#thread: talon and claw

[ghostsy]

Birds of Prey

WARNINGS: yandere, nsfw, noncon, abuse, blood, possessiveness, implied kidnapping, implied imprisonment

A/N: the fic i wanted to post is taking too long, so pls enjoy a not very short, not very sweet, slightly unhinged hawks drabble

read at your own discretion.

yandere ! HAWKS X READER

“You’re mine, you know?”

“You’re insufferable, you know?” 

A laugh, deep and raspy, filled the space between them as his head fell back in surprise. Though, the fingers digging like claws into the skin of her waist betrayed his irritation.

He brought his face to her own, smile turning razor sharp; that ever present glint in his eyes, while entertained, sparked with a dare she was too stubborn to ignore, no matter the ensuing consequences.

“Pretty pretty Bird,” His tongue poked out from his canines, swiping up to lick the tip of her nose, “I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

Rather than recoil in disgust, she leaned closer, fingers threading in his golden locks, “Selfish, mindless, animal,” Each word enunciated with a sharp tug, “Ruin all you like,” Her lips brushed against his ear, and she was met with a pleasured groan, “I’ll ruin you right back.”

“Fuck,” His hips bucked upwards, his clothed hardness grinding against her in a failed attempt to soothe the growing ache, “You promise?”

It was her turn to laugh; it was sharp and spiteful, and she leaned back on his lap to meet his eyes, hands falling to his face to trace the sharp curve of his jaw in resigned admiration, “What makes you think you’ll like it?”

His own hands trailed from her waist to squeeze at the fat of her thighs, fingers sinking like talons as they spread her further, pulling her into him.

“Oh, my pretty Bird,” A hand moved to brush under her shirt, ghosting against the skin, and bringing goosebumps to the surface, “If it’s you,” Dextrous, devious fingers worked their way underneath her bra, “I’ll love it.” 

Despite her resolve, a whimper escaped her lips, and the predator under her pounced, shoving her back onto the mattress below them.

Blood red wings spread behind him, and eyes glowing with the celebration of premature victory, he looked like some harbinger of death, beautiful in all his glory, but come to rip her to shreds, and feast on her insides with that golden smile.

She wasn’t far off, she realized bitterly. Though, her chance at revenge came sooner than anticipated when he dove forward, shoving his tongue past her parted lips, licking the taste of her mouth from inside while he tore at her clothes.

And, steeling her nerves, she bit down, teeth tearing into the intruder, replacing the taste of spit with syrupy copper. Her reward came in the form of a strangled groan as he ripped himself from her.

“Fuck—!” A curse, low and raspy with the interruption of dribbling blood.

The sight before her was enough to send her heart leaping to her throat, embers of satisfaction dying as quickly as they lit. If he had looked like a harbinger of death before, now, with the back of his hand swiping crimson to smear across his cheek, feathers puffed and poised to attack, and hair falling to shadow his eyes, the man above her was a type of demon king she tried to force herself not to regret awakening.

He spat to the side, blood dripping from his lips, and turned back to her with a smile more sinister and sharp than she thought him capable of showing. Slowly, he pulled at his own shirt to reveal a body too sculpted and too pretty to belong to him.

“Caged Bird has teeth, does she?” He breathed, “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, baby.”

“The only game I’m interested in,” She growled, “Is one where you lose.”

She had already scanned the room when she’d woken up dizzy and groggy and surrounded by a space all too familiar but not her own. He hadn’t even bothered with chains. Cocky bastard. There was no place to go where he couldn’t follow, but she’d be damned if she just laid there and took it.

She held her breath, and the pause between them was interrupted by a low, building chuckle that raised in volume and pitch until he fell forward in a fit of giggles underlaid with a twisted and angry amusement.

Lifting his gaze to hers, she found his eyes burning through her with the giddy anticipation of a hawk playing with its food. The condescension was enough to stroke her own need to fight, and she forced a sardonic smile despite her growing unease.

“What? Too much?” Swollen lips pulling into a sneer, “I thought you said you’d love it if I ruined you.”

He snorted, eyes moving to sweep across her body: fabric hanging in threads from her skin, lacey undergarments serving as her only decoration, traces of his blood smearing her lips, and tears that pooled at the corners of her eyes. Too stubborn to give him the satisfaction of falling. God, did he love this woman.

“Between the two of us, little Bird,” He leaned forward, taking her jaw in a bruising grip, and forced her gaze to his own, “I’d say you’re plenty ruined yourself.”

There was a twitch in her brow that sated his ego, and he pushed forward to give her a peck, retreating with the quickness of a man who had learned his lesson. For now, he reminded himself.

“Though,” Still, he couldn’t help but push, “Not nearly ruined enough.”

And he surged forward, taking her throat in one hand, and forced her backwards into the pillow; her legs flailed while her hands shot up to claw at his own. It was time to give her a little lesson of his own.

He settled himself between her thighs, ripping the last of her coverings to leave her bare and thrashing. Her heels kicked at his back, lips parting in short, sharp gasps.

“Fuck–fucking–” A strangled whine, “Bast–bastard–”

“Come on now, Birdie,” He leaned forward, fingers flexing, “If you don’t have anything nice to say,” Nose to nose, his canines gleaming, “You don’t say anything at all.”

With the twitch of her jaw, she pursed her lips, refusing to consider the consequences, and sent a glob of spit flying right at his face, watching with glee as it splattered under his eye. 

He jerked back in surprise, releasing her neck to swipe at the offended cheek. Through a fit of raspy coughs, her chest sparked with a sort of vindicated satisfaction.

Her victory was short lived, however, and a burning smack echoed in the empty space, whipping her face sideways, a ringing in her ears growing to match her blurring vision. The strength of a hero, she thought sarcastically.

It was her turn to spit out blood, before her eyes rolled back to him, angry, but cautious. His fingers worked at his belt buckle, and he shirked off his pants in her momentary incapacitation, entirely unbothered by his own sudden show of violence. 

She did her best to avoid looking at the monster between his legs, and, like any sign of weakness, he seized the opportunity to mock her.

“Fight all you like, pretty Bird,” A hand was back on her throat, tight, but not squeezing, “But you and I both know this only ends one way.”

She knew she was only delaying the inevitable, but the ache of bruised pride burning in her chest insisted on hurting him back. Hurting him more than he would ever hurt her. Because he would hurt her.

Her hands moved back to his chest, pushing as he wrenched her thighs apart, “Fucking villain,” She’d lost her appetite for this game of theirs, opting instead to let her acidic resentment pour outwards, “Get off.” After all, words were her only true defense.

In a flash his free hand took hold of one frantic wrist, “Villain? I can be a villain,” His face twitched in irritation, and her bones screamed under the force of his fingers, “Keep pushing, and I’ll break it.” 

The sudden flip had her hands falling limp, retreating in shock once he released her wrist, and balling into fists beside her head. And as fast as it came, the darkness left him, only that treacherous smugness remaining.

She cursed herself for her fear, put off by the unpredictability of his own emotional landmines. But still, she squared her face back to a disdained neutral, unwilling to show more weakness than he’d already sniffed out.

He pumped at his length, positioning it at her entrance. She was damp, but not nearly prepared enough for the size of him, and he hummed, fingers dipping down to toy at her clit, sending her hips jolting upwards in regretful anticipation.

“Say something nice, baby,” He breathed lazily, “Say something nice, and I’ll make you feel good, too.”

There was a beat as they stared at each other, “I…” She whispered, a growing conflict in her eyes. He leaned down, lips brushing against her own.

“Yeah?” His hot breath spread across her cheeks, “C’mon Birdie, I wanna hear something pretty come from that filthy mouth of yours.”

They were nose to nose, golden eyes piercing into her own, each pair glowing with emotions too loud to speak, “I,” Breathy and wanton, “Would,”

“Yeah? You’d what?”

“Rather fucking die.”

For the hundredth time that night he was taken aback, incredulous laughter his only response as he pulled away from her, eyes snapping back to her own with a promise he’d been eager to fulfill.

“Suit yourself,” And he shoved inside.

A yelp, surprised and pained, “Fuck–!”

He was only halfway in, and rather than let her adjust, he sunk his nails into her thighs as leverage, and forced himself further. She whined in pain, a coat of crimson serving as response around his pulsing length, and he moved to trap her hands in his own, fingers intertwined.

“Tight like a virgin, huh, little Bird?” Once fully sheathed, he set a brutal pace, the head of his cock bruising her cervix with each greedy thrust. His face dipped down to lick a stripe up her stomach, trailing marks up her chest and throat with gnashing tongue and teeth.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” She bit out, trying and failing to pull her hands from his crushing grip, “Wouldn’t know wet pussy if it—mmgh!—if it smacked you in the face.”

He huffed another laugh, “Don’t tempt me, baby,” His hands released her own to dig into the fat of her ass as he pulled her hips upwards and into his own with a renewed violence, grunting as her knees dug spitefully into his sides. 

Her newly free fingers clawed at his back, and despite his earlier threat, he seemed to revel in the streaks of red she tore in the skin between his wings, responding in kind with a hiss of masochistic pleasure.

“Not my fault the only way to get your dick wet,” A sharp, pained gasp, “Is to make a girl bleed.”

There was a glint in his eye that brought back her unease, and one of his sinful hands flew to the space where they met, finger pressing with irritating accuracy into her bundle of nerves. His other readjusted to push one leg to her chest, pausing his movement.

“Pain not a good enough lesson for you?” A too bright smile, “Fine with me,” That gleam in his eye sparkled with a sadistic satisfaction, “How ‘bout we see how many times I can make you cum ‘til you pass out.”

And the thrusts returned, chasing his own pleasure while the hand at her clit swirled in circles and stars, faster and faster until a whine more pleasured than pained escaped her lips.

“Like you–fuck–” She groaned as his fingers sped their motions, cock rocking into her with a deliciously savage rhythm she dared not acknowledge, “Like you fucking could–” A moan, full and long, drowned out her words, and her nails dug crescents into his shoulders.

He only hummed in response, her clit twitching under his thumb, “What’s that, Birdie?” A pulsing ache formed in her gut, “Words, baby, use your words,” Her pussy squeezed against his member in a way that had him groaning.

“Fuck you.”

“With pleasure, little Bird.”

He drew his hips back, pulling out of her dripping entrance to tease the hole with his tip, before diving back inside with unfairly gratifying precision against that spongy, tingling spot inside of her. Faster and faster, her bundle of nerves pulsed greedily under his fingers, and her teeth tore into her lip, trying to will the pleasure away, or, more shamefully, will it to peak.

Suddenly, and without warning, there was a blooming inside her that had her eyes rolling backwards, open mouthed moans raising in volume in an attempt to settle the warm buzzing between her thighs.

Though, she couldn’t find it within herself to care about the knowing smirk that pulled at his lips, too focused on his continued thrusts, and the quick rebuild of overwhelming pleasure.

“What are you–Stop!” A groan as he released her clit in favor of throwing both of her legs over his shoulders, and pressed against her chest, fucking into her at an angle that had her seeing stars, “What are you doing?!”

“If I’m correct, baby Bird,” He smiled, turning to press a quick kiss to her thigh, “You’re still conscious,” She growled as he nipped at the skin, but a particularly harsh push inside her cut the murderous thoughts short, “Which means we’ve still got a ways to go.”

His words were smug, but the growing sloppiness of his movements betrayed his own pleasure. Her eyes widened in realization, and her fingers leapt to pull and push at his back, tearing at what feathers she could reach in an attempt to get him off of her. Get him out of her.

“Not inside,” She rasped, “Don’t do it inside–”

“Hmm?” A mocking tilt of his head, “No? You don’t want me to fill you up?” One hand shifted to deliver a harsh slap to her ass, “Breed you like a needy little bitch?”

“Fucking—get off—get off!” She shrieked, beating at his shoulders, “Fucking psycho!”

“Well, that’s not very nice, now is it?” His hips were stuttering, and before she could stop herself, the words shot out through her lips.

“Please,” A couple stray, humiliated tears as she whimpered his name, “Please, not inside. Please, don’t cum inside!”

“Oh, so you do know how to talk pretty,” He breathed, fingers massaging at her abused flesh, “I was beginning to worry.”

“Please,” She swallowed her spit and her pride, “Please–”

“That’s right,” He was panting now, lips meeting her neck, teeth sinking in to add to the ring of bruises, “Beg me some more.”

Throwing her dignity out the window, she obliged, pleas working in tandem with the savage strokes of his cock, trying and failing to ignore her own mounting pleasure until finally he stilled, pouring deep inside her with a raspy groan, and sending her once again over that dreaded and savored edge.

“What’d I tell you, Birdie?” He ignored the defeated, broken whines that left her while they both returned to reality, “You’re mine.”

As his eyes trailed down the collage of her forming bruises, he was sure he bore his own battle scars, heart strangely skipping at the thought. She was his, but he had long belonged to her. A fact he’d hoard to himself as long as he could.

He caught his breath, readjusting to brush sweaty strands of hair from her forehead to behind her ear, pressing a reverent kiss to her temple before pulling away. It was a gesture entirely too soft, and she could have forgotten it was the monster above her had it not been for his next words.

“Oh don’t cry, my broken little Bird,” That vicious golden grin was back, “I’m not even close to done with you yet.”

Looking down at the ruined little thing shaking underneath him, he felt a type of satisfaction one only gets from dethroning a queen, fight fucked out of her. Not for good, he reminded himself gleefully. His pretty Bird was too stubborn for that. His softening cock twitched to life at the thought.

The flare of her nostrils sent lightning in his veins as she growled, “I’ll ruin you,” The words were venomous, humor sucked out in favor of acidic hatred, but his chest only vibrated with a sadistic urge to play, “I’ll fucking ruin you.”

“Ruin all you like, baby,” Breath wet and hot, shaking with anticipation, “I’ll ruin you right back.”

#yandere bnha #yandere hawks #yandere takami keigo #yandere hawks x reader #yandere takami kegio x reader #yandere mha #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere my hero academia #yandere x reader #yandere x you #first and only draft bc we like livin on the edge

[asheepinthenight]

Remedy (Talon's End Extra April 2024)

Some short fluff for this month's extra! MC comes down with a bad cold, and Hawk doesn't know what to do about it. Contains mild spoilers for post-game Hawk/MC relationship. Mostly written for the romantic version of their relationship but could also be queerplatonic (maybe even platonic, depending on how you feel about cuddling and forehead kisses) if you ignore a couple lines near the end.

