#(and Prowl barely knows either)

[kandicon]

*writes the same exact headcannons in slightly different scenarios over and over again*

[padmespetal]

casual — bruce wayne

synopsis: you were the voice in his ear, the shadow behind the screen, the one who stayed when the city chewed him up and spat him out. but you were never his. he was never yours.

word count: 1.2k

warnings: just angst </3

note: heavily inspired by the song of chappel roan, again english is NOT my first language so sorry if there are any mistakes! Again I used a pic of bale batman but you can imagine really any version of bruce you want. I enjoyed writing this little piece hope you enjoy reading 🤍

You and Bruce weren’t exactly in a relationship.

You didn’t know what you were, really. Partners in… crime? No, that wasn’t right.

You weren’t criminals, and you weren’t his equal in the field. You weren’t his lover, either, despite the nights spent tangled together in the dark.

You were just there. A presence in the cave, a voice in his ear. A necessity, maybe, but never something more.

It hadn’t always been like this.

You had been a detective in the GCPD, filling in for Gordon while he recovered from an injury—one he’d sustained on one of his evening patrols with Batman.

You hadn’t trusted the masked vigilante at first. A man dressed as a bat fighting crime in the dead of night? It all sounded ridiculous. Borderline insane.

And yet, somehow, he had proven you wrong.

He’d saved your life. You’d saved his. That had been the turning point, the moment when your worlds became entangled in a way you never anticipated.

He’d bled out in front of you, the infamous Bat crumbling to the floor, and in the frantic rush to keep him alive, you discovered the truth: Bruce Wayne was Batman.

At the time, it hadn’t even registered. The billionaire playboy façade was so far removed from the bleeding, broken man before you that it barely mattered.

All that mattered was keeping him breathing. You’d tried—and failed—to drive the Batmobile before fumbling for his phone and calling the only contact he had labeled as ‘Emergency.’

Alfred Pennyworth.

You hadn’t thought about the strangeness of it all until hours later, when Bruce was stable in the Batcave and you were left sitting in the cold, damp silence, staring at the cowl he had carelessly discarded.

That was how it started. How you became his.

Not in the way you wanted. Never in the way you wanted.

You were the voice in his ear, the one watching through the high-tech lenses embedded in his cowl, the one guiding him through the streets of Gotham from the shadows of the Batcave.

He never said it, but you knew he relied on you. Needed you, in a way. But not enough. Never enough.

Tonight had been like any other night.

Bruce had intercepted a mugging, left the thugs broken and whimpering in a dark alley, and now he was prowling through a warehouse rumored to be a hub of criminal activity.

You were in your usual seat, shrouded in dim light, eyes locked onto the monitors displaying his every move.

Then she appeared.

“Fancy seeing you here, Batman.”

The voice was unmistakable. Sharp, sultry, carrying the kind of confidence you could never quite master. The moment Bruce turned, his lenses scanned her features and displayed the name you already knew by heart.

Selina Kyle.

Catwoman.

Your stomach twisted as the sleek silhouette of her body came into view, wrapped in that infamous leather suit.

The pointed cat ears, the glint of mischief in her eyes—she was perfect, in a way that made you feel painfully ordinary.

Bruce grunted something in response, but you weren’t really listening. Your mind was caught in an endless loop, analyzing every interaction, every glance exchanged between them. You knew their history. Everyone did.

The bat and the cat.

She stepped closer.

Your breath caught.

You told yourself you were imagining it, that you were just seeing things through the distorted, blue-tinted lens of the cowl’s feed. But then it happened—

She kissed him.

It wasn’t a long, drawn-out affair. Just a brief press of lips. But it was enough.

You felt your chest tighten. A stupid, irrational reaction.

Pull yourself together.

You forced a breath out, clearing your throat as you leaned back in your chair, trying to appear casual. Trying to be casual.

“Well,” you said, feigning indifference. “Care to introduce me to your lady friend one day?”

Bruce barely spared you a glance. “She’s not my friend.”

“Oh.” You let out a humorless chuckle. “Then whatever she is.”

He didn’t respond. Just moved forward, deeper into the warehouse, his focus shifting back to the mission.

Your fingers clenched around the edge of the desk.

Right. The mission. That was all that mattered.

You swallowed down the bitterness rising in your throat and forced yourself back into the rhythm of things.

It should’ve been easy—you’d spent months perfecting the art of detachment, training yourself not to expect more than what Bruce was willing to give.

But something about tonight felt different.

The silence stretched between you, heavier than before. You spoke only when necessary, feeding him intel in clipped, mechanical sentences. And Bruce—Bruce noticed.

He always noticed.

The warehouse turned out to be a dead end. By the time dawn was creeping over the horizon, you were already halfway out the door, eager to escape before you did something stupid.

But then—

“Wait.”

You froze.

Bruce’s voice, still rough from the night, still filtered through the comms, stopped you dead in your tracks.

“Stay,” he said. Blunt. Direct.

And you knew what he meant.

You had done this dance before.

Batman was just a man, and men had needs. Carnal needs.

And when the weight of the city grew too heavy, when his demons clawed at his throat, he turned to you. Not out of love, not even out of affection, but because you were convenient.

And maybe, for a time, that had been enough.

But not anymore.

You closed your eyes, inhaling sharply. “No. Not tonight.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“Maybe you can go find Selina.”

The words left your lips before you could stop them, laced with something sharp, something you couldn’t swallow down fast enough.

Bruce scoffed. Not angry, just exasperated.

“You need to let this go.” His voice was clipped, impatient, like he was reprimanding a child.

And that—that—was what did it.

Your jaw tightened. “Good night, Bruce.”

You didn’t wait for a response. You tore the earpiece out, slammed the monitor off, and grabbed your things with shaking hands. You were done.

Alfred met you at the entrance of the Batcave, ever the picture of quiet understanding.

His gaze flickered over your face, taking in the unshed tears clinging to your lashes, and in a rare show of restraint, he said nothing.

Because he knew.

Of course he knew.

You left without another word.

And when Bruce returned to the cave hours later, peeling off the cowl with the same stoic expression he always wore, Alfred was already waiting for him.

The older man said nothing at first. Just set down a cup of tea with deliberate slowness, watching as Bruce methodically stripped off his gear.

Then, finally—

“Was it worth it, sir?”

Bruce didn’t look up. “Don’t start, Alfred.”

But Alfred only sighed.

“I do wonder, Master Wayne… how many times must you push away the ones who truly care for you before you realize you’re running out of people to come back to?”

Bruce stiffened.

For a moment, the cave was silent.

“She was never mine to begin with.”

A pause. A flicker of something in his expression, something unreadable.

Alfred shook his head. “No, sir. But you were hers.”

And Bruce said nothing.

Because they both knew it was true.

© padmespetal 2025 - I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

tags:

[pineconepie]

Parental yandere vampire!!

TW: Implied neglect, implied abuse, yandere, parental yandere, forced age regression, death of family (not main characters), light violence, kidnapping

If there's any more trigger warnings I should add, let me know!

...

The cold gnawed at your bones, breath visible in front of you as you made your way through the thick snowfall. The chill bit into your skin, but you pressed on.

"Monster!" "Witch!" "Cursed!"

Their words echoed in your mind. The entire village thought you were some kind of monster, all because you were different from your peers. You were used to the kind of horrible treatment you received at their hands, and had long since learned not to fight it; no matter what you said, they never listened.

It got lonely never having friends, though. Even the people who weren't scared of you were ridiculed for being seen with you, sometimes even being called a witch just because they associated with you.

Your own family became embarrassed and ashamed by your reputation, to the point where they would go days ignoring your existence.

Sure, you had thought of running away before, but given you had nowhere to go, that'd just be a dumb idea.

Only when you overheard the church speaking of burning you at the stake did you realize just how little you actually had to live for there.

Either way, it seemed like your chances of death were high, so either way, fuck it, right?

You could barely feel your feet beneath you, wading through the snow.

How long have you been walking now? Hours? Days?

It feels like years. You felt tears burn at the edges of your eyes as you tripped over a root, collapsing into the soft cushioning of the snow.

A snarling noise behind you causes you to get back up and run, stumbling blindly and weakly through the snow.

You could barely tell what was going on behind you, but all you knew was that a vicious growl from some sort of animal was definitely not something you should just stand around for.

In the distance, you see a structure, probably the first one you've seen in days.

With some sudden rush of adrenaline, you sprint towards it, almost rolling down the hill leading up to the old building.

The steel gate in front of it makes you curse in frustration, looking up to assess how likely it is you can climb it. Your hands curl into fists around the bars, shaking violently as you pull. Not a chance.

"Help!" you scream, hoping whoever is inside can hear you. "Please!"

When there's no response, you turn back, seeing glowing yellow eyes approaching you. Fear courses through your veins, paralyzing you as you look on in horror. The shadowy beast prowls closer, standing tall on its four paws and staring you down hungrily.

Just as it stalks forward, ready to jump, it pauses. You squeeze your eyes shut and prepare for the inevitable. When the sharp fangs never come sinking into your flesh, you hesitantly crack an eye open. The beast whines and scampers off.

Only when the sound of its footsteps disappear completely does a breathy laugh escape your lips. What a weird twist of fate.

"My goodness! Are you okay?!"

You whip around to see a tall figure with piercing green eyes and long dark brown hair. He's wearing some kind of old-fashioned clothing that looks like it hasn't been touched in centuries.

Before you can say anything, you promptly pass out from exhaustion.

...

"You poor thing. I wonder where you came from..." A hand reaches down to caress your face, the gloved fingers ice cold against your flushed skin. "Seems as if you were meant to find me."

When you finally stir awake, your brain feels like it's rattling in your skull. Blinking slowly, you bring your hand up to rub at your temple, sighing and looking around. You're lying in a large canopy bed, soft red velvet sheets encompassing you.

Sitting up, you take note of the grandiose bedroom, decorated in similar deep shades of red, gold, and black.

There's antique furniture lining the room, with a large painting above the mantlepiece directly across from the foot of the bed. An embroidered carpet is spread on the floor, its design weaving into the same complex, golden filigree that is the headboard of the mattress.

Your gaze drops, noting that you aren't wearing the same clothes you were before.

Now you're wearing some kind of tunic, reminiscent of pajamas but far too fancy and extravagant to be called something so simple. The silk hugs your frame, falling delicately across your lap as you cross your legs and take a look around.

Then you meet his gaze.

He looks surprised that you woke up already, pulling his hand back quickly from where it was about to rest on your shoulder.

He had been watching you sleep, it seems.

The man clears his throat and smiles down at you. "Oh good. I thought for sure you'd sleep through dinner." His voice is deeper than you'd expected, but still gentle. He gestures to himself. "I am Octavian. What's your name, precious?"

"Uh–" You hesitate, caught off guard by the nickname. "I'm (Y/n)."

"A sweet name," he says simply, the corner of his mouth quirking up even more. Octavian reaches down to brush a strand of hair out of your face before straightening back up again.

You watch him cautiously, unsure why he's so comfortable touching a complete stranger.

Then again, you suppose most strangers don't magically appear outside of someone's home, either. Besides, he did just save your life; he deserves at least this much courtesy after helping you.

"It's been a very long time since I've seen anyone out here, let alone gotten any visitors. What on earth were you doing out here all alone? You certainly aren't a traveler, you barely were carrying anything with you." He looks almost ready to scold you.

"Well, uh..." You awkwardly tug at the sleeve of your nightgown, thinking how best to answer his question without opening the door for him to judge you or ask more questions. But he did save your life... "My village doesn't like me. Thinks I'm weird. And when they started talking about killing me, I figured it'd be better to get out sooner rather than later."

