkness inside the hut, but you thought nothing of it. He must have been concerned for this stranger he found in a ditch, hidden away, crying and begging for help when he passed by accidentally and took them on a run through the thicket. All while they kept whining about some monster kidnapping them. It sounded crazed and suspicious even to you, but you were glad he listened to his heart and helped you despite the wild story behind your misery.

"Thank you so much," you mumbled again, unable to stop thanking him. Tears welled up in your eyes as the realization of your escape settled further, something you had started to fear wouldn't ever be possible after so many days spent with the monster. You sobbed quietly as the relief washed over you in big waves, wishing you could stop and not look so pathetic in front of a stranger. However, he put his arm around your shoulder, drawing you into his chest, and you could no longer hold back your ugly crying.

It felt good to be held again in a warm embrace, hands patting your head, your back. It was different from the claws and scales, the sensations only ever bringing you terror. Instead, you were comforted by the humanness of the kind stranger, so much better than what you had come to know from the monster. Palms rubbed soothing circles between your shoulder blades, and arms that were strong but not as firm as your captors hugged you tenderly. His touch warmed all of your back, fingers slowly dipping lower, massaging the soreness in your muscles until they ended up above your ass, making you jolt.

"Sorry," you apologized, wiping your eyes as you tried to slide away, thinking it was a mistake where his hand landed. However, the arm around your shoulder didn't budge as you tried to slip out, his other hand creeping up your leg instead, brushing aside the blanket.

"I don't mind," the stranger muttered, leaning forward. His nose brushed against your hair, and you heard him taking a deep breath, inhaling your scent that you didn't even want to know what it smelled like. Immediately, goosebumps erupted all over you, your body tensing under his touch as you turned stiff as a board.

"How about you thank me some other way since we'll be stuck here together all night? Let's take some of that tension off you, shall we?"

You could hear the disgusting grin on the man's lips and knew exactly what he was suggesting. Your eyes darted to the door, knowing where it was even in the darkness. Only a small bolt locked it from the inside, and as the stranger's hand crept higher on your thigh, fingers pressing and massaging the flesh, you were planning your way out frantically. The sound of him letting out a long, satisfied sigh was enough to finally put your plans into action while you were filled with disgust.

"Please stop!" you pleaded, pressing your hands to his chest. Still hoping to find reason within him. You cursed the monster for actively encouraging you to do as good as nothing while it had captured you, all your muscles seemingly evaporated as you couldn't even push him an inch away from you.

"Come on, don't I deserve a reward?"

"No! Not like this, please! I don't want that!"

"Don't be like that now! I helped you, didn't I?"

Panic made your blood pound in your mind, pumping you full of adrenaline that you thought had all been emptied out while you ran from your captor. You hadn't realized the man's thoughts, disgusting, vile, and opportunistic, no different from the monster you were with before. But if you had to choose, you chose neither.

Luck was in your favor, and as the man tried to topple you over, the barely helpful blanket gave you a chance to slide out from under him, your nails scratching over the floor as you got to your feet, dashing towards the door. He tried to get up after you, though he wasn't as quick and found less hold on the ground, so you had time to find and unbolt the lock with shaky hands; your breath uneven as you tore open the door and ran into the dark night.

The small clearing before the hut was eerily quiet, but with your blood rushing in your ears, you didn't notice the absence of sounds. Unfortunately, that was also where you ran out of luck, your foot getting stuck on a root, tripping you over badly.

"Come back here, you idiot!" the stranger whisper-yelled after you. On one hand, he had a point: neither of you should be out at this hour, causing a ruckus. But you were way past reason as you knew that going back there would mean he'd do something to you, one way or another. You had escaped one monster, but your fellow human was no better than one. Different, yet just as harmful.

"It was just a joke! Come back here right now! You're getting us--"

His voice was cut off, and you didn't hear his steps behind you anymore, confusion forcing you to look back over your shoulder as you stumbled to your feet. Clouds seemed to break open at the exact moment that you looked at him, letting the moonlight through as you found your footing in a daze, furrowing your brows as you noticed the stranger not staring at you.