You sneeze for what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour, and Hawk's head immediately snaps up to look at you. They put their book aside and lean over to put their hand to your forehead. The difference in temperature between their cold skin and your feverish body makes you shiver. They tuck the covers around you more tightly and look down at you as if, should they blink, you will come untethered from this mortal coil.

"It's just a bad cold, Hawk."

They narrow their eyes at you. "Many animals feign wellbeing in their final days. Self-preservation instinct to avoid predators' attention."

"I don't think I'm feigning 'wellbeing' very well."

Hawk gives you a rueful smile. "No. You're not."

You reach over to pat Hawk's hand where they're unthinkingly pulling a loose thread from the edge of the blanket. "I'll be well in a few days."

"That's what you said yesterday."

"And it's still true—it's only been one day so far."

Hawk scowls at the accuracy of your statement, and your laugh initiates another round of coughing. Once it passes, you look up to see the same look of deep alarm that you've seen in Hawk's golden eyes too many times since yous tarted falling ill. "You're sure this is normal?" they ask

"Very sure."

Hawk manages to sustain a few seconds of anxious silence before resuming their questioning. "And you don't need a healer...?"

You shake your head. "Just rest. You don't have to stay if you don't want to."

"I want to. If you want me to."

You nod, and they reach out to take your hand in theirs. Though Hawk's body isn't warm, it's not unlike a blanket: once it takes on enough of your own body heat, it holds it there, insulating you from the cold outside the bed. As you close your eyes and try to relax, you can feel the anxious static of Hawk's energy fade toward their usual calm.

You drift in and out of sleep, the fever and cough keeping you from resting deeply. After some time, you wake up sweating and kick all the blankets off, only to later wake again shivering. You sit up to hazily claw the blankets back over yourself, but you feel yourself being pulled into Hawk's arms as they lie down next to you, sweeping the blankets up over you both.

"Ridiculous," Hawk says as you bury your face against their chest. "Just rest."

"I'm trying," you say through chattering teeth.

Hawk sighs. "I don't know anything about... any of this. I don't think I'm helping."

"You are." You hold onto Hawk tightly as they rub your back, the warmth slowly returning to you.

"There are times I've wished I were born mortal, but I don't want this part."

You laugh—carefully, so you don't start coughing again—and pull away just enough to look at Hawk. "You'll have to leave the bed when I get too warm again."

"The human body makes no sense."

"Did you just realize that?"

Hawk scoffs and kisses your forehead. "Hardly, but I'll endure the whims of your fever and leave when you ask."

"You'll stay nearby, though?"

"Of course. As long as you want me to."

"Forever, then?"

Hawk chuckles. "You don't need to waste energy courting me; I'm already yours. So yes." They press their lips to the top of your head. "Forever."

#talon's end #te: extras #te: snippets #hawk

[azsazz]

In Full Bloom

Tamlin x Reader

Summary: The creature chasing you through the woods finally catches you.

Warnings: Smut. Not monsterfucking but not not monsterfucking? I have no idea tbh.

Word Count: 2,956

Notes: This one has been a long time coming and goes out to @acourtofmenandthirst, @writingsbychlo, @swansworth, and @azrielscrown 💙

_________________________________________

He’s coming.

You curse under your breath and push harder, leaning into your run as you thunder through the forest, dipping and weaving through trees so tall they nearly touch the clouds themselves. The ground is uneven, littered with upturned roots and wild moss, the burrows of animals and pockets of wild brush.

You don’t dare look over your shoulder at the beast prowling after you. His footsteps tandem in time with the pounding in your chest, thump thump thump.

Swallowing harshly, you search ahead. Your breath catches in your throat as you realize exactly where you are, how the grass creeps into the doorways of the trees, growing long and tall until it can’t anymore, the branches and leaves swallowing the sunlight.

You’re about to reach a clearing. And when you do, there will be nowhere to hide. 

You’ll be fair game.

You curse, weighing your options. Veering towards the right takes you deeper into the forest, the part of Spring that nears the wall that separates the human lands from your own, and climbing upwards would mean potentially crossing the lines into Autumn, something you most definitely don’t want to do.

So you continue on your path, your only option, praying that you’ll lose the beast.

The sun burns your eyes, having become accustomed to the darkened forest. You squint, throwing your arm up to block the harsh rays. The ground turns from soft and earthy to grassy and warm. Stalks of the long grass pull at your clothes, the skirts of your dress you’re sure are torn from low hanging branches reaching out for you in the forest–

You cry out as the beast lunges, its paws plating in the middle of your back with a shove that takes you off of your feet. You break your fall the best you can, squeezing your eyes shut against the wispy threads of grass as you go, catching yourself on the palms of your hands.

You scramble to twist around but a claws foot lands on either side of your face, caging you in.

The wolf is huge, easily three times the size of an Illyrian warrior.

Its eyes reflect the deep green of the trees you’d just escaped. You can see them now, a blur behind him as you stare in shock at the beauty, the flicker of pride in them.

The wolf leans in but you don’t flinch away, letting the animal sniff loudly. His maw is hot against your throat, his panting sends shivers up your spine like a zap of lightning. The heaving breaths across your creamy skin tickle, but nothing is funny about the way it goes still, as if the raging beast within him wants to cut a deep slash through your delicate flesh, feel your hot blood sticky across his paws.

Lips curl back from razor sharp teeth, grazing across your neck and you can’t stifle your whimper this time. The wolf laps up the stench of your fear, choking on it, and something within him snaps, offering a low whine, his tongue falling from his mouth to lap across your cheek in apology. 

You wondered how something so murderous could be so gentle.

“Come on,” you huff, “That’s not fair!” 

You squeal as his form changes. Even after all of this time it still shocks you. Tamlin’s joints crack as the transformation begins and you shudder. The loud clicks are as unsettling to you as the first time he’d shifted in front of you, you watch his back bow like a cat as his spine contorts back into human form.

His snout pulls in, sliding back into that perfectly straight nose you’ve become so fond of. Long, sharp teeth shorten back to normal, blunt ones, though his canines seem just as pointed, white and glinting in the sun.

Talons turn to nails, flexing into the upturned dirt the wolf had left in his wake. Most interestingly enough, is his bushy tail. It melts back into his body like honey, the golden hairs sliding back into place all over except for a few choice places you know all too well.

What’s left behind is the very male you love, fully nude, his long blond hair cascading around your face like the weeping willows of his lands, caging you in.

His lush emerald eyes remain the same, though the shape changes from wide like a predator to lazy-lidded and docile. That glint of hunger still lingers as he studies you, but it’s a different kind of hunger, a heavy stare that has you pressing your thighs together in response.

“You’re much too fast for me on foot, my lady.” He’s not even a touch breathless from the wild chase. You realize it’s your chest that’s rising and falling faster with the winds, brushing up against his bare one in the best way. Your lips part as your nipples graze against the hardened muscle. You can feel him through your thin spring dress. It makes you shiver.

“You promised,” you exclaim with a pout, but there’s no heat behind your words. Your fingers find his, sliding between his own as you relax fully into the soft grass, letting your head fall back into the soft earth, shifting your legs wide for him to settle between.

“I also promised that I would be able to control myself outside of the palace,” he leans in closer, slotting his hips against yours tightly. You gasp as his fully hard length rubs against you through the thin cloth. “But it looks like I’ve broken that promise too.”

“Tam,” you breathe, tucking a long strand of hair back from his face. The sun shines across his perfectly tanned skin, caressing his warm skin and pink cheeks, admiring the gleam of his luscious lips when he wets them. “We can’t–”

“We can,” he whispers. His large hand brushes across your cheek, thumbing at a droplet of sweat. Your sweet scent makes him throb against your thigh, smelling exactly of the roses he’d had planted all around his gardens when he’d first met you, unable to get your intoxicating scent out of his mind.

Planting the large garden had only reminded him more of you.

“I am High Lord, petal. I can do whatever I please.”

“Okay, then we shouldn’t–”

Your protest is swallowed by his mouth sliding over yours. You get lost in it immediately, loving the feeling of his warm mouth against your own, his tongue delving inside to lick and explore, tangling with your own in a heated battle he nearly always wins.

His hand on your collar bones slides down. You shiver and moan into Tamlin’s mouth at the feel of his claws dancing across your skin. You arch at the sensation, almost wanting him to slice into your skin. Four fingers fold into a fist until he’s dragging a single claw between your breasts to the fabric of your dress, his razor sharp nail splitting the cloth with ease, exposing you.

Tamlin noses his way down your neck, kissing and sucking little marks into your skin. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation and your hands find his hair, digging your blunt nails in and twisting his long locks between your fingers. He growls in response, pleased.

You gasp as he takes one of your breasts in his hand but there’s no sharp claws digging into your skin, they’ve flattened back out into the calloused fingers you know so well. Tamlin’s mouth captures your other, the tip of his tongue flicking over your nipple as you squirm, soaking cunt seeking out friction desperately.

He hums languidly, lathing over the pert bud after a nip that has the clouds in the sky above spinning. You keen as he repeats the same motion with your other breast. He’s playing with you like a wolf does its prey, out in the springy foothills on this sunny day. He wants it to last.

You claw at his back in hopes to get him moving, telling him how desperately you want him, but Talmin only revels in the feeling, wishing he could give you some of his powers to turn those pretty lavender nails into long, sharp claws so you can really leave your mark on him, tear him up like how you make him feel in his heart, piercing your nails through the muscle and keeping it for yourself.

Tamlin wants nothing more than to be claimed by you, to have anyone he comes across know that he belongs to you just as much as you belong to him. That he’d let you leash him even outside of the bedroom for his people and all of Prythian to see.

He’d wear that collar proudly.

Your hand snakes down his chest and you feel the shaky breath he takes as you move lower and lower over the coiled muscles, through the scratchy blond hair right down to his cock.

He nearly yelps at the way you grab him, needy and confident. Every nerve ending in his body lights up at your touch, the tug you give him, rubbing your thumb across his slit, catching the bead of precum and sliding it across his shaft on your next downstroke.

His arms shake and he wants to fall into you but you feel so fucking good playing with him. He bucks into your hand and you give him a squeeze that has his breath catching in his throat and he nearly tears through his lip as his teeth begin to elongate without his permission.

Tamlin’s never had trouble keeping himself from shifting, until he met you that is. With you every time feels like the first, fully succumbing to the beast inside of him, body on fire in the best way. Blood coursing through his veins and adrenaline pumping. That first time he’d shifted completely was nearly orgasm inducing, and so is being here with you.

His growl of your name makes your hand falter and your hips fully relax. He groans against the skin between your breasts where he’s sucking a bruise before he’s lifting his head to look up at you. His mossy gaze is glowing in the sun but his eyes are dark with lust. 

“Do you want to cum on my tongue or my knot, petal?”

Your response is a pitched whine. You scramble to lift the bottom of your dress, the other guiding his cock to your slicked cunt.

Tamlin’s resolve nearly breaks. He can feel the shift coming and it takes all of his restraint as High Lord not to succumb to his wolf form and fuck into you.

His body is taut and he refuses to move until he’s sure that he won’t transform. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut tight, and on a shaky exhale he speaks.

“Why aren’t you wearing anything under this dress, petal?”

You tease him, twisting your hand and nipping at his lip. You know that he won’t hurt you, no matter what form he’s in, and you could admit that you’d thought about what it would be like to be with Tamlin in his true form. 

“I forgot to put them on this morning,” you respond, tone dripping with false innocence. 

He groans, remembering that sneaky smile you had on your face before you’d run off. He’d wondered if he would find out why you’d had that look on your face, and now he has.

The head of his cock is hot where it sits flush against your cunt. You want to writhe but his strong hips are pinning yours down. Your cunt tries to clench, tries to get anything, but he’s not moving just yet, hasn’t got himself under control yet.

“Bad, petal. Filthy, petal. My petal.”

His words are accompanied by a feral stroke to the bond that thrums through your body down to your core. It causes you to cry out, clutching onto his arms, his back, anywhere you can reach.

“Tamlin, please!”

With a snarl he snaps his hips forward, filling you with his cock in one slick motion.

He can’t help himself, with the way you cry out with pleasure, arching up against him already as he presses you back into the soft grass. The sun beats down on his back but it’s nothing compared to the heat of you beneath him, the warmth you’re sending down the bond.

“Fuck, (Y/N),” he groans, but he has nothing to follow with, his head is empty of words, lost in the feeling of your slick cunt clutching his cock like a vice. He pulls out and presses in again, picking up speed as your legs wrap around his waist, another cuff he’d never wish to be freed from.

He can barely even kiss you, panting into each other’s mouths from the effort. You are the reason he’s reclaimed the Spring Court, the reason that his lands look more vibrant than ever. With you by his side, beneath him, on top of him, he feels like the High Lord his court needs him to be.

He wants to make you his.

As if you’re reading his mind you bare your throat.

“Bite me,” you gasp, nails scraping at the base of your neck as you try to pull him closer. You want those puncture wounds on your shoulder, the scars left behind of him laying claim on what’s his, the bond made physical to show everyone that you are his and he is yours.

Tamlin shudders and keens like a pup. Your words make him weak, threaten to shred every last bit of resold he has just to shift a tiny bit and give you what you’re begging him so nicely for. 

He lets you guide his head to the juncture of your neck and shoulder, right over the spot that he loves. He noses at the area, smells strongly of roses, lazing over the area with his tongue before he gives the area a gentle bite with his human teeth. You whine under him.

“More,” you beg, knotting your fingers in his long hair, using it to lock him there.

He shushes you with a kiss beneath your ear, his words dancing in the winds.

“Are you sure, petal?”

It’s accompanied by a thrust that hits you perfectly.

“Gods, yes,” you plead, clutching him closer.

Tamlin hums, relaxing into the transformation tingling at his body. He doesn’t want to hurt you, so he won’t fully shift, he’ll work you up to that one soon, when you’re alone in the privacy of his palace, not out in the rolling hills of the Spring Court where anyone or anything can come and watch.