Octavian sucks in a sharp breath, concern written all over his features. "Killing you?" He puts a hand over his heart. "You poor thing. You must've been so scared," he coos.

"Yeah... I was," you admit. "I'm glad I ran into your place, at least."

The tall man gives you a soft smile, sitting down at the edge of the bed. It dips beneath him under his weight. "I am too. Stay right there, I'll go get you some dinner."

Before you can say anything else, Octavian slips out of the room.

You think back to when he found you. That animal chasing you acted scared when it saw him. Why? Sure, he's pretty tall, but the guy clearly wouldn't stand a chance against the teeth and claws of that thing. So why was it so spooked by him?

He reenters with a golden tray in hand. On top of it sits a bowl of soup and some bread.

"I'm afraid that's the only thing I have available at the moment," Octavian sighs, setting it down next to you and handing you a spoon. "It should warm you up though." He watches you eat with an adoring smile, one you miss, too busy ravaging into the food. "My Gods, you must've been starving. When was the last time you ate, sweetheart?"

You scarf down a piece of bread. "I haven't been keeping track of time. Maybe three days ago?"

Octavian almost appears on the verge of tears. "You poor little angel..." He hesitantly reaches his gloved hand over to wipe away a stray droplet of broth dribbling down your chin. "You won't ever go hungry again, I swear it."

"What do you mean?" you mumble while chewing on another piece of bread.

He gently wipes at your cheek. "You got some on your face. Messy thing," he tuts. His green eyes glow brighter. Unnaturally so. "I'll go refill your bowl. More bread?" He watches you nod, then takes the tray from you.

It was weird how he avoided your question, but you shrug it off. Seems like he's a little weird too.

...

After having four bowls of soup and God-knows-how-much bread, you finally start to feel full for the first time in ages. Octavian watches with pride as you polish off each meal, praising you for cleaning your plate every single time.

In the middle of him gushing over you, you interrupt him.

"So... Do you think I could use your horse tomorrow morning to head back into town?" you ask shyly. "Assuming you have one."

Octavian freezes, brows furrowing as if in confusion. "(Y/n)... surely you don't think I'm just going to send you back to the people that are trying to kill you?"

"Well, not mine... just a town nearby," you shrug. "Anywhere with people, really."

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "There is no other civilization for miles. No. That'd just be a death wish."

You try not to raise your voice, reminding yourself it's thanks to him you're even alive. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

He opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut before taking a deep breath. "You need some rest. Let's discuss this later." You frown in frustration, knowing he's avoiding talking about it. Though he has a point. Sleepiness settles within you, a yawn bubbling past your lips. He bends down to kiss your forehead. "Sweet dreams, little love."

He's so weird.

...

The next day, you venture from the room he put you in, looking around. As to be expected, everything is beautifully furnished, from the wallpaper to the ceilings to the marble columns holding it all up.

In your searching, you stumble upon a portrait.

There's a tall man holding two children, with a woman standing next to him. It takes you a minute before you realize the man is Octavian.

He looks exactly the same in the portrait, except now his hair is slightly longer and he's wearing different clothes. Something in his appearance also seems happier.

You squint at the picture, wondering what's up with it.

"That's my family."

You jump, turning to see Octavian standing beside you, eyes glazed over as he gazes at the painting.

"Oh. They're beautiful," you whisper. You can hear him suck in a shaky breath. "Are they here?"

A melancholy smile pulls at his lips, though it doesn't meet his eyes. "No. My wife and my son and daughter... they're no longer here." His voice is far quieter than before.

Your chest grows heavy when you realize what he means. "I-I'm so sorry..."

The last thing you were expecting was for this to be so sad. Here you thought the picture was taken recently. Guilt pools in your belly for thinking that, especially now that you know the truth. Poor guy.

Octavian places a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Don't apologize. I think my loneliness streak is nearing its end." He guides you away from the painting and to the stairs. "Let's go eat. Breakfast should be ready by now." You're silent, not sure how to respond.

Walking down the ornate staircase, Octavian keeps his hand placed firmly on the small of your back.

Once you both reach the ground level, he removes it, walking ahead into the kitchen area. Following, you sit down across from him, watching as he places food in front of you both.

"It feels nice to cook for someone else again," he hums, beginning to dig into his own plate of food.

It smells really good, which you suppose you shouldn't be surprised by given the fact that everything else in this house seems to be perfect in its presentation.

"Thank you," you mutter, picking up the silverware and eating.

The two of you talk idly throughout the meal, Octavian being mindful of what you like and don't like to eat for future reference.

He asks you about yourself, appearing invested in every little tidbit you drop. Eventually, you're finally satiated, leaning back against your chair with a pleased sigh.

You watch him do the dishes and leave into what you presume is the living room. Curiously, you follow after him.

He's holding an open book, reading glasses perched on his nose.

The fire flickers and crackles, providing heat to the otherwise chilly space.

Sitting down next to him, you catch his eye. Octavian smiles at you and scoots closer, putting one arm around you and shifting his eyes back to his book.

Unsure of how else to react, you lean into the embrace. He's very cold compared to most people, you find.

The gesture is welcome though, regardless of the cool chill of his skin. Even through his gloves, you can tell his body temperature isn't normal.

If he came from your village, the villagers would definitely think he's some paranormal beast too.

Maybe that's why he lives so secluded from society.

...

A few more days pass. He gets a little more odd, but it just makes you more comfortable to show your own quirks too.

One morning, you wake up next to a teddy bear placed between your arms. He must've put it there last night.

It's almost like he senses you're awake, because he strides into the room not even a minute later.

"There's my sweet little angel," Octavian coos. "Did you sleep well?" You yawn and rub at your eye with a closed fist. He gives you a bright smile at that and sits on the edge of the bed. "Do you like your toy? I figured it might keep you company while I'm gone. Does it help?"

"Yeah, but..." You frown. "How'd you get it? There's no nearby shops, right?"

Octavian nods. "It belonged to my son." At that, you stare wide eyed down at the stuffed animal, moving to give it back to him.

"I-I can't take this from you–"

He grabs your hands and holds them in place around the toy, shaking his head. "Nonsense, I want you to have it." His eyes burn with such intense emotion, so much so that you're unable to resist the pull to listen to his request. "Keep it, please. When this winter is over, I'll go get you some of your own stuffies and clothing. Do you have any clothing preferences? Any favorite animals?"

"When winter is over, I'll be leaving," you correct him.

He stiffens. "Right. Of course. Silly me." His emerald irises flash with something unreadable.

The rest of the day, he becomes even more overbearing.

He pulls you into his lap whenever he has the chance, insisting you rest your head against his chest while he reads to you (all of which are children's books). He constantly is giving you random little hugs, or complimenting you for whatever little mundane things you do.

You only allow it because you feel pity for him.

Each time you even try to pull away slightly, he looks so heartbroken and hurt, as if you stabbed him in the chest.

And it's not like you dislike it. You're so starved for attention and touch that it actually feels kind of good, having someone hug you and hold your hand and read to you.

It makes up for all the times you've been neglected.

Each day, he gets even more coddling and babying with you. You wonder why he's like this.

Then it hits you.

His kids are gone. He's never going to have another chance to hold his babies again.

This behavior... is this just him projecting his loss onto you? Trying to relive the feeling of caring for a child?

It breaks your heart for him, making you feel more guilty for wanting to leave.

...

As the snow begins to melt, Octavian gets more antsy. He constantly holds you in his arms now, rambling about anything and everything, bouncing and swaying side to side.

It reminds you of how mothers soothe their babies.

One day, he stops to give you a serious look, gripping your face in his hands and kissing your cheekbone.

"Please," Octavian whispers, desperation seeping into his tone, "please please please stay." Tears drip down his pale skin. "You have no idea what these past few weeks have meant to me." The grip on your jaw tightens and he shakes his head with a dry laugh. "God, I can't imagine living without you anymore! Don't make me go through that agony again! Don't abandon me! You're happy here!"

Your hands hesitantly grab his wrists, not pulling him away but letting him know your boundaries. "These past few weeks meant a lot to me too. But I don't want to live alone out here, forever."

He sniffles and glares down at you. "What do you mean? You wouldn't be alone. I'm here. You'd have me!"

"But I want more people than that!" you cry out. "And in the end, you're still basically a stranger..."

That last sentence was the wrong thing to say.

All color drains from his face, shock freezing him in place.

"A-A stranger...?" Octavian scoffs, betrayal seeping into his broken voice. "After all this time together?! After all the things I've done for you, all the things we've talked about?!" You tremble and try to move away. "Why can't you love me back?! Your parents don't want you, but I do!"

You shake your head. "You're freaking me out..." Never before had you been so scared of this man. Never did you think he'd act this way, even with how affectionate and caring he could be. This is on a whole new level. "I'm not a kid. Just because you lost yours doesn't mean you can make me yours instead!"

Octavian doesn't say anything.

The silence that hangs thick in the air between you is deafening. It makes you want to scream, break it somehow, just so you don't have to endure how tense this is.

Tears pool in his eyes. He hesitates, then yanks off both of his gloves and drops them to the ground.

You notice his fingernails are long and sharp. Like claws. Not human.

"What...?"

"I've never been normal either." Octavian lets out a choked sob. "My wife died trying to protect our children from vampire hunters." He bares his teeth, revealing pointed fangs. "She couldn't. They all died before I could save them."

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight.

A mix of fear and sympathy swirls in your gut, making you feel nauseous and disoriented all at once. You step backwards, putting distance between you and him.

His eyes grow dull. "I couldn't save them. But I could save you." Octavian reaches out with those strange hands and cups the sides of your neck with a featherlight touch, holding your gaze despite your attempts at averting it. "You may think of yourself as big, but to me? You're just a baby."

A pitiful whine leaves your lips as your eyes begin to water.

"They said the same things about me. Aberration. Monster. I know how you feel; how lonely and awful it is. That's why you need to stay with me," he insists. "We understand each other. We're the same."

"No! You're crazy!" you exclaim, backing up further until your back hits a wall behind you. His form looms over yours ominously, casting a shadow across the floor beneath him. "Stop fucking touching me!"

"Maybe I am crazy," Octavian humorlessly chuckles. "But anyone would become unhinged from losing everything dear to them." Without warning, he moves quicker than lightning, picking you up and holding you close to his chest. He curls himself over you, shielding you from nothing as if to protect you. His body completely engulfs yours, swallowing you in his presence. It's unnerving. "Everything will be okay now. Papa will keep you safe. No one will ever hurt you again," he promises softly. "You won't be like them."

"No, no, stop," you beg pathetically. "Let me go."

"Shhh... this will hurt a tiny bit, but only for a moment. It's necessary for us to always be together," he hushes you. "I was going to save this for when you've settled in more, but I can't have you run away."

Octavian kisses the top of your head before pulling the collar of your shirt down just enough for his mouth to hover above your bare shoulder.

"Nonono, please, don't!" you cry. "I don't wanna be a vampire!"

"I know, sweetheart," he laments. "I hate seeing you in pain, too."

Before you can say anything else, Octavian sinks his teeth deep into the flesh of your exposed shoulder blade.

You shriek in pain as you feel fangs digging into muscle tissue and sinew alike. Tears stream freely down your cheeks now, uncontrollable sobs wracking your frame as blood runs freely down your back and stains your clothes crimson red.

"Shhhh..." he hushes again, caressing your hair even while he drinks away your humanity. "I love you, I love you, I love you..."

By the time he's finished drinking, you feel woozy from blood loss and adrenaline. Octavian lifts you up, grip looser now that you're too tired to struggle, and dampens a cloth under the faucet, using it to clean up the excess blood.

Then he takes you back to the bedroom, tucking you underneath layers upon layers of warm bedding.

You try to speak, but your throat hurts so badly and you can barely move. Everything feels heavy, including your eyelids which threaten to shut due to exhaustion.