His mouth hung open, head tilted back, his eyes wide and filled with unimaginable terror. You were appalled yet intrigued by what he saw when your body crashed into a wall, the unmistakable feeling of scales rubbing over your skin. There was nowhere to run as the elongated body you knew too well started to wrap and tighten around you, a large hand sinking to your back, its palm covering it protectively, keeping you pressed against the monster you initially ran from, his black scales enveloping you in darkness.

"It's- It's real," the man mumbled, his voice turning into yelling as he continued in a ramble, "It's real! It's actually real!"

All you could do was shiver as you heard the man laugh manically behind you. As if he hadn't believed you until he saw the monster you had described. You didn't know what was better: running away alone, staying with the beast, or being with the stranger. Every one of these options made your gut churn. How did he even find you? How could he catch up so quickly despite you two running all day? When you ran out of the hut, you hadn't even seen a shadow, much less a body, so where had the monster come from? 

The creature leaned down, his humanoid upper body hovering over you, palm pressing you against him a little more. And in what you could only describe as monstrous comfort, you felt a rumble go through him, soft and even, his thumb brushing over your back. It was different from the comforting touch of the stranger, but no less ill-willed and a lure into more danger. Even when the monster tried to seem less like the bad guy, you knew it was far from the truth. The trust he attempted to pull out from your subconscious as he protected you, was misplaced and unwarranted. His hands were cold, his body abnormally. Like a ghost, sending shivers down your spine and spooking you to your very core. 

Behind its purr and comfort, he was still a monster.

You gasped and flinched—hard—when you heard his tail slam into the ground, the maniacal laughter dying instantly and being replaced by the cracking of bones and splashing of flesh. You didn't dare to look back, couldn't stomach a glance at the dead body smashed into pulp behind you.

Even when the monster picked you up, your arms wrapping around his thick neck instinctively as you had so many times before, your mind ordered you to be compliant, but you couldn't stop shivering. You didn't want to submit to the monster, nor did you want to end up smashed and dead as well. Just like before, you cried into the shoulder of your savior pitifully as he carried you back into the dark forest, clawing onto you and not giving you the same lucky chance to slide out of his grasp.

He carried you for a long time at a leisure place, ducking under branches and brushing away thorny bushes, and only then did you realize how far you had come—how close you were to escaping the creature. The despair tore your sanity into pieces. He had no hurry while carrying you back, but when he sunk underground, the moonlight fading from your sight, you knew it was hopeless.

The monster laid you down into soft furs, the darkness surrounding you a familiar threat, forcing you to experience every touch and every sound much more intense than before. It had never spoken to you in all the time you two were together, but it didn't let you forget it was there. His face rubbed against yours, tongue lapping at the pulse in your throat, and he purred and hummed, his tail coiling around your leg, scales scrapping over your skin.

He rested his face against your throat, taking a deep, audible breath, and you thought back to the man who had tried to save you, doing the same. Monsters, you thought. Monsters, all of them.

"M-- Mhm--" you suddenly heard, feeling the vibration in the creature's chest, and you held your breath, the sound almost familiar, like a voice.

"Mat-- Ma-tsss--" Slowly, the pronunciation got clearer, strained and uncanny as it was, followed by a hissing sound. You couldn't help the goosebumps on your skin, the scales tightening around you as they felt the change, imprisoning your limbs while the monster kept trying to speak in an unfamiliar tongue.

You saw the glint of his eyes hovering above you, something dripping down onto your cheek. You had no way of knowing what it was, but by the sounds of straining, you guessed it was drool as the monster tensed and flexed his jaw for more mobility. You could only stare in wonder and fear alike.

"Wha-- What?" you uttered, confused and agitated by the whole situation, frightened and unsure what to make of it.

"Mi-- Mine," it finally stammered out, and time seemed to halt as you stared, bewildered. It had never said a coherent word to you, much less did you think it understood your talking. But as the darkness and silence carried one, he repeated it, and you felt like, finally, everything was beginning to make sense.

"Mate. Mine."