His fingertips elongate into claws. You gasp, eyes rolling into the back of your head as Tamlin braces one hand on your hip, his claws pricking your skin. The other hand is less controlled, long claws buried deep into the dirt beside your head as he fucks into you with fervor.

He can feel his teeth sharpening, and it nearly takes all of his focus to stop them from getting to their full length. He thrusts into you deeply as he bites gently at your shoulder. It’s enough to break skin like you wanted but not enough to leave scars with your fae healing.

Another thing he will do to you in the privacy of his home.

Your cunt is already tight against him, but you keep begging him for more so more you will get. His cock grows bigger and you cry out at the feeling of him swelling inside of you, letting his cock fill out into his wolf form.

Your mind goes fuzzy with it all, the sharpness of his claws and teeth on your skin, grounding you from the absolute pleasure his enormous cock is putting you in, stretching you open with its girth.

“Look at you,” he coos, lapping at the mark he’s bitten into your neck. Your blood is sweet on his tongue, he savors your honeyed nectar. “All pretty and cumhungry. You want it, petal?”

It’s so good. Too good. You can feel his cock expanding with his knot. It drags up your slick walls, hitting every part you need it too, fingernails scraping down his back as please roll off your tongue with ease, utter nonsense but Tamlin seems to understand exactly what you need.

He lifts his head to roar. It rumbles the hills around you, startling the grasses. Birds caw and fly off in the distance but it’s drowned out by the blood pumping in your veins, the pounding of his heart pressing against your own. 

Tamlin grinds deep into you and curses, filling you up with his throbbing cock. It drags magnificently inside of you, locking deep into your womb, pumping with you full of his cum. His knot nestled inside of you makes damn sure that none of his cum leaks out of you, and the fleeting thought of you carrying his babe or a whole litter of babes makes his cock throb harder, spurting out into your tight cunt, all his. 

You follow right there with him, the swell of his knot vibrating within you, pumping you full of his rich seed is everything you need to orgasm just as hard, crying out against his damp skin. 

You squeal as he rolls abruptly, pulling you with him.

“My sweet petal,” Tamlin sighs, pressing light kisses to your hairline. He holds you close, arms tucked around your waist, claws and teeth put away for another time. You settle down onto his chest, exhaling contentedly as his cock stays within you, hot and throbbing as the both of you catch your breath.

“That cloud looks like you.”

#tamlin x reader #tamlin/reader #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acotarxreader #azsazz

[ratinayellowbandana]

Hi! Number six of the drabble prompt list, and if I may suggest, with a sad jealous Laudna.

hi! I'm sorry this one took a few days. I um. got a little carried away with it again. these were only supposed to be like 500-word prompt fills, and this is uh, slightly more than that. so I hope that's ok.

for those who don't want to find the prompt, it was: "You just didn't look for me." naturally I went ep 64 with a healthy splash of canon divergence, some good old-fashioned hurt/comfort, and pate as a thinly veiled metaphor.