"Get some sleep. It's bedtime for little ones," he murmurs giddily. He adjusts the blankets covering you. "Oh, I knew I was missing something." You hear him shuffle around the room before returning. Suddenly the familiar feeling of the teddy bear is pressed against your torso, its fur tickling your nose.

"Papa..." you croak deliriously, thinking of your own father.

"Yes," he says. His face splits into a manic smile. "That's right." Octavian crawls under the covers next to you, dragging you towards his cold figure. He combs through your hair and cuddles you tightly, as though if he lets go, he might lose you. "Say it again. Say 'Papa.'"

You don't reply, far too exhausted to even care anymore. All you do is slump against him and close your eyes.

Octavian squeezes you tighter.

He buries his nose into the top of your head and breathes deeply.

"My baby..." His words sound distant as slumber overtakes your mind and drags you into darkness. "You're back home where you belong."

[smokescreenimusprime]

not my usual but it was too perfect to pass up and the idea was NOT leaving my head. Decided to write a snippet for @keferon's IMMACULATE Mecha Pilot Jazz AU, though apologies if the charactization is a lil funky, this is my first time writing either of these characters and double apologies for the undoubted slew of grammar and spelling errors

but that aside, I hope you enjoy :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Is It Self Sacrifice If It's Not Really You?

Despite the cacophany of the battlefield, Prowl's scream cut through it with with the ease of a freshly sharped blade through flesh and found it's home nestled into Jazz's ears.

He barely had a second to look up, hardly more than a glance, but it was all he needed to make out familiar white and black.

A Quintesson, one of the smaller but more freaky looking ones, was looming over his collapsed frame. He was pinned, his back to solid rocky walls and the Quint at his front, jamming it's tentacles into every crack of his armour they could.

He was putting up one hell of a fight, but something was wrong.

"PROWL!" he shouted, shifting his weight in preperation to bolt. "HOLD ON, I'M COMMIN-"

But the screech of the Quintesson he was currently grappling with forcefully stole his attention back, barely any warning given before it's gaping maw latched onto his mech's forearm.

It pulled, joints and plates creaking with the strain but still holding strong. It shook it's head and Jazz brought a hand up to brace against the outside of the monster, if only to stop the arm from being completely ripped out of the socket. He landed a few solid kick as it lifted him off the ground, but it's movements were still largey effortless, like his frame weighed as much as a tin can.

Prowl screamed again. This time it was louder.

Against all common (sane) sense, Jazz looked away from his enemy and toward Prowl

Some of his external plating was damaged, gouges in messy circle patterns with rivulets of blue energon sluggishly bleeding out. He seemed to be smoking too, thin curls of smoke wafting off his cables. His eyes were flickering wildly, something Jazz had grown to associate with too much damage and too little power.

All of the damage paled in comparison to where Jazz's focus was.

Now, Jazz didn't know how these guys had their mechs built, but they could hold up to some serious punishment. Their engineers seemed to keep an even more meticulous eye on any damage, and Prowler and the other's all had frames clealy meant to last.

But they were all still vulnerable at their cores.

And the Quintesson's tentacles, sparking with a terrifying yellow and red electricity, were pulling and prying right at the plating above that core.

It was starting to show some give too, a testimate to the true strength of the offending monster. Chest plating, no matter the make, didn't come off easily, intent to protect the most vulnerable parts of a pilot.

The electricity was already frying his frame, if it got a straight shot of that to his chest-

Jazz needed to do something.

Jazz needed to do something.

But what, what could he do, whatever it was it needed to be quick, he didn't have time to finish off this Quintesson, there wasn't time for finesse, he just needed to go to help to F I G H T -

Jazz readjusted the braced positioning of his legs, thanking for what was probably the thousandth time the engineers who'd made the adjustment to give him more flexibility and agility, and brought his free arm high above his head.

And brought it down.

His trapped arm creaked, the plating denting and squealing as the metal controted, sparks going flying and red error messages flashing in his vision.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

He made sure to keep his blows aimed at preciscely where he knew it was weakest and made sure to push with his legs as hard as he could, swaying side to side and focing the joint to bend in ways it had never been meant to. His movements became a dance to the orchestra of cables snapping and metal ripping and electricity cracking and his arm b r e a k i n g , the dance growing faster and more determined the louder the music played.

It felt like eternity, and the phantom sensation was disorienting. There was no pain, only uncomfortable pressure that built up and up and up, perfectly in time with the warning messages he forcefully dismissed. It was far from pleasant, but it was nothing compared to the cold burning terrified angry fight flight save him running full blast in his brain.

And with one final crack akin to lightning, he was free.

It was the furthest thing from a clean break, and to his mild surprise it didn't break at the elbow but rather a bit above it. In the second of freefall he had, he couldn't help but admire the shredded stump and mourn how he knew Ratchet was going to have his head for all the extra work.

He hit the ground in a roll and popped up running, stumbling and nearly falling face first into alien dirt at the sudden uneven weight distribution but he simply let his partial fall carry him forward until he was sprinting full speed.

With his remaining hand he grabbed the Quintesson and pulled, not letting go until it wasn't tearing into Prowl's front and instead embedded several feet in the ground. He dashed, not giving it even a moment, standing tall in front of Prowl.

The Quint got back up, enraged screeches and chitters coming out of it's mouth.

"Back off," Jazz growled back.

The Quintesson attacked, and everything became the hyperaware blur combat always became.

Dodge, dodge, punch, dodge, kick, kick, punch, dodge, jump, kick jump-

One of it's tentacles latched right onto the open stump and set a wave of electricity in.

His mech's vision went bright white, sparks exploding out even inside his cockpit and the smell of burning metal filling his nose. All the protective insulation was made useless from the direct route into the mech's systems.

Jazz jerked his arm stump back and headbutted it.

He got a tentacle to the face for his troubles, grabbers squeezing and cracking the visor. He planted his feet, one on solid ground the other on the slack of the tentacle, and pulled as hard as he could.

A decent chunk of the face came left it, not deep enough to affect any systems or his vision anymore than it was already damaged, but enough that it certainly wasn't pretty.

He kept more distance after that. Wouldn't do any good for him or Prowler if he got fried too. But the Quintesson was desperate, like a cornered animal, grabbing and clawing at anything it could gets it's tentacles on. The same gouges Prowl had began to litter his own armour as it kept making grabs, and the beastie even managing to get a few more much briefer electrical surges in.

It was obvious only one of them was going to walk away from this fight, and Jazz was not going to let it be the Quint. Prowl would kill him if he did

Finally he managed to get in a lucky shot, albeit at the cost of his feet. The Quintesson tried to get in a bite like it friend had, only to be met with the full force of Jazz's feet pressing them apart.

The teeth and other horrors might've torn through his feet but dammit if it wasn't satisfying to hear the crack as its jaw snapped and the body went limp.

The battle was still going on around them, but it was starting to wind down. A trio of bots had even started attacking the one Jazz had left behind.

The immediate area was clear, and there were more than enough bots he could shout out to for backup if he needed it.

"Prowler, you okay?" he said, though he noticed his voice had a bit of static lacing it. Maybe getting his face ripped off did more damage than he thought, or it could be lingering damage from the electricity. "Sorry it took me so long to come getcha, talk, dark and bitey kept me a bit occupied."

He wiggled his stump with a chuckle, leaning in closer. Kneeling down was difficult with the leaking hydraulic fluid and Quintesson salivia making it hard to get a solid grip, but with the current state of his visor he didn't want to risk missing anything on Prowl. To his relief, despite the extensive denting and electrical burns, Prowl's chest was thankfully uncompromised. Hopefully his mech was insulated

The electricity seemed to have done a number on his connection to the head though, the eyes were still glitching wildly and his normally expressive face seemed stuck.

"J-Jazz..." Prowl stuttered, and Jazz found himself frowning. Maybe Prowl got a bit more banged up on the inside than he thought. "You- your-"

His eyes were flickering wildly about Jazz's mech, and he could practically hear his friend's battle computer crunching away.

"Ah, don't worry bout that," he rapping his mech's chest with a fist. "This old frame's gone through worse. Nothing delicate got smashed, and I've barely got a scratch on me. Ratchet'll have me right as rain before you know it, so don't worry your pretty little head one bit."

"Speaking of, I'm gonna go find 'im," he stood back up, looking around the battlefield. "The fight's pretty much over, and I'm not sure if it's a great idea for you to be moving after all that zappy nonsense. Just sit tight and-"

"No!"

Jazz startled a bit at the sudden shout, looking back down at Prowl. The other man's mech suddenly lunged up, sitting straight and looking at him with wide eyes.

"Prowler? Is somethin wrong?"

"I will contact Ratchet," he says in a rush. "A comm message will be more efficient than searching on foot, not to mention I'll be able to tell him what to prepare for,"

Jazz raised a brow.

"Go right ahead, Prowl," he chirped despite his suspicion. He was fairly certain Prowl was hiding something from him, but prying would just make him clamp down tighter.

Prowl didn't seem like the sort to hide things from medics but...

He sat his mech down and leaned back against the wall. "You don't mind if I wait with ya, do you?"

Just to be safe.

Despite his initial assumptions, Prowl actually seemed to relax at his suggestion.

"Not at all."

[that-one-malereader-enthusiast]

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 • 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞

╰┈➤ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐬 & 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬

__________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

𝐅𝐓𝐌 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭 𝐱 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞!

cw : MDNI - ftm Lestat, top male reader, sexual content, nsfw, lycanthrope male reader, oral (giving), AFAB terminology used (such as cunt, clit, ect.) monsterfuckers, mentions of knotting, praises, dry humping, slight service top moment, baby fever, breeding kink, not proof-read.

If vampires could exist, why couldn't werewolves, Lestat thought. When he found you, it was as if looking at a lost dog. Scrappy thing, but brutish. You had no manners, like a mutt out of the ditch. The two of you never met eye to eye, but he helped you deal with the monster that you had almost no control over. What he loved about you is that you took answers from no one. You took what you wanted, when you wanted it. And if you wanted Lestat on the bed with his legs spread, he could barely stop you.

__________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

"You're making a mess down there mon cher, you're dr..drooling all over my legs!" Lestat laughed as you huffed and looked up at him from between his legs. There was slick and saliva dripping down your chin and painted messily on your lips, smeared against your cheeks and dripping down your neck. Your half lidded eyes were hazed with lust, trying to bide your irritation and hunger with the meal between the others legs. "Use your words, those looks could mean anything. You either want me to...shut up so you can continue indulging yourself or—" Lestat almost snorted as you responded with simply curling your arms around his thighs, letting them settle on your shoulders as you 'indulged' as he seemed to speak of.

Your thick tongue practically slobbered against his thighs, nipping every now and then while your leg bounced. You wanted so much more at that moment, but you were trying to wait it out. You were itching to get out of your skin, the presence of the full moon only pressuring your body further. You could feel the itch deep within the marrow of your bones, calling out. It makes your body feel like a furnace, your core even hotter. You could feel your hips rolling into the mattress below as you whined into Lestats' heat, causing him to shudder in response.

"You're such a needy chiot when you wish to be one. I don't know why you restrain yourself so much when I know what goes on in that head of yours." Lestat almost mewled out at the end of his words as your tongue practically circled around his dick, lips suckling against it and sending fire into his own nerves. "Juste là, ma chère, you're so good to me..." He let out an airy breath as his fingers slid into your hair. No matter how many times you cut it, it practically grew longer the next day. But Lestat? He loved running his fingers through your hair and watching you act as if you were touch starved. No, you were touch starved. Leaning into his touch, silently asking for more.