[clown-fever]

I got to wear my tail to the mall!!!

my gf wore one too >_<

I even got a compliment from someone who was like x10 prettier than me o_O (even had my gf swooning lolz)

honestly I thought I was gonna get teased a bunch but like no one cared so yay :3

i WAS gonna do a section where i show off what i got but phone broken so ill just tell u ig...

i got

a new collar :3 (it has a skull n cross bone pattern)

a beeg german shepherd plushie, he is my son now (im thinking the name Lake bc its funny n my name is River)

pants, i got a nice brown pair

shirts, i got one that says "autistic" in flaming letters and it has a grim reaper with some pit bulls below it

leg warmers, they look so cool and go with my platform docs

belt, its a buckle belt thats furby themed!!!

i almost got dog toys but i didnt have a good excuse like i did for the collar (the collar was "for lake" i just gave him my old one n i got the new one now >:3c)

me n my gf are gonna go online bday shopping sometime, i hope to get dog toys n bowls n all kinds of fun doggy things >_<

[sunanthrope]

Species euphoria things idk

My types: Zombie, Belgian Malinois, Centipede, Raven-Hearted, Wolf-hearted

Below cut as its long as hell

My legs fall asleep very easily due to physical disabilities and as much as I despise the pins and needles feeling with every bone in my body. It's very zombie.

I fucking love metal and the scream vocals always give me such zombie euphoria both to perform and listen to

On that note I'm working on writing a song in German (called Untoter Tier or Undead Animal) and there's a vocal in it that mixes scream and barking. Very cool and swag. Both zombie and dog euphoria and it's basically about therian rage and species dysphoria

My everyday makeup is sunken purpley eyes with red underneath. And nothing else. I look very pale and washed out (anemia and outside is scary) and I've got acne so I look dead lol. I've had people ask if I'm sick. It's inspired by tuberculosis (/hj)

Also acne in general? Idk very zombie vibes. I'm self conscious of it but thinking about it in a zombie way makes me happier about it. Same with my teeth which are jacked as hell, I can't even close my mouth all the way without pain and struggle. Fuck my stupid puppy life

Black nails too. Just nonhuman euphoria in general

My mohawk

My arms don't swing when I walk like a normal person's does? Idk why? They just dangle. Zombie vibes

I grind my teeth back and forth a lot because I like the clicky sound. I do it constantly. I might need a bite guard. It reminds me of those zombies in World War Z

I'm in pain all the goddamn time and that's pretty zombie. Again I hate it but it also gives me zombie euphoria

I jingle when I walk and not only is that very dog but for some reason also very zombie? No idea why

People are kinda intimidated by me in public because I have a Mohawk and my makeup makes me look dead and I'm covered in leather and spikes and chains and. That's zombie too

The smell of roadkill. It's very common where I live as people don't watch where they drive and animals don't watch where they go. Idk it's very strange but. I honestly really like the smell of rotting meat

My collection of dead things and taxidermy as well. I've got a dried/mummified beetle, mouse skulls from owl pellets, a rat skull I found on our front porch, a squirrel tail that hangs on my wallet, a snakeskin that's over a decade old

Other things I have like my brain shaped stress ball, my spider and eyeball rings, my tails, my collection of stuff I find on the ground, my dried shelf mushrooms, an old petri dish that's grown its own mold ecosystem, my monster cans

Basically I'm just kind of fucking strange and that's zombie of me idk

Sniff. Sniff sniff. Sniffing both in and out to make that dog sniffing sound. It's a stim I do a lot, it's how I smell things in general. Most people inhale but I inhale and exhale rapidly. It actually does help me smell it better thanks for asking

Beef jerkey oh my God. Everything euphoria. Flesh vibes for zombie, meat snacks for dog, even rotting vibes for centipede.

I like chewing on things and I always have. Very zombie and dog

I like when my mom gives me a bowl of cheese cubes and peanut butter crackers unprompted. She knows I'm a therian (She's a fox) and she does stuff all the time to validate me and I think thats cool of her :]

I love my dog toys so much. I have a spikey ball that lights up, a squeaky purple duck, and a squeaky giraffe with crinkly ears

Collar collection <3 my favorite is my spiked collar. The spikes are uneven and honestly I might lean into that and add even more spikes and make it even more random.

