#werewolf imagery

[stay-pos-cos]

I never meant to harm you, I never mean to hurt anyone.

I am gentle, kind, but never harmless.

My claws are made to catch and to keep.

My teeth made to crush and tear.

So when the sweet, metallic taste of you exploded against my tongue I cursed a god I did not believe in, for placing this animalistic rage deep within my bones, far too deep to cut out or burn.

I begged the moon to take pity on me, to free me from the pull of her cycle. But much like the tides I remain her loyal servant.

So run,

As fast as your legs can carry you.

Take your soft, warm smile.

And your beautiful flowing hair and run far away from me little lamb.

[rawbin-hsr]

OMGGG Your latest smut fic is so amazing!!! The smut is absolutely delicious! but....the angst is breaking my heart so...could you please write a continuation or part two where the reader confronts Aventurine's dark internal thoughts and comforts them? A fic where they actually get him to believe that they love him for real, where they tell him that he's not a monster and that he wasn't ruining them.

You've got it ! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

Aventurine x Reader

You treat Aventurine with more respect than he deserves. (Part 2)

Read part 1 here !

CW: dehumanisation (internal, thoughts Aventurine has of himself, referring to himself as a “monster”), lots of mentions of death, passively suicidal Aventurine, violent imagery (through metaphors, nobody is actually physically harmed), intrusive thoughts, Aventurine thinks kind of vicious things about you (refers to you as "stupid", "brainless", "naive" etc), cursing.

Lmk if there’s anything else I should warn about !!

Small note: Spoiler alert sorry, but you will not completely fix Aventurine in this fic. Making any real progress would take YEARS. The trauma he's gone through and his beliefs about his own humanity are EXTREMELY deep-seated, just one conversation would not be enough to make him truly believe he was loved. Super sorry since I'm sure that's not what you wanted (you specifically requested they "truly get him to believe that they love him for real", but this does still end on a hopeful note so I hope you won't be too disappointed (•ᴗ•,, ) )

Sometimes Aventurine gains enough clarity to remember where he stands. More importantly, he gains enough clarity to remember where you should stand. That is to say, as far away from him as possible. Unfortunately, you are never keen on doing that. 

In these moments of clarity, he distances himself. If you won’t do it, he has to. He needs to. He needs to even when he can feel the little pieces of him that you’ve managed to haphazardly glue together splinter into tiny shards again, even when it feels like every step away is a step walked on shattered glass. He can hardly be called a ‘person’ anyways, what does his suffering matter? He has already lost so many good things, why not add another loss to the tally?

He reads your texts, but he doesn’t respond. He hangs up on you the moment you call. By doing this, he makes sure you know he is alive. Both because he knows it would devastate you if you thought he died, but even more so to make sure you know he is intentionally ignoring you. He hopes at least some part of you hates him. He thinks part of him hates you.

But he can never stay away for long. Like a werewolf called by the full moon; like a vampire to blood; like a siren to a sailor. Thoughts of you always cloud his mind too much to do what is right. He reminds himself he will destroy you. He comes back anyways. He is too selfish not to. 

And you welcome him with open arms every time. Sure, sometimes you yell. Sometimes you berate him. Sometimes you cry. But he never does something beyond the bounds of what you’ll forgive, even though he tries to. You’re patient to a fault. Though he feels bad, he never takes it fully seriously, because you always hold him with so much sweetness, even when your words are filled with righteous anger and justified hurt. You always end it by reminding him that you love him. Something clenches in his chest; something that is not his heart, because he has none. He claims he is sorry, but you both know he will do this again. He always does. You know he will hurt you over and over, even if you don’t know the extent. You know he will test you, that he will ignore you, that he will cling to you and that he will taunt you. You don’t know he will drag his claws through you and tear you to ribbons; you don’t know he will sink his teeth into your neck and drink all your blood; you don’t know he will lure you to sea and drown you. You are never aware of the true danger you are in. 

Maybe that’s why you one day feel comfortable enough to corner the creature that has taken on the appearance of a lover. You sit down next to him in bed one evening after one of his many attempts to push you away, your expression grim. You look straight ahead, right into his dead eyes, unaware that a monster is towering over you. 

“We can’t go on like this,” you say. For one moment, the crushing relief and devastation threatens to consume him, and he’s not sure which of the feelings is stronger. For one moment he can’t breathe. 

He hacks our a laugh, his skin straining. Something is shifting beneath his flesh, something ugly and dangerous. He needs to leave and he needs to do it quickly. 

“You’re right, we can’t,” he agrees, his voice a lot more steady than he feels. He feels the urge to grab you and shake you until you pass out. He feels the urge to suck out your life force until your body is an empty husk. He feels the urge to slam your head into the bathroom sink in the next room over. He feels the urge to shoot himself in the head, because he does not want to do any of that. 

“I love you,” you say, unexpectedly. Or maybe it’s not unexpected. You always say such stupid, brainless things. (You say it with sweetness. The only sweetness he can offer in return is the sweetness of bacteria digesting rotting meat. Is the flesh his, or will it be yours?) He laughs again. 