length: 2k

~~~

Laudna whirls on her, snaps, “We looked for you. And the others. Every fucking day.” She holds Imogen’s gaze, holds her piercing stare until Imogen tilts her head. “You just didn’t look for me,” she whispers. 

Imogen steps forward, quiet but insistent. “No, sweetheart, no, we did. I did. Every day.” She does not reach out, afraid, not of Laudna–never of Laudna–but of herself. Of what she might do if given the chance at the wrong time. Her heart pounds an unsteady rhythm.

“I want to believe you,” Laudna says. She toys with the brass ring on her left hand, twisting it around her finger anxiously, twin snakes coiling. “I do, truly, it’s just…” 

Imogen studies her, searching for answers in a frame both foreign and familiar. Laudna is pale and gaunt, cheeks drawn in, though that’s hardly unusual. Her stringy dark hair lacks luster in the eerie light of the red moon, crispy and clumped together in places by something Imogen can’t identify. Cast in the long shadows between buildings, Laudna is on edge, ready to claw and screech and lash out with those wicked talons if provoked. She is wild, and she is beautiful, and she is frightened.  

“I understand,” Imogen speaks slowly, gently, distinctly aware of each word’s weight. 

The others are still in the inn, consorting in the tavern. The Hells and their new friends, chatting, laughing, and drinking the night away, simply happy to be home. Introductions were made, and tales of grandeur waited to be spun. 

Laudna had been unnervingly quiet after the initial elation wore off. Her hands remained folded in her lap or picked intently at the skin around her nails. Pâté’s silence was even more concerning. He had been coaxed out of hiding in Laudna’s hair with the promise of scratches and nudged his beak into her wrist until she began stroking his greasy fur. 

She spoke when spoken to, adjusting in her seat and responding eagerly when prompted. The moment the attention shifted, though, her forced smile would drop. Every so often, she sent a furtive glance in Imogen’s direction as if to ensure she was still there, then looked away just as quickly. Exhaustion crept at the corners of her eyes, and her gaze would fall to her lap whenever the conversation turned to the adventures in Wildemount. 

The group from Issylra hadn’t said much about their travels, but Imogen gathered their transplantation had not been as, ah, pleasant wasn’t quite the right word. Illustrious, maybe, Imogen considered, fussing with a seam on her new dress. Laudna’s blouse was tattered and stained with a thick substance that did not match her ichor’s usual viscosity. 

Laudna had stood abruptly, muttering something about air, and disappeared outside. After making puzzled eye contact with Ashton, who tossed his head at the door and sighed heavily, Imogen followed her. 

She had found Laudna around the corner, curled into herself against the wall of the Spire by Fire. A feral thing, hardened and reshaped by whatever circumstances found her while they were apart. 

She has not calmed yet, and Imogen is reluctant to curb the swell of emotion that has Laudna dangling by a thread. She is tangled in it, ensnared in a knotted web, and Imogen is unsure how to extricate her. She is all jagged pieces and raw edges, a tempest of fury and loss that Imogen cannot rely on her mental connection to unravel. Laudna is something of a mystery to her now in a way she has never been, and it’s all Imogen can do to not toss her circlet to the winds. 

Instead, she waits. 

Laudna is muttering to herself, tugging at her clothes. Pâté flaps about her head, wings of sinew and bone making an abominably wet sound Imogen hadn’t realized she’d missed. The tip of one wing tangles in Laudna’s hair, and she swats at him irritably, sending him tumbling through the air until he manages to right himself. Imogen extends a hand, and he flies to her, settling in her palm on his hindquarters. He gives a disgruntled shake, and his wings squelch back into his body, tail coming to rest around his paws. He peers up at Imogen, then looks back to Laudna.  

“I tried,” he croaks in that gravelly way of his, and Imogen strokes his disgusting little head with one finger. 

“I know,” she assures gently. He could be referring to any number of moments across a lifetime, a few weeks, mere seconds ago. She sets him on her shoulder and feels pinprick claws pierce the fabric of her dress for stability. Crass and wretched as he is, Imogen can’t find it in herself to hate him. He is an extension of his maker, creepy and ungainly and off-putting, so Imogen must love him a tiny bit. She scratches under his chin, ignores the feeling of magic-touched bone, murmurs, “Thank you for keepin’ her safe.”

“Boss didn’t have the best of times without you.” He pipes up, a little rueful, in a manner Imogen assumes is meant to be quiet. Laudna, only a few feet away, catches it.

“Pâté,” she snarls. He squeaks and tucks himself into Imogen’s collar. 

“He’s just confirming what I had already guessed,” Imogen defends, an attempt at lightness that doesn’t quite land. “It’s not his fault you haven’t told me anything.” 

“He ought to have stayed in my head. Then he might leave well enough alone,” Launda warns. 

“You don’t mean that,” Imogen counters calmly. 

Laudna spits, “He should have stayed dead.”

“Hey.” 

She huffs a sardonic, dry laugh. “Not everyone deserves second chances.” 

Imogen inhales sharply.

There it is. 

“Laudna…” She softens. She cups Pâté protectively. His fur oddly damp against her skin. She takes a cautious step forward. 

The pieces begin slotting into place, building the frame for a jarring picture of something severe enough to reopen this old wound. 

The fight sapped from her limbs, Laudna slides her back down the wall until she sits in the filth and dirt of the alleyway with her knees drawn close to her chest. Imogen winces as rough stone drags across jutting bone and paper-thin skin. 

“Are you… Do you want to be alone?” She asks–because what else can she do?– and half-fears the answer. 

Laudna’s head jerks up, and something Imogen can’t decipher flashes in her eyes. After a moment, her head shakes minutely, and Imogen lets out a relieved sigh. 

Tense silence leaches from the pores of the building’s rocky exterior.  

“We tried to find you all. Every day. We didn’t–we didn’t know where we were. Where anyone was, and–” Laudna breathes at last. “Orym was… was angry. Vengeful. And Ashton…. He was our friend.”

“Ashton?”

“I hurt him,” Laudna continues as if Imogen hadn’t spoken at all.

“Hurt who?” 

She shudders. “I killed him, not Prism.” Inky tears well from eyes pressed shut. Her voice is impossibly soft, hollow, seeming to ask, Do you hate me yet?

The narrative is convoluted at best. Imogen fruitlessly attempts to splice together the fragments of memory slipping through Laudna’s teeth like snowflakes, to arrange them into a cohesive whole among the scraps she gathered at the table. The Issylra group returned rattled, apprehensive and tense, but this is deeper. Laudna is shaken. 

“Wasn’t he a member of the Ruby Vanguard?” 

“He was confused, just like the rest of us. Angry at the gods.” Laudna’s eyes flicker to the glowing red moon. Her fist, clenched in her hair, tightens. “And I killed him.” 

Imogen steps closer. “We’ve all killed people.”

Laudna shakes her head. Her voice hardens once more. “I don’t begrudge you the shopping or fraternizing with royalty or, or whatever else it was,” she says lowly, “But we didn’t have that. We didn’t save a toy store or home-cooked breakfasts. We spent every moment fighting to get back to you. And now,” she swallows, “we must reckon with the cost.” 

She is utterly exhausted; Imogen can see in the dim light. Although bone-weary and at her wits’ end, Laudna’s elegant cheekbones curl with shadows that twist and hide in her skirts. Hunched and fearful as she is, Laudna is still hauntingly beautiful. Something warms in Imogen’s chest. 

“You did what you had to do to survive,” she says, “No one can fault you for that.” 

“I’m sorry.” Laudna’s voice breaks, fracturing in tandem with Imogen’s heart, and she sobs. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Laud, no–” Imogen crouches next to her, yearning to touch, to take Laudna in her arms and bite and hiss and growl at anyone who dares approach. She restrains herself, carefully plucking Pâté from her shoulder and setting him on the ground between them. He turns to her skeptically as if to say, Really? After what she said? Imogen nudges him in Laudna’s direction. He sniffs, beak in the air, and ruffles his fur before bounding to Laudna’s ankles and putting his weird, cold little dead rat toes against her shin. She ignores the pawing fragment of her soul, ashamed. 

“I’m sorry,” Laudna mutters, “I must seem…I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” 

Laudna begins incredulously, “I–”

“You survived,” Imogen reiterates, “against gods and people powerful enough to destroy them.” She sighs, “I sent you a message every day, you know? Sometimes more than once, if I’m honest, ‘till my nose bled and Deanna had to patch me up.” Imogen offers a half-smile. “All I got was static. I just had to hope you were out there, somewhere, lookin’ for me, too.” 

Laudna looks as if she might melt into herself, refusing to look at Imogen. Her shoulders shake, and she confesses with a gasp, “She’s back. I brought her back.” 

Imogen’s blood chills, but her tone remains neutral. “Who, Laud?” 

At last, Laudna meets her gaze, eyes wide and wet and horror-struck. “Delilah.”

The name hangs between them like a stone ready to drop and shatter and bury itself into their flesh. Searing rage erupts in Imogen’s veins. 

“I’m sorry,” Laudna shrinks back, “I’m so sorry. To all of you. You all gave so much to–to find me. And–”

“It’s not your fault,” Imogen interjects.

“–and I wasn’t…I was weak. I lost control.” 

“Laudna,” Imogen cuts her off with the steely calm of a thunderstorm on the horizon. She cannot afford to process this now, not when Laudna is trembling in an alley. Not when Laudna, unmoored and terrified, needs her to be an anchor. No, Imogen will save her questions and unfiltered anger, for another time. A time when Laudna is safe and warm and at no risk of coming unraveled in her hands. When Laudna is in a place to know Imogen’s wrath is not, could never be, directed at her.

“Laudna,” Imogen repeats, because she cannot bear the thought of her not understanding, “this is not your fault. None of this.” She does reach out, then, offering a lifeline should Laudna choose to accept it. She does, hesitantly, as if waiting for Imogen to recoil. Her fingers are cool, bird-light against Imogen’s red-scarred palm. Laudna seems to notice at the same time.

“Imogen,” she exclaims, words still tear-tinged and quivering, “your hands. They’re–are you alright?”

“Oh, they–they don’t hurt, usually. Promise. I’m fine.”

“I should have–I’m sorry, I suppose I was–”

“Laudna,” Imogen interrupts again, not unkindly, “please.” 

It’s then that Laudna seems to notice Pâté clawing his way up her skirt. She scoops him up and holds him to her, murmuring apologies into his fur.

“‘S’okay, boss,” he rasps, squished against his maker’s chest, “I can’t hold a grudge.”

They sit like that, hand-in-hand, hand-on-rat, until the easy stroke of Imogen’s thumb against Laudna’s has smoothed out the worst of the jagged edges. Until the tension falls from Laudna’s spine and she relaxes into Imogen’s touch. 

“The others are surely wondering where we’ve gone.”

Imogen shrugs, snorts, “There’re so many people at that table I think they’d hardly notice two missing.”

“Still,” Laudna says, “we ought to get back.”

“Do you want to?” It’s her choice. It always will be if Imogen can help it.

Laudna considers. “I think I’d rather like to hear the end of Chetney’s story from the Savalirwood.”

“Oh gods,” Imogen groans, flushing at the memory, “no, you don’t.” 

“Fearne and Deanna, hm?” 

“Best to let them tell it.”

#the folks who've sent me prompts chose violence #im not mad about it in the least #thank you very much for sending this in! it was really fun #i got way too invested in the pate-imogen-laudna dynamics #he's their son #and also imogen hates him a little bit but she also loves him because he's laudna #and laudna hates him a little bit for the exact same reason #and if she’s a little mean to him she can ignore that part of herself a little longer #imodna #critical role #cr3 #laudna #imogen temult #imodna fanfic #imodna fanfiction #critical role fanfiction #pate de rolo #ask #anon #prompt fill #my fic

[thewritetofreespeech]

Could I request the students of Jujutsu Tech meeting Gojo's lovely s/o?

She's a gentle and sweet woman wielding the deadly ability to manipulate threads.

Another loud crash echo through the building as dust kicked up, then settled, around the coughing, injured high schoolers.

“Damnit! We can’t get close to him!”

“It’s not a question of close you idiot.” Nobara barked at Yuji, holding her shoulder; which she had landed on badly. “It’s that that thing has eyes in the back of its head and a reach for miles. We can’t do an ambush if we can’t sneak up on it.”

The special grade curse gleefully whistled. As if to agree with its prey. The hundreds of eyes littering its head, shoulders, and torso, scaling down its back, all quivered with enthusiasm at the idea of them trying to sneak up on it. Even with three of them, all with difficult tactical abilities, there was no way it seemed to break past it’s literally thousand-yard stare and wavey tentacle talons of arms.

“You guys make a break for it.” Yuji and Nobara both let out surprised grunts as Megumi stood. “Try to head for the front exit and meet Ijichi-san. Maybe he can get you back to campus and find someone else in enough time to still hold the curtain.”

“We’re not going to leave you here!” Yuji snapped. Furious at the idea.

Megumi sighed. Already made his decision that this was the best idea for everyone. His hands were already making the sign for Rabbit Escape, to give Nobara & Yuji coverage to get out, when the curse’s long arm reached out like a deadly accordion right at his head.

“Megumi!!”

The pair called out and caught Megumi’s attention. Causing him to look up just in time to see the hulking claw poised around his head to crush it. Just hanging there. Twitching. Like it was trying to close but couldn’t.

“My, my, my….” The sound of footsteps, and unmistakable voice of [Y/N] echoed through the room as she suddenly came out from the shadows. “I never pegged you for the heroics type, Megumi-kun. If I was a few years younger, I might develop a crush on you.” If the situation wasn’t so direr, Megumi would have blushed at his mentor’s wife complimenting him like that.

“Sorry to keep you kids waiting. Traffic was a bear. Although, I’m sure not as much of one as this guy.” The ‘guy’ in question growled and flailed miserably. Unable to move as it was suspended, apparently not of its own free will, in the air. “Those fools. Sending children to do a grow-ups job. It’s disgraceful.” Her hand reached out to delicately grasp and now visible tread in the room. Literal hundreds of red threads suddenly coming into view. Wrapped tight around the curse and pinned to any surface imaginable to keep it pinned. “Much like you. You’ve had your fun, but now it’s time to go. If you choose to go peacefully, I would have made this easier.” The strings pulled tighter in her grasp. Cutting deeper into the curse in a strangle hold. It’s once gleeful cries now one of painful screams. “But you’ve hurt my husband’s precious students. I can’t let that go unpunished. I’m usually a gentle woman. But since you’ve chosen violence.”

The strings tighten and tighten and tighten. Pockets of flesh bulging at their pinching crosshairs before their burst. The screams becoming a gurgling sound as they tighten around its throat. Until, eventually, the strings all pull together too tight, and the curse was cleaved. A flurry of parts exploded over the room before they eventually burst into cleansing, exorcism fire.

The students of Tokyo Tech stunned.

[Y/N] turned on their heels and faced their shocked faces with a smile that they all recognized. “Who wants ice cream?”

Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi all follow after her still in shock. “Did you know that [Y/N]-chan was that strong?” Yuji whispered to Megumi.

To which Megumi shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Gojo-sensei always said they were. That’s why he married them. But Gojo-sensei says a lot of things.”

They all met Ijichi outside, and [Y/N] instructs him to take them to the nearest ice cream shop. He seemed hesitant, at first. Starting off with a comment of ‘they needed to get back to school’ but quickly clammed up about it.

[Y/N] bought them all ice cream and they sat in a booth until Gojo-sensei showed up. Asking where his sundae was. “Of course, I knew how strong [Y/N] was.” He confirmed when regaled about the story and asked if he knew. “She’s my wife after all.”

The group finishes their ice cream and Ijichi was instructed to take them back to campus. Gojo telling him that they would take the scenic route. “Thanks for saving them.” He said as they watched the taillights fade off into the distance.

[Y/N] continued to smile, but dropped her arm from waving. “Of course. I couldn’t let anything happen to them. They’re your precious students. And I’m pretty fond of them as well.”

“It’s pretty sexy how you went all ‘momma bear’ over them.”

Gojo smirked as [Y/N] elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t be gross. I may have my conflicts with the school that prevent me from teaching, but I still take my job as a sorcerer and de facto den mother seriously.”

He took a step a head of her with his long legs, then turned and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “That is why I married you.” [Y/N] blushed and returned with a shy smirk. “Let’s go home. I’m sure the kids are worried sick about us already.”

#;ask and ye shall receive (request answers) #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen scenarios #jujutsu kaisen satoru #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen satoru gojo #jujutsu kaisen gojo #megumi fushiguro #nobara kugisaki #yuji itadori #jjk scenarios #jjk imagines #jjk satoru gojo #scenarios #imagine #female reader

[the-pen-pot]

The stench of its fur: musk and stale blood. Muscles bulging beneath its pelt as it moved, too quick for anything but a creature of magic. Obsidian claws, sharp and black, raking the ground beneath its feet as it watched him with all the intensity of a predator latching onto its prey. The serpent in the place of its tail, reared back and ready to strike.

Fangs sinking through his chainmail and into his sword-arm. A shout: Merlin's voice, rough over words Arthur did not know. His blood burning through his veins. 

Merlin's eyes, dazzling gold.