I also really love my cattle dog collar, it's way too big so it's more of a decoration, but I did have it on the collar of my battle jacket for a long time. Very long and sharp spikes

I also love my battle jacket for dog and zombie reasons. Zombie outbreak response k9 patch is all I need and more. It even velcroes on and off <3

Big stompy boots!!! They also make me taller and. I need all the height I can get. It's a struggle

Everything about my vibe also makes me feel super centipede. Spikes, leather, black, jewelry, even the makeup gives bitten by venomous centipede vibes. Fuck

I stay up late as hell. Fits because both zombies and houss centipedes are seen as nocturnal, even though I'll admit I LOVE the daytime more than anything good God. Twilight time is best time. Still light out but not boiling hot

Bleeding hearts of the world unite this was long

[blackpensils]

Unnamed Werewolf!Danny AU snippet

I don't know if I'll ever finish this and it's been sitting collecting dust in my writing drafts for a while now. It's a medieval AU with monsters and supernatural creatures where Danny's parents are monster hunters, Sam is a rich noble who dresses like a pesent to be friends with Danny and Tucker, and Danny got killed by some unnamed creature and then woke up some time later in his grave, as one of those creatures. I had a whole story planned out but I never really got around to writing much about it. So thought I'd share a snippet of what I got at least. They're still fourteen, btw. It was supposed to be like a series of multiple stories.