“I thought we were breaking up,” he says. Smirking, as if it’s funny. (It isn’t.)

“No, we’re really not,” you say firmly. He snorts. 

“Maybe we should.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you come closer. 

Get away, he thinks. Run, you fucking idiot. 

You don’t have many flaws, but the ones you do have are insurmountably big. You are too forgiving, you are too kind, you are too selfless, you are too naive. You will kill yourself doing this one day. You will let him kill you.

Your arms wrap around him. He can’t help but relax. The thing lurking under his human disguise grows more restless. 

“I don’t hate you,” you say, unexpectedly. And this one really is unexpected, because what made you say that? Your arms squeeze around him tighter. “I thought I was being obvious enough about that, but you’re so bad at understanding it.”

The feeling he has is the same as the feeling he gets when he realises a deal is going awry. You are the highest risk stakes he has ever made a bet on: will he ruin you, or will you ruin him? What you could do to him is so much more serious than death. He knows that he is holding a losing hand. He doesn’t even know what he stands to win.

You kiss his neck. He shudders. 

“Why are you so scared of me?” you ask. 

Scared? He is not scared. What an outright laughable concept. Neither of you are scared, but if one of you was, it should be you, but you aren’t, for some reason.

“What gives you that idea?” he chuckles, but his voice is not as steady this time, and he can feel his smile slipping. (What is wrong with him? He doesn’t want to think about it. The answer is always ‘everything’.)

“Your hand is shaking.”

It is, but that is not because he is afraid. Fear is a human response, borne from the desire to live. It is instinctual. It means kicking and screaming, it means clawing your way out of hell for the chance to see another day, it means fighting for the life you don’t want to end. He cannot die, you see. Death cannot occur twice. Just because his body reacts, that does not necessarily mean he can truly fear any longer.

(Then again, maybe his reaction does not come from the thought of his death.)

“I’m not scared,” he says, and his voice sounds a lot weaker than he had expected. You pull him closer, cradling his head against the crook of your neck. His blood is pulsing too quickly.

“It would be okay if you were,” you murmur. “I know you don’t know how to be loved. That’s okay. I’ll teach you. You just have to let me.”

Squash. Slice. Tear.

Maybe you are the monster. He can feel your claws prying his chest open; he can feel your teeth dig into his flesh; he can feel something that is not air fill his lungs. The biggest difference between you and him is that he devours, while you give. You painfully shove something back into the cavity meant to contain his soul, you pump blood back into his system, and you fill whatever gaps are left in him with something that is first cold but quickly warms. 

(He realises, belatedly, that something is pumping inside his chest again. But it can’t be a heart, can it? He lost that so long ago.)

“I’ll kill you,” he manages through gritted teeth, claws digging into your shirt. It is not a threat. It is not a warning. It is just the truth.

“You think too much,” you admonish him. Your tone is as gentle as your words are cutting. “I wish you would trust me more. You’re so determined to ruin your own life, and I don’t like it.”

“That’s just how I am. Deal with it or leave.”

“I’ll deal with it, then.”

Like a werewolf called by the full moon; like a vampire to blood; like a siren to a sailor. He will destroy you. But you accept it. 

He has tried time and time again to push you away, but he is weak. So incorrigibly weak, and though your flaws are insurmountable, his are all-consuming. He is a monster in all the ways that matter. But you stubbornly will not leave despite that. 

(Maybe that makes him a little more willing to try to change his nature. Just a little. Just for you. If you will not leave anyways, maybe he could try to make his presence a little less torturous.)

“Just… please stop ignoring me,” you sigh, nuzzling into his hair. Tenderly, tenderly, tenderly, so tenderly it makes his skin crawl. Your claws are softly piercing into him and he is helpless, unable (unwilling) to fight back. “I can deal with everything else. I just hate it when you do that. I can’t keep going weeks without speaking to you. I know you have some kind of… weird ideas that I’d be better off without you, but that’s not true. I love you, and I love being around you. I can’t help you when you cut me off at every corner.”

Cut, slice, slash.

Something in him breaks. Something he knows cannot be salvaged. Something he knows you would not want to salvage. Something he is not sure if he wants to salvage either, now that it is broken anyways.

He breathes a shaky breath, his fingers — his fingers, not claws, not this time — digging into your back. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, and he does not feel the urge to bite down. Though his eyes feel wet, it would not be enough water to drown you. 

He knows your line of logic is wrong. He knows the fact remains unchanged: he is a monster of a man. He will ruin you. But maybe your presence sparks enough electricity to keep his heart pumping, just for a little while, and maybe he can wait until things actually start going downhill before he lets you go. Maybe he can remember how to be a human for a bit, maybe he can pretend he is. 

“I just… don’t want to do something I can’t take back,” he whispers. “Not with you. You’re the… the only good thing I have left. I don’t know what I’d do if I…”

“That’s sweet, but I’m not as weak as you think I am,” you reply. “I’ve held out this long, haven’t I? Put more faith in me.”