Cold raked its talons across him, making him shudder, touching everywhere except the hot, heavy throb of the wound on his arm. He shivered, torn right through as fever consumed him. Maybe this was yet another dream. A figment. Nothing more than the shattered glass of his own addled mind, slicing at him.

He tried to rouse himself, to open his eyes and find Merlin. 

Merlin, who had magic.

The thought skittered away from him, retreating to hide in the shadows. Arthur could not recall ever being so tired in all his life. He kept struggling to marshal his wits, only for them to slip through his fingers. Questions bobbed through his aching head, lost and untethered.

Was he back in Camelot? What day was it? Time was like air, impossible to catch, and whenever he dropped the thread of his thoughts, he could not be sure whether he fell back into slumber or merely lost a moment. His mind was wreathed in fog. Memories loomed from it, grim silhouettes that took on definition only to fade once more.

Merlin. 

Magic.

A cool cloth blotted across his brow, dripping fresh water against his mouth. He licked at it, parched, but his request for a drink was little more than a cracked moan of sound: pained and wretched. He would be embarrassed by his own weakness if he were not too broken to care. Yet it did not seem to matter that he could not find the words. The mattress dipped. An arm slipped beneath his shoulders, supporting his weight as a cup pressed against his lips.

He drank greedily, rivulets running over his chin to collect in the hollow of his throat. Someone bade him to sip, not gulp, and he tried, but his body cried out for the water: feral in its thirst.

His stomach ached and clenched. There was one dizzy, awful moment where he thought he might just expel it all again, but he mastered the urge as he was eased back to the pillows' embrace, lain upon them as if he were something fragile, liable to shatter. His lashes fluttered, his eyelids too heavy to lift, leaving him in the strange, disjointed shadows between dreams and the waking world.

Those hadn't been Gaius' arms cradling him. It had not been the old man's strength raising him up. He did not need his burning, aching eyes to confirm it, not when he could smell the herbs-and-clean-sparks fragrance he knew always clung to Merlin's skin and hair. The perfume nestled in his clothes, too, mixed with laundry soap. It was familiar: comforting in a world that seemed to know only pain, and Arthur's fingers twitched against the blankets, grasping for something that seemed forever out of his reach.

' – delirious, Sire.' Gaius' old voice seemed to come from very far away. He sounded as if he spoke from another world, eerie and lost within the veils. 'The fever must break soon.'

'And if it does not?' 

His father. Broken and bloody over the rack of his own guilt. Braced, as always, to rule and rule and rule despite his tragedies. Did he even see a son in the poisoned shell upon the bed, or was it merely an heir failing to live up to his duty? A dynasty in pieces?

'I fear the prince's strength will be spent.'

There was a noise then, a tiny crack of sound that Arthur suspected was a figment of his fevered imagination. Yet when his father spoke again, the strain in his voice was evident.

'Heal him, Gaius. There must be something you can do?'

'I will try everything in my power, Your Majesty.'

'Use any means necessary. Any means. No questions will be asked.'

If Arthur had the strength, he would have laughed at his father's hypocrisy. He knew what the King asked of Gaius. Once again it seemed that, when all else failed, Uther would turn to the magic he reviled. Now, it was not only the poison that burned in Arthur's blood. Rage blazed alongside it. It surged, rising ever higher in the name of those he had seen led to the executioner for no greater crime than trying to save a loved one from the vagaries of fate.

By his own laws, what Uther asked of Gaius was punishable by death, and still, he did not hesitate.

There was a whisper of cloth and the click of a door in its threshold. In its wake, the silence was punctuated only by the crackle of the fire in the grate. Someone shifted nearby, the mattress bobbing like a small boat in a calm harbour.

'Arthur saw you.' Gaius' voice was closer now. 'You're certain?'

'Yes.' That reply contained multitudes in a single word. Merlin should not sound like that – hurting, resigned: a man already condemned. 'He looked right at me. I saw him see.'

'He might not remember.'

'He will.' A hand rested on his brow: long fingers cool against his arid skin. They teased his sweaty hair back from his brow and brushed over the vault of his temples as if he were something fragile to be treasured. 'He'll know I've lied to him all this time about what I am. What I can do.'

Merlin's words hitched, wobbled, broke. A breath stuttered between his lips, crying out for comfort which Arthur was powerless to give. He could not so much as lift a finger, let alone stir himself back to awareness. It was like he was present but not, an unwilling eavesdropper to Merlin's grief.

'Yet you will heal him.' It wasn't really a question. Gaius said it as if he knew that any alternative would be unthinkable. How easy it would be, Arthur thought, for Merlin to do nothing. He could let him slip from life, vanquished by his fever, and take his secret with him. It was no small thing, after all: a death sentence. Perhaps his father had said no questions would be asked, but it did not matter. If Arthur awoke with accusations of sorcery on his lips, Merlin would not be spared.

He wanted to speak, to promise that it would not come to that, but he could not form the words. Only tiny, tight breaths escaped him, broken upon the blade of his pain. He was a prisoner in his own body: a captive in poison's chains.

'Yes.'

'I see.' Gaius sighed, a world-weary sound, full of melancholy. 'I will pack your bag, just in case.'

It took Arthur's tired mind far too long to unravel that statement. It wobbled in and out of the haze of his mind, baffling – until it dawned, cool, crisp and cruel: a winter's daybreak.

Gaius was packing in case Merlin needed to flee. Not from Uther, who would assume the spell was Gaius' work and turn a blind eye, but from Arthur. Until that moment, he had never realised the truth. He had thought Merlin was a permanent fixture in his life. A certainty. Now, there, in fever's haze, he saw that Merlin was instead always on the cusp of leaving. The secret he held was not simply words unsaid. It was a breach waiting to yawn between them. A precipice. A desolation.

Merlin had lived for years in Camelot with one foot always out of the door.

And Arthur ached for him.

'Clǣnsiġe besmitenblod.'

The magic came upon him, as soft as moonlight. It did not blaze and burn, but seeped across his skin, sinking to flow through his veins and nestle in his bones. It captured the sharpest edges of his pain, peeling them back until he was free of their clutches. His fever roiled, then simmered, ebbing in the tiniest of increments as Arthur lay before it: a victim of its ferocity.

Yet, at last, power's cool balm suffused him. The haze lifted and the shadows retreated, and Arthur's mind, exhausted and battered by a battle he could never have won alone, finally cleared.

He opened his eyes, gritty and disgusting, to blink at the canopy of his bed: a splash of crimson that may as well as be as big as the sky. The blankets weighed him down, pinning him to the mattress, and his body panged with the bitter recriminations of flesh that had fought too hard for its own survival.

Merlin still whispered those same, soft words in a language Arthur didn't know, his voice broken with exhaustion and his eyes shining gold between the seam of his lashes.

Arthur twitched, and Merlin blinked himself awake from his reverie. The invisible net of magic that had woven itself through the chamber spun away to nothing, its gossamer fading from Arthur's senses. For a moment, they stared at each other, and Arthur saw the split-second when Merlin's courage – and he would never, ever again call him a coward – abandoned him.

'Don't.' Arthur gritted his teeth against the ache in his arm as he grabbed Merlin's wrist, stopping him before he could turn-tail and flee. Merlin could break away with ease if he tried, but instead, he hesitated, his body turned towards the door but his gaze, familiar blue now, taking in Arthur where he lay. 'Don't go. Please.'

He could feel how Merlin shook beneath the grasp of his fingers: a subtle tremor born of true terror. And how could he blame him? One word from Arthur, and the guards would come running. Merlin's life would be forfeit.

He had magic, and he had used it to save Arthur's life.

And this was not the first time.

'Merlin, please.'

Maybe it was that last word that did it. After all, Arthur rarely bothered with his manners outside of court. He was a prince, and he was to be obeyed. His father would be appalled to hear him almost begging a servant, and yet the words fled Arthur anyway, desperate and hollow. A strange dread had awoken in his chest, one that told him that if Merlin ran now, then he would never see him again – he would never get the chance to explain, or to listen, or to thank him.

'You should rest,' Merlin rasped, his grief like a bruise upon his voice. Any other man of Arthur's acquaintance would try to hide their feelings, but Merlin had never been one to bother with that. Not once in all the time Arthur had known him. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and it meant every emotion was there for Arthur to witness: guilt and terror, remorse and heartbreak. Yet beneath that, there was relief, as if some huge burden had been shed.

Cautious, Arthur increased the pressure of his grip, no longer merely hanging on to Merlin's arm, but tugging him towards the bed. He did not have the strength to sit up and face this. The aches careening through him warned him to not even make the attempt. Yet nor could he do it at this distance, held at remove. He needed to see Merlin, cast not just in the stark shadows and highlights of the fire, but right at his side.

'Come here?'

'I don't think –'

'I won't hurt you. I would – I would never hurt you.' Arthur swallowed hard, putting as much of his certainty into his gaze as possible. 'Magic or not.'

There. Confirmation, not accusation – but important all the same. In many ways it would be so much easier to pretend it never happened - to feign ignorance and let things carry on the same, but he couldn't do that. He did not want to do that. There, on the fading cusp of fever and delirium, all Arthur cared about was the man at his side. He wanted to know him, all of him, everything he put on display and all that he kept hidden.

That would never be possible if they couldn't face the truth.

He saw the moment of Merlin's collapse, saw it in the sway of his body and the tears threatening to spill over his lashes. It was no swoon. Rather, it was a body sacrificing all its strength beneath the flood of its own emotion. Merlin sagged to sit on the bed as if he couldn't stand a moment longer, his shoulders rounded and his head bent, one hand pressed to his mouth to stifle to the sob that threatened to tear itself free.

'I'm sorry.' It sounded as if it was punched from him, little more than a breath given shape in a scatter of syllables. 'I wanted to tell you, but –'

But his father was the bloody tyrant of Camelot, and Arthur had been taught his whole life to hate magic.

Arthur shook his head, stifling a grunt of pain as he plucked at Merlin's sleeve, tugging at him, nudging and pulling and shoving with all the pathetic tatters of his own strength until Merlin seemed to get the message.

He hesitated for a moment, indecision flickering over his tear-stained face before he sagged down to lie in the empty space at Arthur's left side. He did so on top of the covers, chaste and acceptable, though something in Arthur despised even that much distance. He had a feral urge to wrap Merlin in his arms and make sure he didn't slip away in the night. He still looked wary – a horse about to bolt – and Arthur scrambled through his sluggish mind for the right words to rein him in.

'You saved me.' He wet his lips, rolling on his side so they were facing each other, the space between them intimate and warm. They were like a pair of brackets, their knees knocking, and Merlin's hands clasped in the blankets. 'More than once, I suspect.'

He reached out, cautious, at first insinuating only his smallest finger into the lax curl of Merlin's grasp. Yet it was the leading force in a battalion. The others soon followed, until he was holding Merlin's hand in earnest, his fingertips exploring familiar calluses and the spaces between, the sharp angle of his knuckles and the occasional scar that painted his skin. It was easy to see, in retrospect, how wilfully blind he had been. Now, through the lens of magic, he could see the truth of so much of his good fortune.

'You saved me even though it would have been far safer to let me die.'

Merlin shook his head, and Arthur smothered a smile to see the gaze behind those spiky, wet lashes spark with outrage. Yet he didn't give Merlin a chance to speak. Instead, he squeezed his hand, ushering him back to silence with a simple pair of words.

'Thank you.'

A shivering breath whispered past Merlin's lips as he released it, closing his eyes for a moment and shaking his head against the pillow. 'You aren't... angry?'

Arthur pulled a face at that. He was. He suspected he would be, anyway, once his strength had returned and the full measure of all this had sunk in, though possibly not for the reasons Merlin assumed.

It stung that he had lied, but Arthur could not honestly say he would have done any differently in his place. Not considering how much was at stake. Instead, his anger frothed and simmered around the notion of Merlin taking one look at Camelot – at all its rules and risks – and deciding to use magic anyway. As if he thought anyone, anywhere, was worth the cost of his own life!

'A bit,' Arthur acknowledged at last, knowing that Merlin would catch him out in a lie. The truth was written all over his face, after all. He was too weak and spent for royal masks now. 'Later, maybe a lot, but Merlin, not enough to – to condemn you. Not enough to make you leave.' His voice cracked on that last word, thinning to almost nothing at the thought of him gone from Arthur's life, never to return.

In his youth, he had imagined capturing a sorcerer in Camelot. He had envisioned the adoration of his people and his father's pride as the fiend was dealt with. They were childish fantasies, of course, and he had grown out of them some time ago. Now, all he could think of was the need to protect Merlin, to keep his secret and hold it close, away from the prying eyes of his father and anyone else who would see him burn.

'Stay?' The word slipped out of him, small and hopeless, painfully young even to his own ears. Part of him felt he had no right to ask it of him. How could he, when every day Merlin lingered here, he risked his life merely by existing. Yet nor could he hold it back.

'I'm right here, Arthur.'

'I don't just mean now. I mean – the bag Gaius is packing for you.' He let his eyes roved over Merlin's face, the slant of his brow and the sharpness of his cheekbones, the pink of those full lips and the scatter of stubble across Merlin's jaw that suggested the depths of his vigil.

'You heard that?'

'I heard everything, including what my father said. He is – his hypocrisy is...' Arthur trailed off, unable to speak of it. It sickened him right down to his bones, and he forced himself to push it aside. This was not about his father, not really. This was about him and Merlin. He could not expect Merlin to peel aside all the shadows of his secrecy with nothing offered in return, and he tightened his grip anew, drawing his hand towards him as he made his promise.

'I will never let him hurt you, and I will never be like him.'

Perhaps it was the lingering veils of fever's ebb that dismissed his caution. Maybe it was simply that he was too tired to hold back his natural inclination, but the brush of his lips over Merlin's knuckles, soft and sure, sealed his vow. 

He heard the catch in Merlin's breath and saw the hope – desperate and wild – that flared in his gaze. Yet there was belief there, too. Whatever else Merlin thought of him, whatever fears he harboured, he did not doubt him, and Arthur's heart swooped and thrilled in his chest to see it.

That was a sensation that intensified a thousand-fold when Merlin shifted closer, bowing his head over their joined hands and brushing his lips against Arthur's fingers. 'It's for you, Arthur. My magic, I mean, and I will never allow it to be used against you or your kingdom. I swear it.'

Arthur's throat clicked as he swallowed, feeling the noose of uncertainty loosen around his neck. He had not wanted to give credence to that subtle fear, and yet he could not deny it had pressed its mantle across his back. Yet in Merlin's eyes he saw the truth of what he said: loyalty and devotion on unapologetic display, irrefutable.

There would be time, later, to plumb the full depths of Merlin's secret. There would be the opportunity to learn all that he had done in Arthur's name, the good and the bad, but in that hallowed moment, they built the foundation of something new between them. It was writ in soft, shared breaths and the press of Merlin's brow against his own. It wove around them in the warm air and eased aside the aches in Arthur's muscles.

It began then, not with a kiss – which would come a little over a week later, hot and desperate and all Arthur had ever craved – but with two oaths shared, as solemn and certain as a hand-fasting.

And those were promises they would keep, day-by day and year-on-year, as Merlin led Arthur into the brightness of that promised golden age.

#Merlin #Merthur #Happy Ending

[r0-boat]

Hear me out, flying type hybrid darling using their wings to hug their partner.

Like 'preening' their partner's hair and hiding their feathers in their partner's clothes; chirping / hooting happily when their partner come back home with hands full of their feathers like a silly game

(Can be anyone you like I just cant get this thought out my head haha)

Now I am absolutely obsessed with shipping Larry with monster reader. And when I saw Harpy reader I dived for it aaa.

The characters I will do is Larry, Warden Ingo, Leon,

Various characters (pokemon) reaction to their beloved as a flying type hybrid harpy.

Larry

You just showed up one night scratching in his back door with your sharp claws. You were looking for nesting material the day before you never asked a human for some this human seemed shocked But ultimately gave you some cloth it was strong yet soft and smelled nice. This human was nice : )