Lestat was the first person, first being, creature — the first to be able to handle your unruliness these nights. When you weren't prowling the streets, out for blood, killing every animal that came into your line of sight and even people if they had the unfortunate timing of appearing in your sights.

You were practically nose deep in Lestats' rather trimmed and neat blonde pubes while your tongue wanted to lap up every inch of his spongy insides. You could barely think straight, heat now radiating off your skin and your mind slowly fogging while Lestat made obscene noises that made your ears prick up. "Need you..Les..."

"You have me mon cher chiot, you..you have me," he shuddered out again before feeling your nails start to dig into his thighs. An animalist whine and whimper left your lips before you could feel the curse starting to carve you from the inside out. Cooking your insides, broiling in your stomach while it broke and wielded your bones back together. It wasn't pretty, it never was. But Lestat was there for it all, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

You let go of him and gripped onto the sheets, finding yourself wanting to curl up and hide from the pain. You could hear his coaxing in the forefront of your mind, trying to tell you he was still there, but lines blurred when you transformed. Your bones snapped and your flesh seemed to tear as fur came in replacement, your bones shifting into place as a deep growl rolled within your chest. The moonlight seemed to peer in through the window, your once normal eyes giving an eerie glow in the darkness, your face no longer humanoid, but instead replaced with a furry snout.

There was blood in your fur, almost coating some, bleeding into the mattress but the other didn't care and neither did you. Your clothes had long since been shed off since the beginning of the transformation, now scattered and torn into pieces.

You shook your head, thoughts jumbled in a bunch. Food. Hunt. Hunger. Prey. Hunger. Mate. Hot. Mark. Mate. Mine. You seemed to stare Lestat down, as if he were a meal of his own, your mawl filling with drool as your now semi bipedal body crouched over him, absolutely looming over his body. "I know you can hear me in there mon cher chiot." Lestat seemed to call out, his core finding more warmth seeing you in such a form.

You growled at him at first, though your eyes seemed to quickly glance down his body. Hungry. Mate. Breed. Mate. Hunger. Hunt. Prey. My mate. You weren't completely dumbed down, but the scent of Lestats' arousal seemed to set you off. It wasn't long before you practically dragged his body down, lifting his entire lower half off the bed before your maw opened.

Lestat didn't fear you'd eat him or even harm him, but he could see much more happening. When you got like this, it was hard to stop you from completely destroying the room trying to fuck him on every surface, especially since you didn't burn out easily during such a moon tranced state.

He could feel your teeth against his pelvis, only putting some pressure down as your tongue took a long lap against his lower lips. Pulling away, you grabbed his thighs and raised them on your shoulders, his entire upper body almost lifted off the bed from the shift of your height.

Lestat cried out and threw his head back the moment he felt your tongue dive into his drenched cunt yet again, reaching places you couldn't quite reach before and more. He could see your unsheathed and throbbing red cock underneath your own body, dripping with arousal and your knot having already appeared. "I suppose I should have fed earlier tonight if I knew I was going to be in here with you till daylight—"

There was a growl, a deep one that sent vibrations deep within Lestat, causing him to find a rather quick orgasm that startled even himself. "I guess this form also does things to me as well mon cher chiot, but it seems your mind is elsewhere." Instead of a response, you simply lapped at his wetness, hips rutting up against the sheets and your mind elsewhere. You wanted to breed him, badly. Make him full of your pups. What you wouldn't give to see Lestat, your Lestat, full and round and plump. Putting him down on your knot, making him yours completely? You began to drool at the thought that ran circles inside your mind.

Maybe you could fill him up tonight after you made him cum on your tongue. Your hunger was only for Lestat tonight, nothing more.

It was better than you constantly having held his hips and grinded up against him with any and every surface, whining and making small grunts rather than communicating with your words what you really wanted. It wasn't your fault that his ass always looked so nice in whatever he wore. Such a nice, grabable ass. All yours for the night.

__________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

[acosmicbee]

Big Bad Beast

(Inspired by Little Red Riding Hood, hope the formatting is okay, this was written on my phone)

"Y/N!" You'd barely made it home from the bakery, the little bag you'd brought still full of freshly made bread, and you were already being ordered to do something else.

"Yes Mama?" You asked, setting the bag down on the kitchen counter. You didn't even need to see her to know that her and your dad had been fighting yet again.

Broken glass littered the floor -- good thing you hadn't taken off your shoes -- and you could hear the mix of hurt and anger in your mother's voice. You hoped she wasn't about to drag you into their fighting.

"Y/N, go to your grandparents." Your father ordered, walking into the kitchen. Your mother started to argue as he packed you a separate bag to take, letting you take some of the bread and a few other things as a snack.

"But what about-?" You started only to fall silent when your mother walked into the kitchen to continue their argument and he stopped paying attention to you.

It didn’t matter that there were signs everywhere warning against leaving town without a suitable weapon. You doubted they even noticed them, too consumed in their hatred for each other.

There was a beast in the forest. A monster rumored to be anything from a mountain lion to an angry god. It wasn't stopping almost anyone who could from volunteering to help take it down, prowling the forest with shotguns and pitchforks.

Either way, you'd choose a beast over listening to your parents fighting anymore. You just silently took the basket of baked goods and walked out the door, sighing as you stared at the sky.

You waved to the baker as you passed, stopped to assure one man standing at the edge of the forest path that yes, you would be okay on your own, before you were finally within the woods.

It was a cool spring day and you kept your sweater buttoned up as you walked the familiar path. You loved this path, it was serene and quiet. Perfect for getting away from all the fighting.

You had been walking for nearly an hour, never straying from the path, when you started to get hungry. You didn't feel like walking while eating your snacks so you began looking around for a good place to stop for a second. It was then that you spotted a pretty field of wildflowers through a gap in the trees.

The bees were buzzing and the entire field smelled lovely and sweet as you made your way to it. That, combined with the chill of morning wearing off into the heat of midday as the sun climbed further and further, made you feel a little sleepy as you finished the bread. Before you'd even recognized what was happening you were dozing off, curled up in the flowers.

-🐺-

Robert grinned as he emerged from the tree line. It was so easy to join a hunting party to hunt down this 'beast'. No one even questioned him about where he came from, just happy to gain another hand. They'd welcomed him, stupidly. Most of them were dead now, the rest would join them soon. They would be hunting down no more werewolves, ever. 

It was late afternoon, a beautiful day he'd decided. After all, it wasn't every day he got to kill some worthless humans for killing his kind. His hand smeared some blood on a tree as he began to walk down the main path, ready to dissappear back into the depths of the woods.

It was only once his nose had been filled with the scent of wildflowers and he looked to see where it was coming from did he see the small figure napping in the field through the trees. Stealthily approaching he watched as you calmly slept, oblivious to everything around you.

You were a human child, which made you dangerous by default. But you were so... small. Of course he knew human children were smaller than werewolves, but you looked to be around his youngest pup's age and you were just so tiny in comparison.

You were a stupid pup, he decided, or you had stupid parents who didn't care enough. You wouldn't survive long in the world either way. You were letting down your guard too easily, sleeping where any wild animal could have stumbled upon you. Now if he was your father, you'd be able to do so safely, knowing you had a protector to watch over you while you napped. You seemed alone though, he could smell no hunters nearby or any other human.

He watched you for another moment before a dark smirk crossed his face. He and his wife had room in their den for another pup. Especially one so stupid and clumsy, honestly he was doing you a favor. No matter, your father was here now and he'd be taking care of you from now on.

[florencebirdsong]

Bent Over

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: joining in on Agatha and Rio's special brand of foreplay is just like flipping a coin

Tags:  breeding kink, dubcon, strap referred to as cock, biting, light scratching, manhandling, slight boot humping, light degradation,  implied pain kink, oral, overstimulation, Sir Rio, Mistress Agatha, switch Rio, mommy Agatha, toy Reader, pet names - good girl, dirty girl, pet

She/her pronouns used to refer to R (sorry it’s not the usual they/them I was leaning diff when writing)

Words: 3,783

masterlist | ao3

Authors note: fr wish the world would stop kicking me in my nonexistent balls but at least this one shot is finally here! Ignore the placeholder name that stuck ahshdjdjd I lowkey like it now. Also, this is the witches road Rio, not soft baby or crashing out Rio.

Note: Agatha much prefers having the most power at any moment than winning. Rio’s referring to one specific event to get under Agatha’s skin 💞

You trail in curiously after Rio. She stalked to Agatha’s office with the clear intention to bother her. Something that will either end really well or really badly for you.

Rio has Agatha’s attention instantly but she decides to play it oblivious. Like the tension in the room isn’t rising by the second. Rio prowls around the walls of the room, pretending to look at the artefacts scattered about the shelves. You linger by the door, just in case this turns into a genuine fight and not the foreplay you’re expecting.

Rio knocks an intricate…statue thing off the shelf. You have no idea what is it but it shatters when it hits the ground. You wish you knew. Its importance would tell you which end on the fight-foreplay spectrum they’re currently dancing in.

“Is there something you needed?” Agatha asks, sounding very unimpressed.

“You couldn’t tell?”

“No. I assumed Death, a cosmic entity, would be capable of using her words when she wants something.”

“I much prefer using my tongue.”

“That is what you use to make words, dear,” she says before she concedes, “In this form, anyway.”

Rio flashes her skull face and you swallow. It’s been a while since you’ve played in that form and the tease has you clenching your thighs together.

“Is there a reason why you’ve come to bother me?” Agatha asks.

“I’m not allowed to spend time with my dearest love?” Rio finally prowls towards Agatha’s desk.

“Don’t be rude,” Agatha tsks and flicks her fingers at you.

Rio turns slowly to look at you. You stay very still. She crooks a finger and you cautiously approach her. If she didn’t want you in the room you wouldn’t be.

She gently cups your face in her hands and it’s more nerve wracking than comforting. She studies your expression as she scans your face.

“Did I hurt your feelings?”

It’s not said with the mocking sympathy that would come from Agatha in this situation. Your eyes flicker towards her but Rio is too close for you to see past her.

“No,” you say simply.

She gives you another considering look. You wonder how much your emotions differ from Agatha and if Rio finds it hard to understand your own. You reach up to cradle her wrist but you barely move before you find yourself on Agatha’s desk. It happens so fast you don’t have time to catch yourself.  Rio’s claws land between your shoulder blades and slams you down. It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, although the shock of the impact still flows through you.

“Play nice,” Agatha admonishes like she has a leg to stand on when it comes to that. 

“Did I hurt you?” Rio asks curiously.

You’re still too stunned to respond.

“Probably,” Agatha answers for you. “I’m sure there’s some lovely bruises forming.”

Rio’s hands lightly run down your sides and you know she’s picturing the marks she’s creating. Purple flares and she doesn’t have to imagine. The polished wood of Agatha’s desk is cool against your skin and start in surprise.

You look up at Agatha to see her dark eyes already on you. It’s too early for you to be pleading but you know your face is already giving you away.

“Rio, why don’t we try what we talked about earlier,” Agatha says, lounging back in her chair.

Rio’s nails dig into your skin. You don’t know what she’s talking about but you know exactly what expression Rio has on her face. A wolf standing at attention, about to snap its teeth.

“Since you want to so badly,” Agatha says in a way you know in digs at Rio.

A moment you see often in the middle of their games.

“Are you sure, Agatha?” Rio asks.

The rest of your clothes disappear.

“Ca- “ your mouth clicks shut without your permission.

It’ll be more of a toy night than a participant night it seems. 

Something hard nudges your entrance and you shiver. It’s all the warning you get before Rio sheathes herself inside of you in one go. You gasp and relish the way Agatha’s eyes snap down to you. She licks her lips and your eyelids droop as Rio does it again. 

“We both know how much you like to be first,” Rio continues to goad as she slowly pulls out before thrusting all the way back in.