Snippet of the story under the cut:

~~~

Now that he was more docile, Sam got a better look at him as a whole. Saw the way his shape was not quite as animalistic as she'd first observed in the woods. The curve of his back was very wolf like but the shape, size and structure of his torso was very reminiscent of a human's. His legs, despite the elongated feet with heavy paws at the ends, were still very much the same as any man's but with the heels never quite touching the floor, giving him an uncanny look as he padded across the room. His tail swished behind him, thick with fur and definitely going to be a hell to deal with in terms of shedding. Then there were his arms and the very obvious human hands attached to them. Despite the white fur and massive claws, as well as the black paw pads, they were undeniably human hands with fingers that gripped. They were maybe even a bit too long to be quite human, now that she looked at them more closely.

All in all, Danny still retained some very human features despite the black skin, black and white fur or the long claws. Even the tail didn't take away from the fact that his frame was just too human adjacent to belong to an animals. But then there was his face. Or where his face was supposed to be.

At first when Sam had seen him, she'd believed he was wearing some kind of mask. Something shaped like an animal skull to scare her or to give fright to anyone who saw it. Especially since his bottom jaw was furry and very much made of flesh. But that was wrong. The mask Danny wore wasn't a mask at all. Now she was very much sure that it was in fact his skull. She hadn't gotten a good enough look around the edges where the fur began and where the bone took over, but Sam could swear that from what she could see, the skull seemed to be growing out of his flesh.

It was…. disturbing. In a fascinating kind of way, but still very much disturbing.

Sam scratched her arm as she watched him walk around the open space of the barn, bent on all four and sniffing the ground. She couldn't tell his facial expression. Unsure if he even had any like this, with his face made up out of bone. She didn't really know what to do or what to say. How to handle the situation before her even though she'd been so sure about herself when she'd told him to follow her.

Now he was here and she had no idea how to actually help him. With all of her occult knowledge, Sam couldn't even say for sure what kind of creature Danny was supposed to be.

She'd at first thought he was a werewolf. He'd been killed in a viscous animal attack, after all. The signs were there. Partially eaten organs, torso torn to shreds and long claw marks cleaving his skin in two leaving him a bloodied mess of a corpse.

But werewolves didn't pass the curse by killing their victims. In fact, it hadn't even been a full moon when Danny had died. That had been on the night his grave had been burst open. Which kind of spoke to him being one, but Sam had never heard of a werewolf who could transform outside of the rise of the full moon. Not to mention that if a werewolf was loose in Amity, it would've made headlines right away. Danny would not have been the only victim. Yet, as far as she was aware, he'd been the only casualty. Not to mention, werewolves were more animal than they were men.

Danny had too many human features. Too much in his frame, in the shape of legs and the way he still had proper hands, despite the fact they were probably three times the size of his regular size.

And he was far too lucid. Too much in control of himself to be a werewolf. Because Sam would not have been able to get through to him if he'd been a proper moonwalker. Plus, it was still light outside. Werewolves only changed once a month, and they were rarely ever aware of their own transformation.

Danny turned his large animal skull in her direction, the green lights in the black eye sockets flickering as if he was blinking at her. He tilted his head before he slowly made his way over to her. Well, slow-ish. He was pretty tall and his legs were long, making him only need about five steps to actually reach her side.

There was a sound in the back of his throat that was very dog like. Very reminiscent of a whimper or whine, like a dog begging for pets.

He nuzzled forward with his bony snout but stopped himself. He seemed to contemplate what to do because he sat back on his legs and reached a hand up as if he was going to touch her. He halted when his hand was level with her face, instead spreading it out and flexing his fingers as if he was seeing them for the first time.

When he met her eyes, there was a look in those green lights that were just so sad that Sam took a step forward. She grabbed Danny's outstretched hand in her own before wrapping her arm around his neck as best she could. Sitting back like this he was still so much taller than her.

"It's okay," she whispered, trying to sound as reassuring as she could. "It's all going to be okay. I promise we're going to find a way to turn you back. I've got the books."

When she pulled back she pointed at the room she and Danny had left the stacks of occult literature and scripture in just a couple of days earlier.

The night he died, she reminded herself and her hand fell to her side. It felt so long ago now. The two of them and Tucker with heavy leather bound books in their arms, pushing through the doors to the barn, laughing and joking as Sam led Danny to where he could drop off his stack. It was probably still on the table where he'd left it, beginning to collect dust.

Sam hadn't been able to come back up here after she'd gotten the news. It hadn't felt possible to come here knowing that Danny would no longer be able to sneak up here with her. No more would he come with baked goods from his mom while they went over the occult that Sam loved so much. Danny was much less interested in the topics, but having hunters for parents he held a conversation better than anyone else she'd ever broached about the topic. Which, to be fair was limited to Tucker and her grandma, and while she loved the old lady with all her heart, Ida Manson wasn't as sharp as she'd once been.