As a flying-type trainer, he knows some of the mannerisms you have. He thinks it's cute when you preen his hair or make a small nest out of his clothes because you missed him. Sometimes, he would show you how humans court and then do the same thing to you

And his coworkers and boss are none the wiser when he starts finding feathers in his suit all day. They just assumed that he had a new flying type Pokemon and not a hybrid birb spouse. Even so, coming to work covered in feathers isn't professional, but he can't bring himself to tell you to stop. He knows you're doing this out of love for him. Maybe Larry will ask you if he could wear one feather and put it in his pocket.

Your feathers are just so soft when you wrap your wings around him. He can't help but cuddle into you and fall asleep. He can feel your nails thread through his hair, mimicking the way he touches you.

Before stepping into his house, he could hear the excited tapping of your feet as you do your happy dance. The little bird hops with your feathers all fluffed before yelling his name and throwing feathers all over the place. His home life has never been this exciting, and he can't help but smile.

Warden Ingo

You struggle the flap of your wings, kicking up the snow on the ground. The Searing pain in your left wing and arm is almost overwhelming. Your energy is slowly draining as your body struggles to keep warm. Your feathery down kept you from freezing for a while, but how long will that last? Has the wind begun to pick up? You hold your broken arm close to your chest, trying to keep in your subs of pain as you huddle your wings closer together, desperate to cling to any ounce of warmth; your vision blurs and your brain tells your body to conserve energy. The only thing you saw when you began to blackout was a man in a long coat approaching.

You were protective of the man who saved your life—wrapping your wings around him not only for affection but also for protection. For some reason, this human was drawn to you. Your beautiful white wings and Feathers jogging his memory of something, though not enough to figure out why.

Every time his Warden duties called, he would leave his cabin even though he had sworn he would go you home somehow, always following him, stalking him in the distance until he was alone. Then, you would appear either from a high ledge of a cliff or a dark cave to brush yourself up against him, cooing for his affection.

Every time he falls asleep, he wakes up to his jacket being stolen and wrapped around you, not that he Minds that you wear it, though he has to tell you to be careful; those sharp talons of yours could easily rip a new hole.

The Striking eyes of his remind you of a Braviary hybrid. You can't help but Preen his hair and put some of your feathers in it. You coo in Delight of how handsome he is. Cuddling close to him and playing and tugging on his clothes.

Leon

Wherever he was, this was definitely not the Pokemon Center. In fact, this wasn't a town at all. He didn't even know how he got so high up in the mountains. Leon swore he was following a path. As he continued to wander, getting himself more and more lost, it wasn't before long that the sun began to set. Still, he took this challenge with a smile despite being low on supplies. He was in the wilderness. They're sure to be some berries somewhere. However, before the sun dipped below the horizon, he saw a blur Bolt from the tree to the dense foliage. It was like lightning, but he could have sworn he saw feathers. The figure was a human shape, a hybrid, perhaps? It stood at a distance where he could barely see it. It stood there tilting its head almost as if it wanted him to follow. As he followed the creature until they were nowhere in sight, that's when he realized he was back on the path.

Almost every encounter with you was by pure chance. You don't even know how he does it; a dumb human gets lost, and then you guide him back suddenly. A month later, he's back?! What the heck?? What is this human's deal!? is he trying to get himself killed?!

You only watch the human to make sure he doesn't get himself killed, not because you think the human is attractive. And you absolutely didn't swoon when you saw that he was wearing the feather you dropped as a necklace.

But unbeknownst to you Leon wasn't just adventuring for adventuring sake he was looking for you. Oh yes the mysterious hybrid that led him back to the path on that night he met you. Hybrids are already so rare, and when you caught his eye, he couldn't help but relive the memory. He not only wanted to meet you, but he wanted to get to know you to understand you. And you were just as infatuated with him as he was with you.

Even though you're instincts told you to court him as a potential mate, you knew that as a human, he couldn't be trusted, but somehow, Leon knew that , he knew that you were wary of him. He didn't blame you. How could he? Thus begins the slow build of trust and your relationship

#Pokemon x reader #warden ingo #leon x reader #pokemon leon #larry pokemon #pokemon larry #Gym leader Larry #champion leon #pokemon headcannons #gn!reader #Pla #pokemon swsh #larry x reader

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

I wanna like grab Foul Legacy and rub my face all in his fur like I do with my cat. I wanna squeeze his waist and just play with his hair.

I wanna touch Foul Legacy’s fur/hair, so bad,,

[📺]

me too anon,,, me too,,,

the temptation to bury your face in his fluff is tantalizing, even more so when you see him dozing in the sunlight- it just looks so soft and inviting,,, yeah you cave and end up happily shoving your face into the lilac fur a lot. Legacy doesn't mind- he lets out a squeak of surprise if he was asleep which quickly turns into a purr, his claws gently resting on your back. his fluff is like a big feathery pillow, and you find yourself quickly becoming sleepy, nestling closer and shutting your eyes. you really only intended to sleep for a few minutes,,, but that turned into a few hours, and by the time you woke up Foul Legacy had already wrapped himself around you to continue his own nap, as if he's just asking you to go back to sleep :)

oh oh oh, since he's too tall for you to reach his hair and fluff normally, he likes scooping you into his arms so you can reach!! either that, or he kneels down to your height. he loves the sensation of your fingers threading through his thick copper hair and lilac fur- sometimes he ruffles it up just for you to brush it back down, all neat and proper again. he'll play with your hair too, if you let him!! always carefully, though, since his talons are sharp and deadly and he doesn't want to hurt you

perhaps on one of your days off, you'll teach him how to weave flower crowns to wear together

#genshin impact #childe #tartaglia #foul legacy #foul legacy childe #genshin tartagalia #genshin childe #genshin tartaglia #chit chat #📺anon #ME TOO ANON ME TOOOO #i was gonna post more tonight but that time of the month is slowly rearings its head #*holds out hand* #let's take ibuprofen together <33 #short scenario #other's stuff #good evening :)

[pitviperofdoom]

It has been a HOT minute since I posted anything here about Caleb and Jack, my vampire-and-frankenstein-monster duo. They're two of my nearest and dearest OCs, and rest assured that no matter what else I get up to, they're always in my thoughts.

But this was the last time I made a substantial post about them, about six-ish years ago when I tried writing their story for NaNo. The way I was writing it wasn't really working out, and I shelved it for a bit so I could continue developing the storyverse they're part of.

And, well, I did a lot of development! Came up with a much more coherent plot for their intro story, ended up working on it last November for NaNo, so it worked out.

Anyway, some time after my previous attempt, Jack in particular went through quite the redesign, and for a while I've been wanting to draw how he looks now, but it's been ages since I drew regularly and I could never get up the nerve and motivation for it.

But hey! Writing's my thing! So I figured, why not just post his in-universe description?

So, here's Caleb and Jack's first meeting, in its current incarnation. Hope you guys enjoy:

Caleb’s hand was halfway to his phone when, further into the woods to the southeast, a pair of high-pitched howls rent the air.

“Shit.” He was already running. Normal wolves didn’t range this far west. What the hell were werewolves doing out here when there was a creature on the loose that already put two of theirs in the hospital?

A third wolf voice joined the rest, not so much a howl as a yelping scream. Caleb abandoned running and took flight instead, shooting upward until his bat form broke through the foliage and flitted over the trees unhindered. The wolves, bless them, continued to howl for help, leading Caleb straight to them. Once he was nearly on top of them, Caleb dove back down through the treetops. He abandoned his bat form halfway down, and let his weight carry him the rest of the way to the earth.

Three small, rangy wolves paced and snarled in the dark. One was limping. The other two crowded in front of them protectively, teeth bared to the gums at the fourth figure crouching in the loam nearby. 

It was a person, or at least person-shaped, dressed in rags and snarling like a beast. It moved strangely, its feet elongated so that it balanced on its toes like a bird. There was blood on the ground, and blood on its long, sharp, shining fingers.

One of the wolves lunged and snapped, and the creature charged. Caleb met it halfway and struck claws-first.

His talons tore through clammy flesh. The blow sent the creature stumbling back, clumsy on its oddly-built legs. Its foot caught on a root and sent it flailing to the ground, and Caleb was upon it before it could recover.

It struggled wildly beneath him, teeth gnashing and foaming as it tried to bite him. Another blow to the face, and Caleb’s claw caught on something that didn’t feel like flesh—string? Thread? Its breath smelled of blood and chemicals, and its eyes—

There was something wrong with its eyes.

It kicked out at him, and he found its feet just as sharp as its hands. He was forced to let go when it cut him in the stomach, and it broke away and scrambled back until a tree halted its retreat.

One of the young wolves charged again, baying like a hunting hound, only to catch another sharp-taloned kick to the face. The cornered creature lashed out again, and Caleb flung himself sideways into the wolf, knocking her out of the way with a yelp. 

“Get out of here!” he hissed, and the wolf snarled back at him defiantly. In the space left by their argument, the creature scrambled to its feet and fled. Caleb was about to give chase when the wolf slammed him back and took off after the creature themself.

By now the creature was wounded, and its gait made it slow. The wolf caught up in two bounds, and Caleb couldn’t reach them before the creature whipped around and tensed as if to attack.

With a deafening snarl, a fourth wolf—easily twice the size of the others, dark brown with a dusting of red around the ruff—appeared out of the trees, sank her teeth into the creature’s shoulder, and flung it back. The smaller wolf yelped in shock and skidded to a halt. Caleb overtook them and pounced on the creature before it could recover. It was trying to rise when Caleb pinned it to the earth, fangs bared. Dimly he was aware of the wolves’ snarling presence behind him, but his eyes were fixed on the creature. His mind raced. Removing the head or destroying the heart was usually a good bet, but he didn’t know what he was dealing with in the first place.

Head was easiest, at this point. If this was somehow a fucked up zombie, it might not even have a heart.

His hand closed around the creature’s throat. God, he wished he’d brought a knife.

Beneath him, the creature went limp. Its jaws cracked open, exposing smooth, shining teeth.

“St—Stuh—Stop.”

Caleb startled so badly he let go. The creature gasped and scrambled away again, before the red-maned wolf darted round to cut off its escape. A snarl from her sent it cowering into the dirt, crying out. 

“Stop please.” The words scraped their way out of its throat. Immediately it flinched, curling in on itself as if anticipating another blow. 

All Caleb could do was stare at it, then at the wolf helping him corner it. “You heard that, right?”

Maya Robinson cocked her head to the side, looking for all the world like a dog that had just heard a new sound.

“Did you just talk?” Caleb demanded, feeling ridiculous. It could be mimicry. He’d heard rumors of necromancers teaching their puppets to imitate speech.

The creature curled into a tighter ball without a sound.

“Hey,” he bit out. “Answer me if you understand. Did you just talk?”

It flinched again. Breath rattled and hissed in and out of it. “Sorry,” it rasped out.

Caleb stared at the wolf cornering it. She stared back, nonplussed.

Behind him, another growl rose from the smaller wolf from before. They crept forward, eyes fixed on the creature. The cuts on their face still bled. They lunged, only for Maya to let out the loudest snarl Caleb had ever heard. Cowed, they immediately dropped to the ground and pinned back their ears.

The creature on the ground startled visibly, rolling to its feet. Maya turned toward it, teeth bared, and made as if to lunge and put it straight back on the ground.

“Wait,” Caleb cut her off, one hand in front of her glaring face. “Just, wait. Give it a minute.” The wolf gave a disgruntled snort. “Don’t. You aren’t even supposed to be here.”

Maya snorted again, unimpressed, before turning away, tipping her head back, and howling to the sky. Answering calls reached Caleb’s ears within seconds.

“You, sit,” Caleb growled at the creature. It sat, arranging its legs awkwardly on the ground, and Caleb stepped back to take his first good look at it.

It looked human, for the most part. Its component parts seemed mostly human. It had two arms, two legs, and a head, all where they were supposed to be. Cautiously he took hold of one of the creature’s wrists, turning it over for a better look. It submitted to the inspection meekly enough, silent as it waited for him to finish. 

Maya had been half-right about it wielding knives. Its hands were knives; the fingers stopped at the second knuckle, and instead of the last two joints were six-inch steel blades. The thumb had been treated similarly, the last joint replaced with a shorter blade. Caleb tested one edge and cut himself easily. He released the wrist and turned instead to the strange shape of its feet, and had to stare at it for nearly a minute to understand just what he was looking at. Below the heel, its foot was an elongated fusion of metal and flesh that split into three toes with long, curved steel talons. It was built to walk like a bird. Like a dinosaur, more like.

Beneath the rags it wore, prominent seams crisscrossed its flesh, making its skin a grisly patchwork. The face alone had at least three different skin tones, each bordered by thick, even stitching. A shock of grayish-white hair grew from its head in uneven tangles. Caleb cautiously brushed it out of the way of its eyes, and couldn’t suppress a hiss of instinctive revulsion.

It didn’t have eyes. No sclerae, irises, or pupils. The sockets were pits of viscous black ooze that leaked like tears.

Caleb breathed in, drinking in the mingled floral-chemical scent, and sighed.

“I’m going to be completely honest with you,” he informed the wolves. “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

#sdverse #undead bros #tales from the pit #original writing

[zarnzarn]

"Didn't there used to be a chandelier here?" Blitz blurts out. Stolas freezes where he'd been standing, fingers tightening on the bowls of food clutched in his hand as he looks into the doorway Blitz had abruptly stopped in front of.

Blitz throws his own towels onto a vase on the side and walks into the room eagerly. He doesn't remember any of the day they'd spent all those years ago as snot-nosed little shits like Stolas does, much as he's wracked his brains for it the best he can. But he does remember the chandelier, and he can feel the spark of memory connect to others, flickering like a dream falling out of reach, saturated with warmth and laughter and the blurry image of a distorted familiar face.

"There was, right?" He grins, looking up at the ceiling, where the golden rod foundations are still intact, now carved in and dripping with expensive diamonds. "We- we played here. Ah hell, I remember being fucking fascinated with that thing afterwards- I think Fizz tried to strangle me to get me to stop talking about it, heh."

He runs a claw over the metal, dust gathering on his fingertip. "Cause it was such a stupidly simple thing, y'know? Just glass and thread twisted together to make such a pretty piece. All those colors sparkling every time you moved. I wanted to make one of my own when I got older, to put in the office."

He tilts his head at the barely visible talon marks in the floor, seeing double as he watches them being made. "You- you tripped. Got entangled in the threads, didn't ya?" He laughs, overlaid with the cackling of ten-year old him and the sheepish laughter of the other kid as he helps Stolas out of the mess of knots. "Damn, that was funny. You were alright to hang out with. Don't remember the rest, but it was fun."

He stares up at the old thing for a moment longer, basking in the memory of a simpler time and two children chasing each other around a glass chandelier and laughing, unaware of how their lives would snag back onto each other later on. He smiles, feeling oddly sentimental. What were the odds, huh?

Then Blitz huffs amusedly. "I am remembering this correctly, right? There used to be a chandelier here? Fuck knows my shitty memory-"

He turns around and stops, smile fading off his face. He'd expected Stolas to be... happy or whatever, that Blitz had finally remembered fucking something of a meeting that had been so important to him. He's not expecting-

"Yes, there used to be," Stolas agrees, voice flat and mouth pinched and eyes glazed over. He grabs the towels and stalks away. "Stella broke it. It's not there anymore."

Blitz doesn't think he's talking about the chandelier.

#helluva boss #blitz #stolas #stolitz #my fic #helluva boss spoilers #helluva boss season 2 spoilers #ANGST #id place this at before ep six i think #stolas doesnt go into that room

[m4gp13]

I wish demigods got to use/make weapons that had more to do with their godly parents whether it be a weapon they were known for, a symbol of theirs or something to do with their powers