You don’t know what they’re talking about, you rarely do in these moments, and Rio scratching her nails down your back distracts you from that vague curiosity. The fresh sting has you arching. It doesn’t draw Agatha’s eye this time. She’s too deep into her game with Rio to give in. Knowing this doesn’t stop a little part of you pouting.

You squirm on Rio’s cock instead of listening to their next set of jibes. They only make sense to you when one of them knows it will get to the other. As hot as their foreplay is, it can take so long. Too focused on your throbbing cunt, you don’t think about the consequences as you whine and kick out. 

Their attention instantly snaps to you and you freeze. The feeling of being a rabbit caught in a wolf den creeps up on you. Agatha’s face turns into a fake pout that has you shivering. 

“Is someone feeling left out?” she asks and you hurriedly shake your head but it’s too late. 

Rio’s threads her fingers through your hair, grips firmly and forces your head down. You whimper. It’s impossible to survive the two of them.

“We don’t want that,” Rio says with a grin you can hear.

Agatha is about to give her exactly what she wants. No consequences. All because you couldn’t wait a little longer. You can’t even try to apologise. Agatha will only act oblivious.

“I just want to know what you’re talking about,” you try.

Sometimes playing their game works in your favour, even if you always lose. This time, it only seems to amuse Agatha more.

“Poor thing doesn’t even know what they risk every time you fuck her,” Agatha says to Rio. 

She drinks in your confused expression.

“It’s not surprising,” Rio says as she plays with the fresh scratches down your back. “Her confused little face is what drew you to her in the first place.”

Agatha’s head tilts slightly as she gives you a considering look.

“Rio is a cosmic entity, dear,” she  reminds you like you aren’t well aware of that whenever Rio’s does…anything, but especially when she’s inside of you. “And we are witches. We aren’t restricted by the usual limitations when it comes to death. Or life,” she quirks her brow.

You suddenly become very aware of how vulnerable you are.

“You mean she can…?”

Agatha’s smirk answers the question for you. 

Hot breath skates along the back of your neck before Rio growls lowly. Instinct has you freezing again. She noses at the delicate skin of your neck. You aren’t naive enough to think it’s a comforting motion.

“Yes,” Agatha says simply.

“I -” is all you get out before Rio’s sharp teeth sink into your shoulder. The ache is a familiar pain, one you know will soon turn to pleasure, yet you still instinctively cry out, bucking. 

Rio has too tight of a hold. She’s going to- is all you can think before her cock is sinking back inside of you. She doesn’t do the teasing pace of before and her cock stretches you open with every thrust.

“Please,” you gasp, “I don’t want- “

“Yes, you do,” Agatha says with all the confidence in the world. “It’s easy to see into your head, hon. You want to be owned. Completely. Something we’re well equipped to do.”

All you can manage is a pathetic whine. She’s never said it so plainly before. Rio is groaning against your back in a way that tells you she’s close. It only makes you clench tighter. Her claws dig into your skin as she holds you still, controlling every movement as she fills you over and over again. You can’t look away from Agatha. The only thing that gives away how much this is effecting her is her slightly heavier breathing. She has that self-satisfied smirk that drives you crazy. 

“Take it like a good pet,” Agatha says and Rio stills inside of you.

You swear you feel something warm flood you as she groans above you. Her teeth find a new spot to dig into. Heat floods through you and it’s all you can do to hold onto the desk as you come. Your eyes shut as you arch but you can still feel Agatha’s gaze searing into you. Your orgasm ends in a whimper. Rio doesn’t release her teeth until you go limp. With a satisfied growl she lets go of you.

“Feel better?” Agatha asks, now lounging back casually as she watches Rio.

“Not yet,” Rio says as her hands travel down to grope your ass. She’s still inside of you.

“Don’t be greedy,”Agatha says.

“I’m not. There’s no saying whether it’s taken yet.”

“Death itself can’t guarantee it on the first go?” Agatha’s voice is almost mocking.

“Not when she wants another round,” Rio says in a voice that tells you she’s wearing a sharp grin. 

You grind back against her, wanting nothing more than to feel like that again. Nothing more except with the taste of Agatha in your mouth too. Agatha clicks her tongue.

“If you can’t get it right the first time then it’s my turn,” she says.

“Oh? Didn’t you say this is something only Death can do?”

“I am a witch, dear,” Agatha says.

As hot as you find this, you wish they’d stop in favour of getting back to the fucking you part. 

“You’ll have to take her,” Rio says.

Agatha raises an eyebrow.

“Give her to me and I’ll suck you off,” Agatha says.

You can feel the way Rio twitches. Agatha is offering something that is usually hard won, yet Rio sees saying yes as a kind of losing.

“Sir -”

Agatha grips your shoulder and digs her thumb into one of your fresh bite marks before you can continue. Your words turn into a strangled whimper. You don’t risk begging to her instead. 

The pressure lessens when you stay quiet but Agatha doesn’t pull away. That combined with the sting of Rio’s claws has you unconsciously grinding back on Rio. It’s probably lessening your chance of Agatha fucking you full, but you’re full now and that’s all you can concentrate on.

Rio grinds her hips forward and Agatha’s hand snaps out to grip her chin. Rio stills and you can’t help the whine that escapes you. They both ignore you.

“Fuck her again and I won’t touch you for a week,” Agatha warns in a low voice.

You swear you hear Rio swallow. Her claws retreating tell you she’s given in. A second later the world tilts and you find yourself on your knees in front of Agatha. You stare up at her with wide eyes. Her pupils are blown and her hair is that slightly messy it always gets when she’s worked up. The wonders of magic. You want to run your hands through it.

You’re distracted from the thought by something dripping down your thigh and you pray Agatha can’t see it from this angle. Her boot lifting to nudge your thigh tells you otherwise.

“Dirty girl,” she murmurs before tilting her boot higher.

You twitch when it touches your sensitive core but don’t dare move otherwise. You want her to touch you, or to touch her. If she’s in an ultimatum kind of mood than complete obedience is the only way to get what you want. Her smile stretches wider and she presses harder. Pleasure sings up your spine. You’re trembling but you manage to resist the urge to grind down. Remembering her reaction when you tried to use words earlier, you beg with your eyes instead.

“Good girl,” she says and you shiver. She sits back down and spreads her legs. “Eat me out and I’ll think about rewarding you.”

You’re crawling forward before her pants are off. You run your hands up her thighs a second before they disappear. She allows the contact and you follow the trail with you nose, taking a deep breath when you hit her soaked folds. Surprisingly, she doesn’t move a hand to your hair like usual. You take the opportunity to suck a dark mark into her thigh, hoping Rio’s reaction to it will lean more towards fucking you than the punishing she is prone to. Not wanting to risk either of them pulling you away from your prize, you find Agatha’s clit with your tongue the second you’re done. You lick firm circles around it and she groans.

“I thought I was the one getting head,” Rio says, closer now.

“Don’t pout, sweetheart, it doesn’t suit you,” Agatha says.

“That isn’t what you said the last time I was on my knees,” Rio says.

Your pace stutters and Agatha laughs lowly. She threads her hand through your hair when you’re too overwhelmed by the image to remember to continue. You don’t need more than a slight push forward before you swiping your tongue over her clit again. 

“Why don’t you get on your knees now? I might change my mind again,” Agatha says.

You barely resist the urge to turn around. Agatha and Rio have the most fun in a power struggle so you’ve seen them in all kinds of roles and positions. You’ve even seen them kneel for each other. But it have Rio kneel beside you is something you’ve never experienced. You aren’t apart of the power struggle, although you’re usually used within it. You’re always firmly below at least one of them. Nether have subbed beside you. You clench your thighs together and try to distract yourself by moving lower. Dipping your tongue teasingly into Agatha, you wait for her tight grip to guide you further. She instantly pushes you closer and you eagerly comply.

It’s enough to distract you that you don’t notice the warmth of another body until it’s brushing against you. You freeze but Agatha’s nails dig in warningly. You move your focus back to her clit to try and disguise your distraction. For the very first time you don’t want to spend the next six hours eating Agatha out and you debate using your fingers without explicit permission.

You can’t see Rio but you can feel her slowly lean against you, which means she’s also leaning against Agatha’s leg. It takes you a moment to realise she’s resting her head against Agatha’s thigh. You imagine the look of Rio’s face as she looks up at Agatha, one you’ve only seen once before. Soft, open, submissive. Agatha’s other hand moves to gently stroke her hair. You fight every reaction you have, terrified of breaking the moment and losing this experience before it truly begins. 

Agatha makes a deeply satisfied noise. You immediately move down and curl your tongue inside of her. She squeezes around your tongue as she comes, moaning in unison with you. You don’t stop until Agatha tugs you away. She lets go before you can rest against her and you only get a moment of confusion before a new hand takes her place. Rio pulls you back further before turning your face towards her.

Instead of kissing you like you’re eagerly expecting, she licks over your lips. Agatha has soaked your face and Rio diligently cleans you up. Her breath is hot. The feeling of her tongue on you, of her kneeling against you, has you shaking. You’re too overwhelmed to do anything more than kneel there.

Rio doesn’t grace you with a kiss when she pulls away. You’re too dazed to miss it. It takes you a long moment to open your eyes again. 

Rio’s hand slides down to the back of your neck, thumb gently stroking the skin there, but she doesn’t take her eyes away from Agatha. 

“I’ll reward you later. I have a pet to breed,” Agatha says to her.

Rio doesn’t react, not even a twitch. Hands pull you up into Agatha’s lap. You’re straddling her for barely a moment before something hard nudges you. Looking down you’re shocked to see a green strap-on instead of a purple one. You want to see Rio’s reaction but Agatha’s grip is iron.

You hold your breath as Agatha guides her cock to your entrance. She doesn’t need to push you onto it, you sink down eagerly. You’re surprised again as she allows you to set your own pace. Her hands on your hips steadying you instead of controlling. Moving your eyes from the flashes of green to her deep blue ones, you’re unsurprised to find them studying you. 

“Mommy’s going to come in you,” she says and a shiver runs down your back.

Her fingers dig into your skin and you wish she was moving you like she usually does. Your steady pace turns shaky and uneven. Too desperate to come to be able to get yourself there.

“Please,” whine you. Agatha’s eyes drop to your lips and you say it again, “Please, mistress.”

Agatha growls and pulls you up. Your heart drops, thinking she’s pulling you off, until she slams you back down again. You moan and grasp desperately at her shoulders. Her eyes don’t leave yours as she makes you ride her. 

You’re trembling and desperate. The heat that had been slowly building again flares through you. You hold on as long as you can, not wanting it to end. Victory shines in Agatha’s eyes when you finally snap and that warmth floods you again.

Agatha runs a soothing hand up and down your back as you come down, curled into her shoulder. It takes until you have most of the feeling back in your body to realise Rio has been quiet for too long. You lean back from Agatha, trying not to get distracted with her still inside of you. Her amused smirk doesn’t reassure you. Claws curl around your hips and you freeze mid-turn. Rio moulds herself against your back. She slides her cheek against your own. A slight pressure has you staring back at Agatha, Rio’s sharp grin against your cheek. Those claws lift you half-way up Agatha’s cock.

“Wait,” you gasp and uselessly pull at them as they start to push you back down.

“No,” Rio growls and you stop, listening to your survival instincts. “If you’re so desperate to come to Agatha wearing one of my straps, then you’re going to do it again.”

You whimper. Your cunt is sensitive after two hard orgasms and you know you won’t survive another. Not functioning. You pretend the idea doesn’t make you drip. 

Agatha doesn’t do anything to save you. She leans back in her chair and settles her hands low on your thighs, prepared to enjoy the show. 