There had been many late nights where Sam and Danny had bundled up in the old barn at the back of the Manson property, large tome in hand and reading through ancient texts about creatures from cultures and continents neither of them had heard of before. Tucker would usually be there as well, but at that point he would be slumbering in a corner somewhere.

That was fine. Tucker never believed on the same level as Danny did, and while Danny himself was skeptical at times, he was far more open minded to the concept of the occult than Tucker was.

But those memories had made it impossible to walk up the path to the barn that would usually fill her with joy. Her personal place of escape where her parents rules and expectations wouldn't have to get in the way of her interests. Where she didn't need to be Samantha Manson, daughter of a noble and sole female heir to her family's fortune, thus doomed to marry a fellow noble in order to live up to the family name. In that run down shack, she could just be Sam. Sam who liked to read and write, who didn't like to eat meat and Sam who liked the strange, unusual and twisted occult a little too much for society's standards. The Sam that befriended Danny and in turn Tucker. A Sam who didn't have expectations outside of her own.

In a way, a part of her had died with Danny that day. The part of her that still saw something good about this world. The part of her that still looked forward till tomorrow because maybe things would be better by then.

Maybe because, somewhere deep inside, she still blamed herself for what had happened. If she had just convinced Danny to stay that night, to not walk home in the dark where creatures hid, maybe he would've been alive today. He would still be himself and not this… creature that she couldn't name. If only she had convinced him to sneak into one of the spare rooms then maybe…

Danny bumped her cheek with the tip of what was probably meant to be his snout. It was cold and hard against her skin. She could feel a draft coming from the nose holes in the skull. The way he tilted his head and the low whine in his throat gave away his worry. For a second, she thought she'd heard him speak below the whimper but she shook the ridiculous thought away.

"Let's start by going through some books. There must be something on what you are in there. Somewhere," Sam said in regards to the makeshift library she'd built. She met Danny's eyes and took a deep breath before giving a stern nod, more to herself than to Danny. "We should also send for Tucker. He'll be able to at least help categorize." She gave Danny a one over before saying, "And he'll probably think you look amazing."

Danny gave a huff at that but it had an amused undertone to it that made Sam smile. She gave him a scratch behind one of his very wolf-esque ears. It made him tilt into the touch and release an almost purring kind of sound from deep down in his chest. His tail wagged back and forth just like that of a happy dogs.

[thegatesofsilverandbone]

In the rolling hills of the countryside, nestled between the golden rows of corn and wide pastures, there stood a modest farm run by an old man with tired hands and a wife with eyes like flint. Everyone around town knew Miss Hattie—not because she was loud or bossy, but because she carried herself like a woman who didn't suffer nonsense. There were stories, too. Quiet ones. That she had a touch of the old ways in her blood. That the animals on her farm never dared step out of line. That those who crossed her usually regretted it.

Jace had never been one for stories.

He was the latest farmhand—a broad-shouldered young man with a sharp tongue and a crooked grin. He was good at lifting hay bales and mending fences, but he didn’t think much of being told what to do, especially by someone who didn’t do the work herself.

So when Miss Hattie passed by the barn one hot afternoon, offering a gentle reminder to get the gate hinges fixed before sundown, Jace muttered just loud enough for her to hear, “Maybe I’d move quicker if I weren’t takin’ orders from someone who don’t lift a damn finger.”

Miss Hattie stopped. Slowly, she turned and looked at him—just looked, not a word on her lips—but her eyes glittered like stormlight on still water.

“What was that, Jace?” she asked, voice as smooth and sharp as a honed blade.

He rolled his eyes. “Nothin’. Just sayin’—some of us do the real work ‘round here.”

She gave a little nod. “Is that so?”

That was all. She walked away, and Jace chuckled to himself, proud as a rooster in a henhouse. But his smile faded as a strange heat bloomed beneath his skin. He wiped his brow, suddenly dizzy. The barn swam before his eyes. His knees buckled, and he stumbled forward, catching himself on his hands—but something was wrong.

His hands didn’t feel right.

The palms had thickened. His fingers were clumsy, heavy, darkening at the tips. He stared in horror as his nails blackened and stretched, thickening into broad, blunt hooves. He let out a shout, but the sound that came out was low and rough, more of a bellow than a cry.

His back arched, muscles twitching and bulging, spine crackling with pressure as it stretched. A sharp, wriggling pain at the base of his tailbone made him yelp, and then—snap!—something sprang free. A tail, long and muscular, swaying behind him with its own mind.

“What the hell—what the—Miss Hattie!” he gasped, but the words were already slurring, melting on his tongue.

His boots creaked and split apart as his feet lengthened, bones reshaping into powerful hooves. His jeans strained as his legs thickened with muscle, seams popping open to reveal bristling auburn hair.

And still it didn’t stop.

His chest expanded, swelling with mass, buttons snapping free and flying off into the hay. The seams of his shirt tore wide as thick hair pushed through the fabric, fur covering every inch of his skin. He clawed at it in panic—clumsy, changing hands fumbling at shreds of fabric as his neck thickened and his head tilted forward with a loud, creaking crack.

Then his face… changed.