He smiles.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

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My inbox is open, feel free to send in asks or requests, I'd love to ramble about things <3 Also reblogs are EXTREMELY appreciated the final push I needed to finish this was from a very kind individual who reposted and analysed my writing I've been riding that high ever since they did that ily bro

[strongtowerluxuryapartments]

tracker o'shaughnessy; lycanthropy // dimesion 20: fantasy high

unknown // unknown // mitski - cop car // unknown // unknown // traci brimhall // nikkiniknak1 // unknown // baroness // unknown // sophocles, trans. anne carson

[alackofghosts]

what doesn't kill me only makes me wish it had

[lordoftablecloths]

badabing badaboom t4t boyfriends

the religious imagery and symbolism is crazy on this fucker

"Perhaps I should make my home here, as my state of being is a vice in of itself."

"Indeed, you would keep me company that way."

[kthecritter]

Hiii can I request an ipad background? My kintype is a werevamp (vampire werewolf hybrid). Please include photos of werewolves with black fur and also some photos of fangs (because my name is fangs lol :3) I’d like a scenecore/kandi raver theme, so with lots of rainbows, lasers, and kandi. I’d also love the otherkin symbol, some paw prints, and the rainbow infinity symbol (for neurodiversity) to be added! Thanks so much! Your work looks sooo cool btw! (^_−)−☆

cw: bright colours, eyestrain, blood

here you go fang (cool name btw), I hope you enjoy! thank you so much!!

[dvcky-duck]

I think I like drawing big scary wolves now

the first of the wolf drawings here are the otherz

[chaosroid]

I know other artists like to draw werewolf!shadowheart with no hybrid form and like an actual direwolf because her father was one (who was likely a lythari) which is valid, but my interpretation of wolfheart has always been more akin to vicar amelia from bloodborne

like, minus the antlers, shadowheart is a fucked up borzoi to me

[identityquest]

lizzie get two wolves 👍

[scopostims]

leftover stims :•]

[ID: A 3x3 stimboard.

GIF 1: Someone twisting their hands around, they're wearing gloves that fade into a dark black with claws on the fingers.

GIF 2: Someone holding a small shirt out and a corgi steps into it, then sits down.

GIF 3: A camera with a large flash on it going off.

GIF 4: Someone squishing a small, realistic fake eyeball.

GIF 5 (center): Someone slowly knitting a brown rectangle with pink needles.

GIF 6: Someone tilting a metal, slightly spherical charm on a necklace back and forth, inside is a doll eye that opens and closes as they tilt it.

GIF 7: Someone putting a floppy disk in a briefcase then closing it.

GIF 8: Someone wearing long acrylic nails shaped like black spines moving their slightly-curled hand into frame.

GIF 9: A perfectly loop of machines winding wire into a coil, bending the end into a loop, then cutting it and letting it fall down.

End ID]

[your-one-and-onion]

Eeem yea ! She is a little messed up !!

[toomking]

THEY KNOW I'M NOT ONE OF THEM.

[weevilsart]

Here’s art of my Wolfsona (name pending) with stigmata (can you tell I was raised catholic…)

Artwork by me

[a-most-beloved-fool]

worst part of writing star trek fic, you ask? easy. naming things. planets? they need a name. sometimes, they need two - both what the locals call the planet and the 'official designation' (usually [star name] [planet number from star in roman numeral form], which would make Earth Sol III).

which means that I a) need to come up with a local planet name (which has to then fit into a cohesive linguistic system with whatever names i give individual aliens and settlements, while also not being too weird of a false cognate with anything on earth) and also b) name a star. which, if i want to be autistic about things, means combing through actual star charts and trying to figure out what stars are a reasonable distance away. (i will perish if i do this. simply waste away. and i know i don't need to, but by god do i feel like i should) (and if i'm real unlucky i'll wind up picking one that would be lousy to have a planet around, so i also need to make sure that the star has a stable orbit and won't explode any time soon.)

and THEN, I still have to deal with naming all the individual aliens!! which, i remind you, must be done with consideration of the planet name, to make sure they could conceivably come from the same language.

and i also need to name whatever random crew members appear! and, because i like diversity, i try to avoid giving my ensigns the same five white-people names, which means i get to comb through like. the end credits of movies and old year books. to try to find good names that show that starfleet isn't made Exclusively of mid-westerners and californians. can't even really look things up easily because finding last names is so much harder than finding first names, and if i'm not careful, i'll wind up with the World's Most Stereotypical Name on my hands, which. might be worse than not including diverse names in the first place.

[the-drunken-huntsman]

I know you did Vilkas, but Farkas is not a carbon copy of his twin. He is gentle, Kodlak describes him as too softhearted in him journal. So, cuddly friend-shaped Farkas?

"Some people don't think I'm smart. Those people get my fist. But you, I like."

Farkas moodboard