Rio bounces you on her strap without mercy and you’re struggling not to come within moments. Their scents surround you, Agatha’s eyes devour you and Rio’s claws make themselves known every time she moves you. 

Rio murmurs something under her breath and Agatha jerks suddenly. You have no control to stop and see what’s wrong. Her eyes slam shut, grip turns tight and her mouth drops open into an expression you’re familiar with.

Rio’s made it so Agatha can feel what’s happening to the strap-on. The realisation pushes you even higher. You’re too far gone to truly help with Rio’s movements but you give yourself completely to them as you watch Agatha’s face. Her head slowly tilts back. The desperate urge to kiss her surges and you lean in.

Rio grips the back of your hair and holds you still. You whimper.

“Don’t ruin my fun.”

Agatha’s eyes languidly open. “I don’t remember telling you to stop,” she says.

“Someone was trying to take more than she’s been given,” Rio purrs.

You shake your head but it’s useless.

“Eating your mistress out and being used as a fleshlight isn’t enough?” You don’t get a chance to respond. Purple swirls around your wrists and forces them behind your back. Her sharp nails dig in when she grips your chin. “Take it like a good girl before I leave you tied up for a week.” You try to nod but her grip is too tight. “Say yes mistress.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Agatha pushes your chin away and Rio starts fucking you on her strap again. It’s all too much and you’re falling apart within minutes, clinging desperately to her as pleasure consumes you.

Rio forces your hips up again and you can’t even make a noise of protest. Your bones are jelly. Your everything is jelly.

Agatha clicks her tongue. “Stop before you break her.”

Rio rolls her eyes and lets you go. You slump into Agatha’s hold. “But she’s so fun when she’s been fucked stupid.”

“I have plans for tomorrow,” Agatha says. There’s no room left in you for curiosity. “And I’d rather you focus on your own reward.”

Rio’s eyes snap to Agatha’s. Agatha lifts you and gets up before placing you back on her chair. You reach for her, confused in your slowness. She grasps your chin.

“Watch,” she commands.

You nod once the word makes it through your slow thoughts. The command giving a bit more life to them. They speed up more as you watch Agatha slowly kneel down in front of Rio. Swallowing roughly, you grip the chair tight. Wondering if you’re dreaming.This is a sight you rarely see. Rio has won dominance before and even allowed you to watch on rare occasions but this feels different.

Agatha wraps her hand around the base of Rio’s cock and begins to slowly stroke it. Rio looks almost frozen, riveted by the sight. Agatha slowly licking her from base to tip doesn’t help.

She wraps her lips around Rio’s head. They don’t break eye contact.

Rio groans when Agatha takes her deeper. Agatha hollows her cheeks and Rio’s hips jerk. Her hand lands in Agatha’s hair but doesn’t push.

She doesn’t last as long as you’re expecting. She was more worked up than she was letting on and the sight of her coming with a loud groan has you grinding against the chair despite your sensitive cunt.

“Good boy,” Agatha husks when she pulls away and Rio’s whole body shudders. Agatha gets up and sits on her desk. “Now fuck me like you mean it and maybe I’ll give you another go with our pet over there.”

[rabotimagines]

I'm so glad my English wasn't bad! I put it on goggle translate a few times to see if it was right 😭 (And I do agree with you on TFONE part haha!)

I was talking to another friend of mine about your newest work and we both loved it very much! We tried to imagine the opposite happening, a Decepticon Reader trying to pull off the same scheme that is, and it all just ended in laughs!

We think it would end with the Autobot worried about you one way or another.

Starscream? You're either VERY desperate or the bar is simply THAT low

Shockwave? They are unsure if he is threatening you or is simply bad at flirting

Soundwave? ...I like Soundwave, so no bad mouthing for him hahaha!

Again, I love your works! I look forward to the next one!

thank you for enjoying my works!! Please don't feel shy to share your thoughts with me too about my certain works please. I eat the talking and comments from you guys about the things I write and use them like energy to power and I can write more because of them :)

Plus I also like talking about these mechs hahaha But let's do flirty Decepticon Reader then!

"Battlefield flirting" pt2! GN BOT Reader x Prowl, Ironhide, Ratchet, Bumblebee

Summary: The Autobots get sexually frustrated by the enemy (you)

G1 characters: Prowl, Ironhide, Ratchet, Bumblebee,

Genre/Theme: Cross faction flirting/annoying and sexually frustrating the Autobots

Warnings: Con Reader being a bit mean to the mechs (You are enemies after all), Mildly horny Autobots

Pronouns: You, Your, Yours

Notes: GN Decepticon! Reader, Reader is written as older in mind. (mentioned in Ironhide and Ratchets parts)

"Hey gorgeous! Hope your medics not busy!" Prowl registers exactly who is saying the phrase, but he's too slow to stop you from shooting him right in the thigh. Prowl almost crumbles but forces his leg to brace, and pain shoots up his frame as a result. He doesn't fall, however, so he has enough time to whip around and block the punch you aim at his helm. You lock optics, and you grin at him. You then do something his logic center isn't even accounting for. And promptly drop your blaster like it wasn't apart of your advantage.

Your now free servo latches onto Prowls arm and yanks him forward. You're suddenly chassis to chassis, and your servo is preventing him from raising his own blaster to use. And then your em field unabashedly runs along his frame. Prowls optics snap wide, and your faceplates are almost touching- "Hey." Is all you say before promptly rearing back and slamming your helm into Prowls olfactory. Pain hits him hard and fast, and you both go tumbling to the ground in a fit.

Prowl does not like you. You were the enemy, and you were high on the Autobot priority take downs list. A nightmare on the battlefield and an even more annoying mech to interact with. Your latest attempt at throwing them off their guard was your new now blatant- flirtatious nature. Names that belong in a habsuite and an em field that's completely and utterly unrestrained. Prowl despised running into you on the battlefield. Now, he didn't have to just calculate your battle actions. Now he had to account for your flirting so the others wouldn't get killed due to being caught off guard by it.

Prowl was far from a fool, so he knows exactly what the heat in his frame is when it starts. Now, does that mean he's accepting of it? No. Prowl denies it and denies it. Prowl tries to reset his logic center multiple times, defrag, and even recharge in hopes it will disappear like a stress glitch. Unfortunately, it does not, and Prowl is left having to acknowledge his sudden inexplicable attraction towards you. (He does so with a gritted jaw and clenched servos.) Prowl knows he can not afford to try and also calculate avoidance measures on top of everything else for something as petty as his confounded frames incomprehensible decisions. So Prowl stands tall and keeps his optics out for you on the battlefield per usual.

Prowl barely comprehends his logic centers idea of using his stasis cuffs to keep you as a non threat for the rest of the battle. All before, Prowl's dismissing the prompt like rust plague when the heat suddenly returned at the thought.

-

Ironhides trying to put the fire out with Inferno, and they'd split to keep it contained. "Heya hotshot!" Ironhide isn't fast enough to react, and you slam into his chassis with enough force his windshield glass cracks. Ironhide hits the ground hard and scrambles to get his legs back under himself. "Oops! Hope you can handle the heat, baby!" Ironhide realizes you're throwing something- that's a frag grenade sleeve! Ironhide curses and throws himself through a wall of flames to avoid the worst of it but still gets thrown from the explosion. Ironhide grits his jaw and engages his liquid nitrogen cannon while down. He hears the slightest bit of movement, and he's shooting, and Ironhide lets himself grin when he hears a sound of pain.

Ironhide puts the wall of flame out, and through the steam, he sees you standing a bit away with your weapon raised. Ironhide can also see one of your pauldrons is now visibly cracked and lightly steaming. "Aw, what's the matter? Can't handle a lil' ol' cold, Con?" Ironhide can't help enjoying the sharp expression that curls on your derma.

Ironhides known you for vorns. More than enough fights to the death to mild scraps for minor supplies. Ironhide would say he's practically intimate with ya with the amount of times you've spilled each others energon with neither of ya deactivatin'. So he's not exactly too surprised when you start running your sparkdamned mouth a little bit more than usual. The names and the em field were new, sure, but they fit the vermin you were just right. It's almost a touch scary how well the sweetly said but obviously poisonous phrases drip from ya on the battlefield. It doesn't tip Ironhide up too much. it just annoys him. Why run your sparkdamned mouth when you could be dying for Ironhide instead? Now your em field makes his plating instinctively clamp down on itself. (But that's neither here nor there!)

It takes Ironhide a bit to realize what the new heat he's feeling towards you is. Since well, he always got fragging hot with some good ol' fashioned rage when he had to fight you for long enough. So it takes Ironhide a hot klick to realize it ain't just anger that's suddenly making his engine rev loud in response to you. And Ironhide just curses and drags his servo down his own faceplate. Slag it all. Ironhides, been at this for too long with ya. Especially if his frames even thinking about you like that. But honestly- Ironhide ain't as ashamed as he knows he definitely should be. It wouldn't be anything Primus no- but maybe just one time? (Or maybe even a few times?) In a heated corner away from either of your bases? To just rip into each other like you've always done but just in another way? Yeah, Ironhide lets himself think about it, at least.

Ironhide also lets himself think about shutting ya up real pretty like, the next time you smile at him on the battlefield.

-

Ratchet typically wasn't a front liner, but slag happened, and sometimes he needed to be on the front line. Or he just happened to wind up in the middle of the worst of it. Rather, thankfully, it's the latter, and he's not gauntlet deep in someone's chassis when a voice rings much too close to his audial. "Darling doctor, you lost? Turn around real slow for me." Ratchet jerks, feeling the blaster barrel on his back and turns slow but firm knowing Primus well that if you wanted to, he'd be shot or stabbed immediately. You've got your blaster in your servo- and your em field brushes against him and Ratchet cannot hide his frown. "Aw, don't be like that. Don't you wanna be my sweet hostage?" You purr.

"I think I'd rather be fifty vorns away from you, you old coot." You just smiled at him, and Ratchet wants to punch you for it. Even though he knows it won't do much now.

You grabbed Ratchets' arm and start to drag him towards the others. "C'mon, we can have a cute ol' fashioned club together... don't you think?"

Ratchets patched up enough of them and heard what you'd done to them on the battlefield, and he's even had his own personal run ins with you. You were dangerous and quite the piece of fragging work to put it bluntly. So when you start with your words and your touchy little em field Ratchets unamused. Your words may be sweet, but Ratchets old like you, and he knows exactly what your intentions are. You're just playing the felinoid with the turborat. Your em field, however, is genuine. So that just makes Ratchet believe you must have a serious glitch of some sort to be flirting with the enemy and mean it. He's also a touch miffed because now he's got other Autobots compartmentalizing slag in the medbay about you flirting with them. And now Ratchet has to tell the younger members you just had a wire crossed the wrong way, and they shouldn't focus too much on your nonsense.

It takes Ratchet a klick to realize what the heat is when it very abruptly starts to kick up when you'd interact with him. A smile or your saccharine words- and Ratchet is upset with himself. He's not even mad he's just- upset. Really? It had to be you? You of all mechs? That his array had suddenly decided to find interest in? Primus give him strength. Regardless, Ratchet was a professional, and he's been around for too long to let something little like this get to him. He just accepts it and doesn't let it him bother him too badly. It's not like you interacted with one another all that much since he wasn't typically out on the front of the battlefield. Ratchet would stay professional with you, the enemy, as long as the situation called for it.

And if Ratchet lets himself fantasize about strapping you down in the medbay and teaching you some manners on lonely nights- well then, that's Ratchets business now, wasn't it?

-

"Bumblebee, look out!" Bumblebee hears Spike call out a nano-klick after he feels an em field trail hot along his frame.