His jaw stretched. His nose flattened and widened. He felt his skull shift and groan as his ears grew long and mobile, twitching toward sounds instinctively. He grunted, blinked, and with a sickening pop, two great horns erupted from his temples, curling up and forward with slow, unstoppable force. His hat somehow stayed perched between them, tilted at just the right angle, like it belonged there.

And that was when his thoughts started to fade.

Not all at once. No—at first he was still panicking. Still remembering who he was, what was happening. But the fear began to dull. His heartbeat slowed. His thoughts, once fast and clever, began to move like thick molasses.

Why was he angry again? What had he said to Miss Hattie?

It didn’t matter. She was wise. She was right. She always was.

The farm needed work. That gate needed fixin’. The cows needed checkin’. These things were simple. Important. He wanted to do them. That felt good.

He blinked heavily, slow and calm. Talking seemed pointless now. What could words do that a firm nod or a low grunt couldn’t say better?

He couldn’t remember his name. Not his old one, anyway. Just that he belonged here. He was strong. Useful. Loyal.

He stood up—taller than before, broad as a barn door, hooves solid against the ground. His flannel shirt hung in tatters around his massive frame, jeans barely clinging to the carved muscles of his legs, the fur thick and warm across his chest.

From the barn door, Miss Hattie watched. Arms folded. A little smile on her lips.

“There we go,” she said softly. “That mouth of yours might’ve been too smart for its own good. But now? Now you’ve got the strength and sense this place needs.”

The steer-man rumbled a low, agreeable sound, tail swishing behind him. He didn’t remember what he’d been before—and truth be told, he didn’t want to. That old life seemed too complicated, too noisy. Now, he had purpose. Simplicity. Peace.

And Miss Hattie always knew best.

He followed her out into the sun, calm and content, ready for whatever came next.

[gofishygo]

WEEK THREE [PRIDE MONTH SERIES], SLIP THROUGH YOUR TEETH VALERIA GARZA X FEMALE! READER- UNFINISHED

(i will finish this when i am like. feeling bonita idfk when i wrote this i wanted to make it like fluff and nice but it ended up being straight fuckin TOXIC YURI IM SO SO SORRY i promise i dont antagonise lesbians shes just yk.... lowkey a cartel leader... so....)

notes: valeria lowkey toxic as fuck, violence, obsessiveness, kidnapping, manipulation, yeah shes not very nice.....

Alejandro, especially, tells you not to remember anymore- lose track of the dates that weathered in the coast of time, slip the face and crime of the las almas cartel in between the cracks of walls, let it slip through wooden panels. Because forgetting was easier for you now; it was his job, as Mexican special forces, to face those slivers of crime in it’s snake-like and behemoth form, growing mold and cobweb in forgotten corners and crevices, forming sharp sea glass from sandstone and tide, filthy and sneaky and

wiry.

Valeria thinks you are wiry. It frustrates her, boils blood in the heart she’d scraped out on those mountains when she put on the mask of el sin nombre. How you look at her with no form of recognition, eyes blank, a deer in headlights. What had happened to the shine of your eyes when you’d see her? How you’d hug her in a heartbeat with clammy hands and thin layer of sweat over your skin? She misses the feelings of her childhood, tucked away in whatever nook or cranny she could spare in her mind; one where she’d sit with your hand in hers, try catch fireflies with plastic nets and takeaway containers, where you’d sit in the orchads with her, orange juice running down your chins and juicy flesh stuck between your teeth. A time where you we both were younger, fatter, happier- living- a commodity scarce in what remained of the city she’d known.

But after a while, prey tends to be found in barbed fences, writhing, ensnared by metal teeth, flailing in it’s mental bounds. And that is how you appear now- eyes glazed over in some rabid state, wrists tangled in the ropes, red and tender, nearly bleeding at the friction. Your teeth are bared. (it’s a lovely glimpse into the rest of your skull, the shine of those spit-covered ivory bones. More majestic than those tusks of long-extinct animals, woolly mammoths, sabretooth tigers.) but she slips those thoughts into the back of her mind, buries them with nerve bundles and tangles of neurons. She cannot have those thoughts, not with you. Instead, she forces pity to boil in her chest for her beloved corazon behind that window, scared, alone. It doesn’t slip out- she’d learned how to trap her emotions, meld and twist them over years of military service, but between viper-glint of her eye, some bastard-child of pity smoulders silently, cries for you underneath those glassy layers. You are almost dog-like now, vicious threats coming out as barks at the back of your throat. And she wants to calm you, tame you, put a muzzle on those jaws and scritch the scruff of your neck like she’d used to.

It had taken a while to wrangle you down though

But now, you are finally here, and you are crying, her thumb on your lip, sour stone of spit solid and stinging the back of your throat. “awh, mi corazon..” she tuts, using disappointment to feign something more sinister. “Always been such a good girl, hm? listening to every beck and call. Ran away from the woman you loved with a tail between your legs just because Alejandro commanded you to.” And you have to bite back a whine when she grips your cheek, nails faintly digging into delicate skin. “So, what’s the problem with another order, estimada? You know I would do just as much as that puta did for you, more maybe.” Valeria’s breath sends chills down the veins of your neck, ghosts the shell of your ear. her touch- you don’t want to think it’s love, you swear it isn’t love, but feels like home. You see it, for a moment, cinder walls and timber flooring. “And all I need is just a name.”

And despite how you’d told yourself you hated her, tried to erase her name from your head, way she grips your face feels warmer than any embrace you’d had. “So give me a name, sweetheart.”