we've all seen art of Percy with a trident made of water but like, imagine a child of Demeter running around with a knife made of thorns or some thorny vine wrapped around their hand like spiked brass knuckles, or a child of Hephaestus making some ungodly weapon never before seen, possibly infused with fire magic (I hate to bring such stuff into my well-catered space, but if you've read it think of Aelin infusing her sword with fire magic in Kingdom of Ash), or Thalia making a lightning spear that looks similar to the lightning bolt/javelin in the movie, or (something I've seen floating around before) children of aphrodite mixing powdered celestial bronze into acrylic to make claw-nails or even just using celestial bronze claws as acrylic nails.

Or, another thing that would be really cool, demigods using spoils of war from monster they've killed or parts from their parent's sacred animal as a weapon. Imagine if Percy got his minotaur horn made into a knife that he used throughout the series. It could have a been a good signifier of his growth, made his rematch with the minotaur more impactful by having Percy kill it with the horn he got from killing it the first time and he could have given it to Annabeth when she lost her knife in Tartarus.

Also, imagine something like the Athena kids using owl talons as something like a bagh nakh, or Ares kids using boar tusks as spear tips, or characters using fangs/claws from hellhounds for a similar purpose, or characters (i.e. Ethan) using poison from creatures like the gorgons or drakons to coat their blades or even characters like Ethan using the venomous fangs from a hydra or a drakon as a weapon, or people using scales from drakons or dracaena as armour or maybe on a shield, or Percy keeping and actually using his impenetrable nymean lion hide after it did fuck all in TTC.

I feel like the pen-sword and invisibility hat in TLT set up the idea of creative and unconventional weapons in the series but that thread was dropped as the books went on and the creative weapons that did show up were kind of lacklustre (see: Jason's coin-toss spear/sword that showed up like three times in TLH before getting broken and replaced with a regular ass sword) so it would have been nice to see a bit more out-of-the-box thinking when it comes to materials that were used as weapons. There was a hint of it coming back with Annabeth's drakon bone sword that she got in Tartarus and barely used after that.

#pjo #percy jackson #hoo #pjo hoo toa #I didn't want to mention other ideas for the transformative aspect of weapons that were introduced #because I know aroaceleovaldez has already made some cool posts about that #also #because it's kind of my brand at this point #GiveEthanNakamuraAWhip2023 #Q

[airamsao3]

Truth Serum...?

drabble

pairing: talon interrogator reader/ramattra

words: 669

cw: stalking

✧ AO3 ✧

"He's all ready for you, tiger." Sombra is the only one there to welcome you to your stomping ground, and you give her a quick nod. The executives keep watch from a healthy distance-- lord knows what augmentations the leader of Null Sector has or hasn't disclosed to them. He's a danger. A maverick.

And you're there to find out exactly what he wants from Talon. From tailing your squad.

"Thank you, Sombra," you say, and enter the room, hearing the clicking of her clawed gloves behind you as she waves goodbye.

The overhead lights are bright and harsh, so harsh that even you are forced to squint under the intense glare before your vision adjusts. The light suffuses the silver of Ramattra's chassis with an almost ethereal glow, his bone white faceplate staring back at you like a skull. Despite his position, he exudes a raw, unadulterated power that demands submission and deference by virtue of his presence alone.

But you are not one to be outmatched, especially not in your territory.

You circle his seat, noting the soft whirring noise of his eyes as they track your every movement. "Tell me," your tone is accusatory and venomous, already convinced of his guilt, "what are you planning? An attack? A betrayal, perhaps? Has Talon not given you absolutely everything that you've requested?" You stop once you're face to face with him, and tip his chin upwards with your pen.

"No," he says, and a slim thread of steam wafts from his back. "No such thing."

"I find that hard to believe," you say, and make a signal behind your back to Sombra, who's watching from beyond the one way mirror. An answering code is flashed back to you, from the seemingly innocuous flickering of the light above.

 Is the code working?

Yes.  

You frown, incredulity and rage seeping into your expression. "Gathering intel, then? Trying to find our weaknesses?"

"No," he answers breathlessly, "I simply wanted to see you."

You physically recoil. "What?" An unbidden flush crawls up your cheeks, your blood running hot, then cold.

You sign behind you again, rapidly,

 What did you do?!

To your chagrin, Ramattra keeps speaking, as if a stopper has been removed. "I'm sorry," he says, but you cannot tell if it is genuine, his expression is unreadable, his body is completely still-- "I could not keep myself from you, not even whilst you were sleeping. I wished to commit every detail to memory, from the way your eyes moved underneath your skin, to the way your chest rose and fell with each delicate breath." It becomes increasingly difficult to remember the cipher to the code as the light dimly flashes in front of you, obscured by the thick, heavy steam pouring out of the omnic in front of you.

Ha. Ha. Ha.  

That brat!

"I'm sorry," he says, sounding all the more remorseful, "I am lesser than a beast. I could not help but wish to be close to you, to the point of obsession. Even now, I struggle to remain within these superficial binds, such that I do not lose myself in my passions, such that I do not ravish you where you stand."

You back away, your pen laying forgotten on the tiled floor, and still, he's looking at you with that same unreadable, intimidating gaze. Your hand fumbles for the doorknob, desperate to get out of the situation, and your heart rate doubles as he breaks out of his restraints and approaches you.

His hands slam into the wall behind you, and his face is so close that you can see his actual eyes-- the aperture is blown so wide they're almost a solid black. "Please," he says, madness and lust coagulating in his voice, ringing through the fog, "may I kiss you?"

And as you descend into nigh panic as you're stuck between your responsibility and a ravager, you can just dimly make out the two letters Sombra keeps signing to you over and over.

Lolololololol.  

#ramattra x reader #ramattra/reader #overwatch #fanfiction #sfw #drabble

[jackdaniel69nice]

A list of special moves I think dark shadow should be able to do because they are the most powerful and versatile and clever quirk on the planet (I am NOT biased thank you very much):

Reaper’s Talon- Dark shadow extends one of their claws into a sword for tokoyami to use. Their claws are sharper than steel and can even cut through eraser heads capture scarf.

Obsidian Threads- By creating multiple tendrils and thinning them out they can pierce their target. This is useful when needing to make explosives go off prematurely at a farther distance saving the rest of their body from being damaged by the light.

Nyx’s Veil- Dark shadow forms a gargantuan pair of wings able to create an air blast strong enough to level a city block and disrupt weather patterns.

Durga’s Grasp- Forming of multiple arms that can attack several people at once, can hold multiple weapons or use sheer numbers to overwhelm and restrain enemies.

Infernal Shriek- Focusing dark energy into their voice they can create sound waves strong enough to rupture eardrums and sends a powerful blast towards their target. Dark Shadow doesn’t need to breath nor do they have vocal cords so they can keep up the attack for as long as their power lasts. The noise created is not very comprehensible, it reaches beyond human hearing in higher and lower frequencies at the same time. Very creepy.

Phantom Deception- Dark Shadow can move through solid objects so they go underground and come up through the ground for a sneak attack. Since they don’t need to breath they can stay under for longer as well to replenish their strength (because no light can reach underground)

Ragnarok: Quetzalcoatl- Dark Shadow uses their large form to fly through the sky, usually carrying passengers.

Ragnarok: Fenrir’s Vengeance- Dark Shadow uses Tokoyami’s life energy to achieve Ragnarok during the day. This is fatal :(

Black Abyss: New Moon- The perfect form of black ankh only achieved in pure darkness. Dark shadow condenses the dark energy of Ragnarok into a smaller form laying over Tokoyami’s body. It increases strength and speed 100 fold making their body insanely powerful that could rival ofa. The downfall is that it puts stress on Tokoyami’s body and Shadow is in complete control meaning they have the potential to go into a rampage.

#a lot of these moves are based on other characters #bnha #boku no hero academia #tokoyami fumikage #dark shadow #bnha headcanons #bnha fanart #mha #my hero academia

[void-ink-studios]

Gala of the Gods (Part 2)

Part two for you lovely people!

Also, I've definitely decided, I'm absolutely drawing their outfits. Scarab's outfit is heavily inspired by the idea of him reclaiming his identity, so I hope y'all like it!

And, surprise, this is actually a 3 parter, sorry. I really thought this would be two parts, but this one ballooned a bit. So, we'll have the conclusion tomorrow! Sorry...

Part 1 | Part 2 -You Are Here- | Part 3

Word Count: 3,100

Prismo needed a moment to process what he was seeing. Scarab, his beautiful Scarab... He was stunning. He was shameless.

Scarab was sleek most of the time anyway, but the long black dress only made him seem more so. It reached all the way up his neck and cascaded down his chest, with his back completely exposed. He tied a black and gold sash around his middle to highlight his natural body shape, and the edges barely touched the ground. He accessorized with thin golden chains flowing down his neck and chest, almost in a spiderweb pattern, with a scarab beetle shaped pendent in the middle of it all.

Prismo nearly missed that Scarab's secondary arms were out as well, delicately folded in front of him, holding an elegant black cane. All of his hands were styled with long, fingerless gloves, ones that showed off his talons.

His head what backed by what seemed to be his mask plates, but... modified somehow. It made his head's silhouette appear to have antenna, albeit in a stylized manner.

Draped around his shoulders and upper arms was some kind of shawl. Except... The Wishmaster looked closer and realized it was made out of... butterfly wings. Small cloth butterfly wings, with small gold detailing.

But that wasn't even the real showstopper. That would be what Scarab had done to his wings.

It was clear they weren't real, but that didn't seem to be the point. The shimmery, almost crystal-like add-ons were not there to disguise his missing wings, as where the garment ended and his real wing's remains began were pretty clear if you were paying attention. They were intricately crafted, stylized with eye and arm patterns in the threading between the pearlescent fabric he had used.

He looked like royalty. And wasn't Prismo so lucky to have that?

"S-Scarab... Holy Glob man, you... you look so..."

Scarab gave him a timid but loving smile, waiting for him to finish his thought.

"You're stunning, Lovebug. So beautiful..." Prismo reached for one of Scarab's hands, which was happily accepted.

"Thank you, Prismo... I... I was starting to doubt this the closer to the time it was... wondering if this was... too much."

"It's not too much at all, Scrabs. You look so... proud. You don't even have your mask on, out here."

Scarab made a low chirp in relief, giving Prismo a look of... confidence, he decided.

"Because... I'm tired of hiding. You... you made me feel beautiful when everyone else tried to make me think I was some... creepy little creature. But... I'm not living for them. Not anymore. I am a god, just like you and just like them, and I'm tired of letting them make me forget that. So. I'm here. With everything they thought creepy out and proud. No mask. No hiding my claws or extra arms. No pretending what they took from me never existed."

Prismo looked at him in sheer awe. The more he spoke, the taller, more confident he seemed. He held his head up high, his chest out, his elytra clicking together softly.

"I'm so happy for you, Scarab. That you've gotten to a point where you can do this... so publicly... I know it might not mean much coming from me, but I'm so, so proud of you."

Scarab smiled wide, letting out the prettiest of chirps toward the Wishmaster.

"Trust me, it means the world, coming from you."

Prismo returned the smile, offering Scarab his arm. The beetle gladly wrapped around it, as they walked together back towards their little friend group.

"Darling, you look wonderful" Life cooed, giving Scarab a soft peck on the cheek. Death gave him a nod and a thumbs up.

"Yeah man, you look amazing! I'm glad you made it" Cos added. It seems the three pointedly noticed Scarab wrapped around Prismo's arm, but none decided to comment directly.

"Thank you, all of you. You all look great as well. Cos, anymore incidents of Profiteering I should know about?"

The group laughed as Cos's feathers all flared up in an indignant squawk, all of them making their way to the main party. Prismo could barely take his eyes off the beauty hanging off his arm, taking the last little moment of quiet to softly kiss Scarab's upper arm. He felt the beetle squeeze his arm in response, mandibles clicking nervously.

What that group must've looked like walking in. Heads certainly turned as gods slowly realized what they were looking at. Everybody's pal, Prismo, with the equally feared and hated former God Auditor Scarab hanging off his arm.

The whispers began almost immediately after.

Oh my glob, is that Scarab?

Did you hear Scarab got demoted? He's been working under Prismo now, poor guy.

Should've happened a long time ago. What did Prismo do to get stuck with him?

Must be some kind of blackmail, I heard Prismo vouched for him.

Why are they so close to each other? Should we say something to get Prismo away from him?

Is that the Cosmic Owl? And Death? Why are they hanging out with him I thought they were cool?

Must be because of Prismo? Maybe Death is just used to the creepy stuff. His poor wife though...

Prismo grit his teeth as he listened. While Scarab seemed to be taking it in stride like he was used to this, Prismo was steaming. What, did he just not have his own agency? Was being manipulated the only way some of these jerks could conceive to be the reason one might hang out with Scarab?

The two of them made their way to the snack and drink table, Prismo trying to quell the bubbling anger with some Star Punch. He very rarely got to drink this stuff, so he was going to take advantage, dammit. He felt a little awkward holding the delicate glasses, but he was not going to be bested by a fancy cup. He heard Scarab's claws tap lightly against the glass. Nervous tick.

Distantly, Prismo spotted Hunson chatting with Orbo. The sight of the orb made his stomach clench.

"Prismo, dude, how's it been man!"

His attention jumped to Party God, who, like usual, had bulldozed over any social conventions to talk.

"Party God, nice to see you. I've been pretty good, actually! How about you?"

"Oh, you know, partying up in the multiverse. I miss hanging out at your crib, dawg. When are you gonna start hosting again?"

"Oh, I dunno. I just haven't really been in the mood for hosting a big crowd. I'm only here because it's nice not having to play host."

"C'mon Pris! You don't have to sugar coat it just 'cause he's here. Your his boss, it's not like he can say shit."

Prismo prickled again.

"Sugar coat what?"

"You know, that Scarab's killing the vibe? That's what Orbo's been saying at least. No offense, Scarab, but you're kind of a stick in the mud. The Time Room's like, infinite, yeah? Can't you just, like, hang out in the basement and let Prismo party in peace?"

Scarab's face hardened, but didn't break. He didn't dignify it with a response, just sipped his Star Punch.

"Look, PG, I don't know or care what Orbo's been saying. But Scarab's not the problem. I don't want to host right now. I'm tired. I just want to hang out with some friends and chill for now. I promise, if I party again, you'd be the first to know. But don't insinuate Scarab should hide in the basement of his own home."

Both Scarab and PG seemed shocked at Prismo's retaliation, who took advantage of the pause to pull Scarab away from the offending god.

"Prismo... You... You know you don't have to defend me, right? I'm used to this, you do not need to defend my honor or anything."

That just seemed to make Prismo madder.

"That's the thing, Scarab. It's not cool that you're just... used to that! It's not okay that everything thinks they can just... that they can just be cruel to you, in front of me, because they think I'm 'in on the joke.' I'm not in on it. And I'm going to call out each and every one of them that thinks that's an okay thing to say."

"B-But... Prismo, you're everybody's pal! There's no need to burn bridges for my sake, I don't care what they think anymore. I just care that you're you. And you're not a cruel god. Don't let me turn you into one..."

"I don't wanna be pals with people who're mean to you. I'm not cruel for setting boundaries. And one of my new boundaries is you. I love you, darn it, and I'm not going to set that aside for some... I dunno, meaningless friendships?"

Scarab made a shy little chirp as he processed what Prismo just said. He looked so unsure about this, but... honored.

"...Would you care to dance with me, my dear?"

"I'd like nothing more."

The pair found their way to the dancefloor, and it felt like everyone else disappeared. The whole room emptied. It was just Prismo and Scarab, locked into a gentle step with each other.

Prismo marveled at the beautiful creature in his arms. He'd always though Scarab had a sleek and dangerous elegance to him, but oh how lucky the Wishmaster was to see more sides of it. Scarab had a tender side, one that sang and wrote and painted with a gentle joy untouched by expectations. He could and would cherish every moment he had with the beetle. Especially with Scarab looking at Prismo as if he put the stars in the sky.

Soon, the room refilled as their dance ended. Scarab chirped sweetly, nuzzling Prismo's cheek.

Conversation slowly oozed into the noise around them, the whispering returning.

What is he doing?

How can anyone stand being that close to Scarab of all things?

What are those noises he's making? Is he about to snap or something?

Scarab huffed at that, but it quickly dissipated as Cos wandered over and started chatting about Card Wars with him. Prismo gave Scarab's arm a light squeeze to get his attention.

"Lovebug, I'm gonna go grab some snacks from the table. You want anything?"

"Oh, no, I'm okay, thank you Prismo."