"Oh, lucky me. A Honeybee." Bumblebee jerks around and sees a blur before he's hit hard in the chassis. The hit knocks him flat on the concrete, and he coughs when his fuel tank actually lurches from the force of it. Bumblebee sees pedes- pedes he realizes are yours. You tutted at Bumblebee "Poor thing." And Bumblebee feels vaguely nauseous when your em field practically seeps into his frame from where you were leering over him. Bumblebee forces himself to look upward only to find you kneeling down so you were even closer to him. Your servo reaches out and grabs his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze.

And you smile at him. Like genuinely. And the sight makes Bumblebee almost assume you were kind. "I'm gonna have to break you a bit dear, sorry about this." Your unbothered smile being the last thing Bumblebee remembered before he got hit hard enough, his frame forcibly rebooted.

Bumblebee doesn't know what he's supposed to think about you. Sure! You were one of the more dangerous cons! But you'd usually never interact with the rest of them like- this. Now you'd talk even more, and your smiles were more common and, Primus, the names- Don't get Bumblebee started on the names. As if there was anything more off putting on the battlefield, then a sweet voice calling you "darling" before nearly nailing you in the optic with a blaster. Or your- touchy em field. Primus, Bumblebee hadn't felt a field that eager in vorns, and frankly, he didn't know how to stop his optics from brightening at the touch of it. Bumblebee makes an effort to avoid you if he can, to let Prowl or Ironhide, or even Optimus deal with you. They all had their own ways of handling your personality. So they didn't fumble nearly as badly as Bumblebee did.

Then the heat starts, and Bumblebee realizes after a few split encounters with you what it actually was-! Bumblebee feels so so disappointed in his frame. Well- it's not like you weren't easy on the optics or anything! But- really!? You!? Oh, Bumblebee feels like such a bad Autobot even if he knows it's not really his fault. Especially when you flirted with all of them like you did. Was it really such a bad thing he got caught up in your charms? Okay, yeah, definitely. Absolutely it was. But Bumblebee knows he's not the only one affected by you! He saw how Ironhide was looking at you when he had to try and negotiate with you on Teletrann 1. So well- at least, Bumblebee's not alone in falling for you a little bit! Bumblebee just had to make sure you wouldn't kill him when he got too distracted by you on the battlefield. He just had to pretend he didn't think about you like that... yeah. Easy...

If Bumblebee pretends hard enough, he hopes he can pretend away the hot urge for his engine to instinctively purr when you'd smile at him.

[bamboozledbird]

Written in the Stars // Stiles Stilinski Imagine

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader Pairing: Stiles x Reader, Stiles x You (no use of y/n) Word Count: 5k Tags: fluff, fluff, fluff, i love my men nerdy and desperate, all characters are over 19, my vibe is it's like their sophomore or junior year of college Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, unprotected pnv (terrible advice, babes, don't listen to these idiots)

Request: stiles smut plssss!!! anything fluffy??? A/N: request mixed with a lil bit of an old work to ease me into my first smut. still coming across virginities at 27, and that is really something. s/o to the anon who requested it lmao.

Stiles’s childhood bedroom is an assortment of Star Wars paraphernalia, baseball posters, and bundles of wrinkled flannels squeezed to fit within four faded blue walls. There are a few books stacked on top of his desk, coated in a thin layer of dust from the semester away from home, and little plastic stormtroopers stand at attention on his dresser corners. It smells a little musty in his room, a little like damp earth, but you’ve always liked that smell. You especially like how his cologne smells here—like spice, like fallen leaves, like Christmas morning. 

“The curtains are blackout,” Stiles says. He pulls the heavy navy curtains over the window facing the small backyard. The grass is yellowing from the cold of winter, and the air is crisp with the same bitter chill. You shiver and burrow further into the sweatshirt you’d somehow commandeered long before you and Stiles were a we. A few flecks of dust float off the plaid bedding when he sits down on his bed. He looks up at you and grins at the sleeves hanging limply below your fingers, “Flip off the light.” 

You turn off the light and shut the door. It’s dark inside the room now—almost completely black. What little remains of the sun is gone, and now you can only see the glow-in-the-dark stars sticky-tacked to the ceiling. “You must have taken a lot of people up here,” you hum, grinning at him coyly over your shoulder. You’re not quite sure if he can make out the glint in your eyes under the pale fluorescent glow, but you’d like to think he can. Either way, you’re sure he knows.

Stiles laughs easily and scoots himself down to the edge of his bed, “Why?”

“For kissing,” you say, matter-of-factly, but you’re still grinning. You make your way towards him, and your prowl is far less smooth than you’d like it to be—the piles of books and a couple month’s worth of dirty laundry make an already difficult path downright hazardous. You count it as a win when you end up in his lap without tripping on anything, “Doesn’t everyone want to be kissed under the stars?”

His hands, his wonderfully large and veiny hands, find their way to your hips. It’s instinct for him, reflexive at this point, and here in the dark it feels like the only thing he knows. You can feel his grin against your neck, “Do you?” 

You hum, playing coy, and absently curl your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, thick and curling a bit at the ends. It’s grown out over the last few months. He’s been too busy with studying for finals and working at the library to bother getting it cut. You like it like this, long enough to hold onto, long enough to yank. “I like the stars,” you sigh—so close to his mouth, but not touching—and then you pull back, smiling fondly when you see his mouth is already puckered. “Tell me about ‘em.”

Stiles groans and falls onto his back, pulling you down with him. You end up tucked against his side, shivering as he slides his hand under your sweatshirt to trace a feathery line up and down your back. “That’s like the worst possible genre for innuendo. I can’t woo you while I’m David Attenborough-ing about astrology.”

You smile against his shoulder, and he yelps when you nip at his skin through his thread-bare t-shirt. “You like a challenge.”

He wraps a strand of your hair around his finger and pulls a little, just hard enough to tip into a reprimand. It’s at least half the reason you turn into a brat when he’s this close. “There’s Andromeda,” he hums against the top of your head, pointing towards a small cluster of stars. “Those are supposed to be her legs, and that’s her head, and the ones over there are her arms—fuckin’ uneven, I know. I think that side kinda looks like she’s holding out one of those canes with tennis balls on t—”

You smile and knock your head into his chin lightly, “Wooing, Stiles.”

He tugs on your hair again and swears under his breath when a little whimper tumbles past your lips. “Anyway, she’s next to Perseus—who looks a lot more like Patrick than a demigod. I mean, look at him; his body type is like…something between Dorito and spanakopita.” You laugh, and Stiles squeezes you closer to his side, tangles your legs together, and kisses the tip of your nose like he just can’t help himself. “Story goes, Andromeda's mom royally pissed off Poseidon, so he sent a sea monster to destroy her kingdom—as one does when someone’s talking shit.”

“Naturally,” you hum as you reach for the hand he has cupped around your waist. 

“Naturally,” Stiles agrees, nodding against the crown of your head. You try not to get too distracted by the length of his fingers, bending them and straightening them out one at a time, as he carries on with the story, “So Andromeda’s mom is up there with the titans of bad parents—like right next to Vader and every Disney step-mom ‘cause she fuckin’ ties Andromeda to a rock as a sacrifice for the mo—” He sucks in a shallow breath through his teeth when you start kissing along the row of his knuckles, first little soft brushes that almost tickle and then a few lingering ones that wet his skin. He swears again and ever-so slowly shifts his hips against the thigh tucked between his legs. You take pity on him and rest your entwined hands in the small gap between your breastbone and his ribs. His exhale is warm against your forehead, “Obviously, Perseus swoops in at the last minute, slays the beast, gets the girl, etcetera, etcetera.”

Humming, you tip your chin up against his chest and look at him through your lashes, “What happens during etcetera, etcetera?” 

“I think,” Stiles rolls over so that he’s on top of you, bracing his weight on his forearms, caging you in delightfully close to his broad chest, “something like this.”

You forget about the game for a minute when he starts mouthing at your skin with just the right amount of teeth. His hair, adorably messy and sticking up in little patches from your fingers, tickles the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t Perseus kill Medusa?” you mumble, head tipping back into the mattress, eyes closed. 

“Uh,” Stiles keeps kissing along your neck, obviously distracted by the hitches in your breath and the soft sighs you let out when he breathes against spit-slick skin, “yeah?”

You can feel the heaviness of his whine against your mouth when you pull away, blinking up at him with big, round eyes—the picture of innocence. A little lamb, an unplucked daisy, a gossamer butterfly wing, entirely unaware of the raging hard-on pressed against your inner thigh. His skin is warm through his shirt, so warm you feel it on your legs when you wrap them around his waist. “While she was sleeping?”

“Uh huh,” Stiles slides a hand up your thigh. The other one is pressed into the mattress, and the muscles in his forearm flex under his full weight. You’re pretty sure he’d agree with anything you say like this.

Unfortunately for the pulsing between your legs, you’ve fallen victim to your own ruse. Your head tilts as you recall all the unsavory details of the Medusa myth, “After she was literally assaulted by his dad?”

Stiles drops his head against your chest and groans, “You’re killing me, baby.”

You grin and curl your fingers in his hair, petting him gently and squeezing your thighs against his hips, “Tell me another one.”

He sighs and rolls over, starfishing his right arm and leg over the edge of the bed with a dramatic flop. “We’ll skip Orion and the seven girls he stalked.”

“Smart choice,” you hum and snuggle into his side. His chest is firm from hours of trying to lift enough to play lacrosse with werewolves, but it still makes for a nice pillow. Stiles’s fingers find their way into your hair, and you swallow back the purr rising in your throat for his sake. He’s been so good for you, after all. You don’t want the torture to be too painful.

“And the swan-fucker,” he adds, scratching lightly at your scalp.

“What?”

Stiles ignores your wide eyes, smirking, and continues playing with your hair, “Altair and Vega. That’s a good one.” In the blanket of darkness and under the strain of yearning, his voice sounds soft and crackly, like one of those singers in the black and white movies, the ones that dance with the microphone. “Starts with a gorgeous, sexy, incredibly charitable goddess falling for a lowly mortal,” his grin is sly as he hikes your thigh over his, squeezing just under your ass, “a lot like us.”

“Boo. Awful.” You pull a face as he drops a flurry of kisses over your cheeks, nose, chin—your laughing mouth, “Disgusting. I’m disgusted.” 

His fingers dip into the waistband of your leggings, tauntingly close to just where you want him, “You don’t feel disgusted.”

Now, that won’t do. You’re just getting started. You trap his hand with your thighs and tap your finger against the slope of his upturned nose, “Finish the story.” 

Stiles whines a little and then sighs, returning the palm of his hand to the little dip above your hip. “Her dad is disgusted that she wants to bring a loser human home, so he turns them into stars on opposite sides of the galaxy.”

Frowning, you squint at the collection of stars he’d pointed to. They don’t look so far apart on his bedroom ceiling. “That’s…depressing.”

“It’s not over yet,” Stiles pulls on your hair and does his best to look annoyed, but the nip to your bottom lip feels far more like a reward than a punishment, “hush.” He waits a minute for you to comply—or, more likely, not comply—and you settle back on his chest and arch your brow, waiting. He arches his brow right back and then keeps going, “One day a year, on the seventh day of the seventh month, Altair fills the galaxy with his tears, and every bird in the sky makes a bridge with their wings so that they can spend one more night together.”

The corner of your mouth tugs into a little grin, “That is a good one.” You trace little patterns on his bicep, little swirls and stars, and rest your chin on his shoulder so that you can see his pretty face, “But just for the story. Only one night a year would kill me.”

“Baby,” Stiles clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth and shakes his head like he's disappointed, bottom lip jutting out slightly from under his top, “it'd take a helluva lot more than a couple light-years and an immortal father-in-law to keep me from getting to you.” 