Prismo nodded, hesitantly detaching himself from Scarab's side. He was hungry, but he didn't want to abandon his partner at a party like this. But he figured Cos would make a good enough barrier for the time it'd take him to come back.

What he did not account for was people suddenly feeling bold enough to come up to him.

"Prismo! Dude, I'm sorry about getting stuck with Scarab like that, can't imagine having to play babysitter to that freak."

"Prismo, what's with this thing Orbo's been saying that Scarab's been weirding you out?"

"Prismo, why the heck would you stick your neck out for Scarab of all people, you should've just let the hammer come down and done us all a favor."

He felt his magic simmer. While Prismo the Wishmaster was not the same as Old Man Prismo the wizard, he was still an all powerful Wishmaster. He could feel his emotions starting to boil.

"Scarab's not a problem, he's actually pretty cool if you get to know him." That's all he could manage without risk of blowing up at someone. But he swore to glob, if one more person mentioned Scarab he'd-

"Prismo. Mate. Let's talk."

He nearly shattered the fancy glass in his hands as he turned to look at Orbo. Just the god he didn't want to speak to.

"I thought our last talk made it pretty clear what I thought."

"Look, some things were said that were regretted, but I need to talk to you, 'bout your bug problem."

Deep breaths, Prismo, don't start a fight in the Judgement Hall.

"I talked to some of the higher ups and, if you give the word, we'll pull Scarab from the Time Room. Could do it right now if you wanted, wouldn't be a hassle. It's actually be my pleasure. He's changing you, mate."

"Changing me?"

"You're acting so... weird, Prismo. You're supposed to be cool, you're everybody's buddy but now? It's like he's turning you into another of him, you know? He already killed the vibe in the Time Room, I don't want him messing your whole deal up."

"I already told you, Orbo. He's not the one messing with the vibe. He's pretty cool when you get to know him. When you're not calling him a freak."

"But, like, you get that he is, right? He's just a beetle. I'm surprised he even got an invite to this, considering he's not even an Auditor anymore. But, the point is, that thing you turned into? That ain't you mate, that him poisoning the vibe. It's my fault, I shouldn't have let you that close to him. But, I can fix it, right now, if you just say the word. I'll find something else to do with him. Where he can't bother you anymore."

Prismo snapped. He couldn't take the smug look the orb had anymore.

"Okay, stop. Just stop it, Orbo. Scarab is cool. I volunteered. I'm sick of everyone acting like I made some kind of mistake or treat me like an idiot. I'm the almighty Prismo. I can make my own choices. And my choice was to come to this dance with Scarab, as my partner, and I'm gonna keep cheering him on as he's embracing his true self. The person you tore apart and tried to smother. So, you're right, it is your fault Orbo, but now in the way you think.

He didn't realize he raised his voice. But he certainly did after noticing everyone staring at him, in shocked silence. He took a heavy breath and rubbed his face from irritation.

It's at this point that Scarab, sweet Scarab decided to investigate what was taking Prismo so long.

"Prismo...? Everything okay?"

"Hey, back off mate" Orbo butted in. Scarab visibly flinched, stepping back as the orb rolled far too close to him. "I don't know what you've been saying to him, but it stops now! You've turned our buddy against us! I should've squashed you the second you turned up in the Judgement Hall."

Orbo looked like he was getting bigger, getting threateningly close to Scarab, until Life and Death stepped between them.

"That's enough, amigo. Scarab isn't your enemy. We're all coworkers, right?"

"Death? You too mate?"

"Orbo, you need to stop. You might be unsettled by bugs, but it does not deny their right to exist."

"Life? What is happening to you lot? It's Scarab. He's a beetle for Glob's sake! Bugs. Do not. Belong here."

"You're a sociopath," Cos sneered at the orb.

Orbo looked like he was about to retort, when the lights went out. A murmur of confusion fell over the party, a creeping, freezing cold spreading through the air. Originating from... Prismo?

"THAT'S ENOUGH" came a horrible, whispery growl. Dark shadows swirled around where the friendly old man used to stand. A dark figure rose from his mouth, a bright purple eye staring down at Orbo and the other party goers.

"Oh sho-Hoot..." Scarab heard Cosmic Owl whisper.

"What... is that...?"

"That's... Nightmo. You know how Prismo's a dream? Well... meet the nightmare."

Scarab looked up in horror at the jagged edges and ice cold air surrounding his soft, lovely Prismo. It hissed violently, surging forward to swipe at Orbo and the others around him.

Panic erupted throughout the hall.

"Wh-What do we do?"

"We... We have to get him to calm down. We need light! We need a light we can point!"

Scarab nodded, his hands trembling to his cane. He tapped it to the ground once, a shining crystal revealing itself at the handle. He pointed it up, a small beam of light shooting up into the sky.

"Prismo, buddy, you gotta take a breath man" Cos urged, flying around to keep Nightmo's attention.

Scarab swiped the beam across the dark figure, causing him to recoil and hiss, shrinking ever so slightly.

"Keep doing that, Scrabs! If we get it small enough, we can calm him down!"

The beetle nodded, dodging and weaving the shadows that swiped indiscriminately, taking potshots with the crystal light as he moved. He winced at the vile hisses that sounded so close to Prismo's voice, but not quite right.

But he was trained for this. He had taken down gods much scarier than this. He had killed the mouth of the void as just a beetle. He could do this.

He had to.

He managed to flash the light directly into the shadow's eyes, a shrieking yowl echoing around the room.

"Try to get closer!"

Scarab crept in closer. He saw the small shadow pouring from Prismo's mouth, writhing like a snake.

"Prismo!"

Both the body and shadow snapped to look at Scarab. The beetle winced at the empty look in Prismo's eyes, the shadow in control.

"Prismo... my dear..."

The shadow yowled, snapping and hissing as Scarab drew closer.

"Come back to me, my dear... I know you're there..."

"STAY AWAY."

"I won't, dear. I know you're there. Come back to me, love."

Scarab purred out an experimental chirp. Nightmo tipped its head at him, hissing a little quieter.

"Yes, that's right, love. Come back to me." He gave a few more chirps, finally close enough to Prismo to touch him. The shadow yowled at the contact, but Scarab shushed him.

"Shh... This is not you, Prismo. You are not cruel. You are kind. So so kind. Better than any of us deserve. You are good. Come back to us."

Nightmo whimpered, breath wheezing as it shrunk smaller.

Scarab pulled Prismo into his arms, coiling around him. He began to sing. He chirped a calm melody, one well known to the two of them. He rubbed circles into Prismo's back, squeezing him softly. He tried to warm, combat against the cold.

And the snake retreated into his burrow.

The lights returned and the cold faded. Scarab felt Prismo reach up to rub the soft underbody nestled between his wings. He purred lovingly, nuzzling into the side of the Wishmaster's head.

"There you are love. That's better."

There was a loud silence in the Judgement Hall. Almost all the gods had backed away, a five-foot radius all around. Murmurings rose up to fill the silence, none quite sure what to make of what happened, what they're seeing.

Cos approached first, casting a protective wing over the both of them.

"Are you guys okay...?"

"I think... I want to go home" Prismo whispered.

"Not. So. Fast."

The Hall fell into a harsh silence once again.

Scarab looked up from Prismo's shoulder. And saw the Organizer at the top of it all.

"I'd like you two in my office. Now."

#prohibitedwish #scarab x prismo #scarab the god auditor #prismo the wishmaster #cosmic owl #death #life #prohibitedwish fanfic #wrath of the wishmaster

[mayxthexforce]

@mutatiio said:

to trust in someone is not an entirely new concept. he trusts many. trusts that they will fail, that they will betray, that they will try to kill him. he trusts that, no matter the bond they might share, he should never shallow the depths of his expectations for disappointment.

yet, he trusts her. a detrimental amount, perhaps.

he tilts his head over the backrest, partly resting against talon's stomach. his eyes are closed. neck exposed. weapons far from his reach.

"if you were to kill me right now-" she easily could. stronger, faster, more ruthless. and he's made it so very easy for her. "how would you do it??"

Standing close– right behind him, while he sits at his desk has become a sort of habit of hers. Something that started as curiosity —and even noseyness— about what he might be up to, and slowly but steadily evolved into genuine interest for his work. Talon tended to keep quiet while he worked. As it was, she tended to be pretty quiet most of the time, unless something or someone interested her enough to be graced with a response.

Dryden can be so ingeniously unpredictable. It's something Talon quite enjoys about him.

Red and black hands go from where they're resting on his shoulders to thread through the hair at the sides of his head, before she gets a hold of it between her fingers and makes him tilt his head slightly to his right. She leans forward, her nose brushing against his forehead, her lekku falling over his shoulders, wrapping around his name with the same gentle, loose squeeze as when she wraps them around her own to keep them from being grabbed or pulled at during training or fights. Piercing yellow eyes go from staring at the markings on his face to glancing towards his neck.

"If I had to do it right now, for no reason other than just because..." she ponders for a moment. Since he hasn't done anything to summon her wrath, it takes her a moment to figure out what she would do. She's never killed someone who hasn't made her at least a little angry. "I would sink my claws right... HERE."

The soft, smooth tips of both her lekku signals the spots, pressing against the flesh of his neck, just under the curve of his jaw at both sides of his neck, enough to feel the steady drum of his blood flowing through the arteries.

"It would be messy, there would be a lot of projectile bleeding, the adrenaline that'd rush through you would accelerate your heart and only make it worse," she explains further. "But it would be quick. You would be incapacitated in ten seconds, and dead in less than a minute."

Talon nuzzles the tip of her nose against his hairline as she straightens up, her lekku slowly unwrapping from around his neck and her hands return to his shoulders. On their way down, she makes a point of pressing the sharp tips of her thumbs against the spots shed previously signaled, not breaking the skin, but enough to be felt, before her hands finally descend to his shoulders again.

#who said romance is dead 💒💍❤️ #may the queue be with you #||mail: talon|| #||in character: talon|| #& dryden vos #||verse: i am your death; talon|| #mutatiio

[cypriathus]

Here is my version of Kikimora/Mavka/Rusalka.

Kicnemura, born as Mulevhoka Rusvelochka, is a wise and stubborn fallen angel who acts as a parasitic creature located in Odurkheniya’s spine. She’s a troublemaker with excellent manipulation tactics and somewhat present pacifistic values, but possesses envy towards those of greater physical strength and better weaving skills. She has a natural inclination to joke with people in a light-hearted fashion and a compassionate, protective love for children, animals, and polite women. She possesses a vicious disposition towards heinous men and people who abuse children and animals, becoming furious, cruel, and sadistic with them. In general, she has a bit of a fiery temper and isn’t afraid to scold people, but can quickly compose herself. She’s capable of using her seductive charm to kill horrible people, lightly mess with them, or achieve some desired goal she has. Surprisingly, she’s a mild-mannered and calm person, but will occasionally come off as a sardonic and playful loudmouth. She’s not particularly fond of deafening silence as it easily bores her and puts her in a lethargic state. As a result of her self-confidence, she takes pride in her duties, fearlessness, adaptability, and headstrong nature, but can rarely come off as arrogant. Kicnemura sincerely misses her old life and the memories of her time as an angel are now melancholic, but has learned to rightfully accept her new destiny.

In her demonic form, she’s a 3’ 11” (119.38 cm) thin and scruffy ectomorph with a dog’s snout, a hunchback, and wispy platinum grey hair. Her body is covered in chamoisee goat fur, and her feet are replaced with a chicken’s, having a bittersweet shimmer hue and wooden talons. She has the horns of a saiga antelope that have a hard wax coating and straight canine ears. Kicnemura’s claws are razor-sharp, and two large vertical scars run along her back in place of her old wings. She has white eyelashes and glowing olive-green eyes with slit pupils, which often appear to be closed shut. She wears a sapphire blue headscarf tied below her chin and it’s adorned with a fanciful embroidery of golden sunflowers. She dons a black fishnet shawl that’s covered in swamp moss and a brownish-purple sarafan over her long linen ivory shirt, belted with rope tied around the hips. She carries around a crudely stitched red leather bag with a shoulder strap that’s full of wooden sticks, flowers, and bobbins that contain a wide variety of colourful threads. It also contains a couple of weaving looms, a few threading needles, and a pair of golden crane embroidery scissors.

In her angelic form, she’s a 9 ft (274.32 cm) curvaceous and robust endomorph with thick thighs, well-endowed breasts, a partially swollen belly, and disproportionately long arms. She has slippery, ashen skin with a black mole on the left side of her chin and another one below her right breast. She possesses glowing, pupilless heterochromatic eyes–the right is a powder blue and the left is a rose fog–and sparkling emerald green freckles on her face, chest, and hands. She has no skin covering her back, which exposes her sapphire blue spine and ribcage and some pulsating organs. Kicnemura possesses blue jay wings, elvish ears, and roe deer antlers with intertwining golden and blood red thread. Her ground-length, unkempt silvery blonde hair resembles the arching, leaf-covered branches of a weeping willow with a scattering of dewdrops. Her hair is often tied in a big braid and decorated with chamomiles, sunflowers, mallows, royal azaleas, and Bieberstein's crocuses. She wears a torn, unbuttoned kosovorotka of flax and thin transparent cloth with the collar and sleeves being decorated with traditional Russian embroidery in a burgundy hue.

Kicnemura can summon the souls of girls who died from unnatural deaths and easily lure men through sweet-smelling flowers that are laced with aphrodisiac properties. She’s able to transfer life-giving moisture to agricultural fields, helping to nurture healthy and uncontaminated crops. She can flawlessly mimic the sounds of mice and chickens, induce sleep paralysis, slipperiness, and food spoilage, and easily adapt to forest and marshland climates. She’s capable of telepathic speech, creating fire vortexes, and spiritually imbuing herself into the spines of her victims. During the time she’s inside the spines of her victims, she slowly takes over their body before fusing with them altogether, creating an abomination as a result. It’s her way of syphoning their life energy and replenishing her longevity, and she’ll abandon the victim once they have dried up. Besides her control over housework and the beauty of nature, she can cause storms, devastating rain, crushing hail, and rivers to overflow, which creates flooding. Kicnemura runs faster than a horse and swims faster than any fish, and is able to shapeshift into squirrels, rats, frogs, birds, cows, dogs, and hares.

FAMILY:

Leshazurnovik Sviatogur Himonglevatus D’Nexomuwilga (adoptive mother)

ALIASES/NICKNAMES:

Kikimora

Mavka

Rusalka

The Household Guardian of Chickens

Nyavka (by Odurkheniya)

The Nightly Spirit (by Shelobad)

My bad dream (by Odurkheniya)

Lady Sphinx Moth (by Dimophelaktus)

The Water Maiden (by Crisaphen)

Rompicoglioni (“ballbuster” in Italian) (by Sciaphone)

Heißluftgebläse (“hot air gun” in German) (by Libakzurchet)

Pneuma akatharton (“unclean spirit” in Greek) (by Hildeborta)

FUN FACTS/EXTRA INFORMATION:

As an Æylphitus, her name means “scarecrow”. In regards to her birth name, Mulevhoka means “dead” and Rusvelochka means “festival of the roses”.

She likes cleaned spaces, Slavic culture, spring and summer flowers, the scenery of undisturbed forests and swamps, and combing her hair.

She dislikes big messes, being teased about her height, chicken thieves, people touching her comb without permission, and disrespect towards children, the elderly, and livestock.

Her favourite animals are the earwig, mole cricket, white-backed woodpecker, short-eared owl, long-tailed goral, and fire-bellied frog.

Her favourite flowers are the sunflower, purple loosestrife, florist kalanchoe, golden root, royal azalea, Bieberstein's crocus, and Siberian fawn lily.

Her favourite comfort foods are piroshki, baked rice pudding with condensed milk, homemade kielbasa sausage, zapekanka, borscht, blini with honey, pickled cow tongue, and raw cucumbers.

Her favourite colours are hues that remind her of the marshlands and the northern part of the world.

Her biggest pet peeves are people forgetting to clean up after themselves, neglecting the health of livestock, and the sound and feel of ice.

Her main hobbies are weaving and baking bread

She finds an odd sense of solace in frightening people and knocking travellers off their chosen path

Due to Kicnemura’s guardianship over chickens, she strongly refuses to eat their meat out of genuine respect for the common farm bird.

She always goes commando

She has wet footprints

She loves brewing beer

At night, she likes to disturb people who are trying to get some rest by whistling, breaking dishes, and making random noises.

In order to mess with people, she has an occasional habit of speaking in riddles

Her screams sound like a dying pig

She prefers to tickle people to death or drown individuals in swamp water

She views Odurkheniya as an innocent, yet miserable child

Kicnemura has a comb that’s made from fish bones

She has a strange fascination with straw brooms

In her mother’s realm, she lives in a flowery mountain cave, which she decorated with rugs of stolen flax.

Her guilty pleasure is watching people trip on themselves or bump into a wall, doorframe or piece of furniture.

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