It’s such a line, but the dopey grin he gives you while he says it somehow makes it charming. Maybe you’re just a little bit lovesick. Okay, maybe a lot. “You can kiss me n—”

He’s on you before you can finish, but you don’t mind being interrupted when he's slanting his mouth against yours just right and groaning into your sighs with a gravelly pitch that makes your toes curl. “Fuck me,” Stiles sighs. He dips back in before you can quip something bratty, something that would definitely earn you another yank on your hair—later perhaps. 

You straddle his waist, sit back in the cradle of his pelvis, and lace your fingers together on the mattress against the sides of his head. He whimpers. You curse. “Off,” you mutter against his mouth, tugging petulantly on the hem of his t-shirt. Stiles is quick to comply, like always, but the fabric gets stuck around his shoulders. You let him struggle for a minute, just long enough to hear more of those petulant little whines. When you finally help him wrangle his shirt over his head, you’re up close and personal with his mouth. His lips are pretty—swollen, pink, and shiny with salvia and your lip balm—and you’re filled with the overwhelming urge to bite. You toss his shirt somewhere on the floor behind you and lean down, your chest pressed against his. You can feel his heartbeat stutter, like a rabbit in a trap, when you stroke your thumb over his bottom lip. It’s soft and wet against your finger, and you sigh high in your throat, “Pretty.”

His chest warms, and you wish you had more light to admire the flush spreading from his neck to his cheeks. You know it’s pink and pretty too, but you’d enjoy seeing the proof. “Pretty?” Stiles echoes, cocking his head slightly, and slides his hands from your ass to your hips. He continues his path along the sides of your ribcage with the bottom of your sweatshirt bunched between his fingers.

“Pretty,” you nod, sharp and definitive. You sit up a little so that Stiles can pull your hoodie off, and then it’s lost to the dark abyss. Frankly, you aren’t that worried about if you ever see it again. You can always steal another one after you’re done. 

He shakes his head and runs his hands over your torso, your collarbones, your stomach, just under your tits—he can’t see that well in the dim light, so he’s damn well going to see you the only way he can. “Pretty,” Stiles groans, cupping your tits and gently thumbing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your cotton bra. It’s simple, white, unadorned by lace or a pattern—and it’s sexier than it has any right to be, he thinks. He’s eager to rip it off.

You shudder through the entire length of your spinal column, through all the nerves attached, and arch into his touch, “Yeah?” 

He coos, and your nipples pebble in response. It’s embarrassing but soon forgotten when Stiles cups your face, big hands encompassing almost the entire length of your jaw, and whispers, “Pretty girl. My pretty baby.” 

It’s even more embarrassing how quickly you feel your underwear dampen under the scrutiny of some simple praise. Now, you’re whining, and he’s letting out a string of guttural, “Fuck,”s as you grind down against the increasingly painful bulge in his jeans. Your nails leave little pink lines along the sculpted v of his pelvis, just deep enough to sting a bit—enough to send his head back towards his shoulders. He sits up a little more so that he can grip your hips, holding them still as he catches his breath, and you’re only a little ashamed of the way you mewl his name in protest. Stiles shuts you up with a kiss and shakes his head, “Can’t come in my pants like I’m 17 again. That’s the worst possible ending to our constellation. Like a 1/10, definitely certified rotten.”

You grin against his throat, and he swallows at the sharp press of your teeth. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the worst ending. Wouldn’t the worst be the one where you don’t come at all?” 

Stiles’s fingers dig into your hips and he pulls you down firmly against his lap, like he’s scared you’ll get up and leave him with a weeping cock and teary eyes. “Baby, don’t even joke about that. That’s a billion times worse than letting a sea monster rip me in half.”

“Guess you can split me in half then,” you shrug a little, and Stiles goes taut under you, fingertips flexing into the small of your back, “unless you want me to tie you to a rock. I’d be into that.”

He growls in your ear, nipping at your jaw and flipping you onto your back. You laugh, a little breathless, as you bounce back on the mattress from the force of it. “Definitely wanna split you in half,” Stiles mutters as he shucks off his pants and kneels at the edge of his bed. He starts peeling back your leggings, taking his time to kiss each sliver of skin revealed to him despite the urgency in his eyes, despite the ache in his white-knuckled grip on the buttery martial of your bottoms. “Gonna wreck you,” Stiles promises as he brushes his lips over your ankle a few times. His words are filthy, but his eyes are honey-sweet and lit with nothing but complete and utter devotion—like you really are a goddess in the sky. You’re already wrecked, probably have been since he kissed you for the first time, entirely ruined for anyone else.

“Did’ya know that Vega is brighter than Altair,” he says, quiet and reverent as he drops your leggings. You blink at him, a bit dumbly, but it’s his own fault for trying to have a conversation while he’s sliding your legs over his shoulders and fiddling with the hem of your underwear. “By, like, 5 places? I think? That’s us too—can’t even look at you sometimes,” he hums, warm against your wet cunt, and hooks his thumbs around your panties. You shudder, and he smiles. You aren’t quite sure if he’s talking to you or to the glistening flesh he reveals when he yanks the baby pink cotton to the side. Either way, you understand his dilemma. It’s torture to watch him sometimes. You have to close your eyes when the pink tip of his tongue darts out, wetting his lip, tasting the air. 

There’s a sigh. So soft. Really more of an exhale, and you aren’t sure where it came from. It could’ve been you, or him, or the stars. “You talk a lot,” this time you know the sigh is coming from you. 

Stiles smirks a little and slips his thumb inside your panties, swiping through your slick folds like he’s fingerpainting, “Is that a complaint?”

Your hips stutter, and his other hand is quick to clamp down on your skin, stopping any attempts to skitter away from his light touch. “I love it when you talk,” you hum, leaning up onto your elbows so that you can watch him work. He grins up at you, almost shy, and presses down against your clit. A wet gasp bursts through swollen lips as your back arches, and Stiles isn’t so shy when he bends down to drop a gentle kiss over his thumb. “But I, uh,” you brush your fingers through the dark hair flopping over his forehead and squeeze your eyes shut when his kisses become kitten licks, “I also love it when you use your mo—” His finger (his long, gifted finger) slides into your cunt with an embarrassing squelch, and his lips wrap around your clit as he sucks. “That,” you whine, back arching a little until Stiles spreads his fingers over your stomach and presses down, “I also love it when you do that.” 

His laugh vibrates deliciously against all the places he’s trying to devour, and you think it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go—being eaten alive by your gorgeous boyfriend. He pulls back to slip another finger in your pussy, spreading them just enough to burn in the best way, and then he’s prodding at the spot inside you that sends a jolt up your spine—makes your fingers wind in the bedspread, pull on his hair, fly to your mouth when you start to cry a little. It didn’t used to be like this. Sex. Getting fingered, fucked, even eaten out—it never felt like this before him. It’s…overwhelming, sometimes. Most of the time, actually. You keep waiting to get used to it, for the newness, the discovery of it all, to wear off. Hasn’t happened yet. You don’t think it ever will. Certainly not tonight. 

“Good?” Stiles licks his lips, at the glistening corners of his mouth, and you toss your head back—overwhelmed. “Good,” he concludes, and he’s not even smug about it. More like he’s making a note in one of his case files, something to look back on later when he needs it. He’s quick about getting what little remains of your clothes off, and when he crawls on top of you, you’re immensely grateful for it. Skin on skin, nothing quite like it. Quick romps in the jeep, up against alley walls, the sink of the occasional bar bathroom—all fun, but not nearly as satisfying as being completely pressed against his naked body, completely caged in by his large frame. Sappy, maybe, but it feels dirty when he drags the tip of his cock through your folds. When he bumps against your clit, you mewl and dig your nails into his back. He sucks in sharply and buries his face in the crook of your neck, “There’s a condom in th—”

“Forget it,” you whimper, carding your fingers through his hair. It’s a little sweaty where it meets his neck, and it’s so soft, and thick, and perfect, and—he’s stopped breathing against your neck. 

He groans from a place deep in his gut, deeper actually, and his arms shake, “Are you su—”

“Yes,” you nod rapidly and wrap your legs around him, arms too, and your fingers join in on the clinging when they twist in his hair. “Absolutely. 1000%. Please don’t make me say please.”

He lets out a little laugh that stirs the hair framing your face, and he traces your cheekbone, barely touching your skin. Your head swims with the look in his eyes: amber, warmth, and worship, “But you’re just so pretty when you beg.” Not that you’ve ever had to for long. Stiles gives you anything you want if you ask him the right way. If you look at him with big, wet eyes, if you jut out your lower lip just so—wet as well, the little lick of your tongue is part of it; that took him months to figure out—he crumbles. He’s said many times that better men than he have fallen victim to far less beautiful schemes. 

Stiles kisses the pout off your lips and nudges the tip of his nose over yours, grinning like a drunken idiot, “Told’ya, baby. Not a light-year, definitely not a little latex.” His grin slides into a little ‘o’ when you slither your hand between your bodies and grip his cock, sliding the first inch into your cunt, impatient. “F-fuck—fuck-ing hell,” he grunts and takes over for you, squeezing your hip until it starts to hurt a little. You’d say something, but then he’d stop—and you like the way it aches. You like knowing there will be a bruise. He’ll fret over it later, kiss each mottled spot better a million times, and you like that too. You like being taken care of, almost as much as he likes taking care of you. 

When he bottoms out, when his pelvic bone ruts up against you, a long, drawn out whimper spills through your pout. “Yeah? Feels good, baby?” Stiles watches your face closely, brushes away the hair sticking to your forehead, and drops a few kisses on your shut eyelids. You nod, and nod, and nod, until he stops you with another kiss to your lips. He kisses you slowly, presses his tongue against the seam of your lips, and you sigh. The kiss quickly becomes wet and filthy, and you’d be embarrassed by the sound of your tongues sliding together if you could actually hear it. At the moment, all you can hear is his cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy—and that’s definitely sending a dizzying heat up your neck. You don’t worry about it for long when his hips shift and he starts hitting that spot inside you again. After that, neither of you can hear anything over your squealing. Stiles kisses away the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes and licks his lips, chasing the taste. “Right there, huh?” You babble an incoherent answer, and he strokes your hair and noses at your cheek, “Yeah, right there. I know. It’s okay.” 

Stiles slides his hands under your back and sits up, taking you with him. The new angle is impossibly deep, and you bite down on his shoulder and wind your arms around his neck to keep yourself there. With him. In the moment. “It’s okay, baby. I got you, promise,” he squeezes your hips, and despite his reassurances and the strength of his grip, you know he’s falling apart too. He’s close. You can feel it. His hips stutter a little, change direction, lose their dedicated pace—and it’s perfect because you’re right there with him. It’s been building for a while, probably since he led you by hand to his room, maybe even before that when he smirked at you behind his cup of tequila and (mostly) pineapple juice. 

You cry a little and bite down on your bottom lip, hard. Stiles kisses the sting away, and your eyes screw shut as you start babbling again, “I’m—”

He kisses you again and lifts his hands from your hips to cup your face, thumbing along your bottom lip when he pulls back—not far, just enough to look at your face, shiny with sweat and tears. “I know,” he stills for a moment, pausing the movement of his hips so that he can just feel you pulsing around him for a moment, “me too.” You aren’t sure if you want to hit him or kiss him for stopping, but you don’t have the strength to do either when he starts what must be his final round of thrusts. It has to be—you’re a few seconds away from collapsing or coming, whichever comes first. When Stiles moans your name in your ear, soft and high like he does when he’s right there, and he slides his hand down your stomach to rub firm circles on your clit, you’re happy it’s your orgasm that happens first. Your abs convulse a little as you twitch around him, and you curl in on yourself as much as you can with Stiles in the way. He’s not in the way for long. Growling, he shoves you back against the bed and mumbles, “Where?” after a few sloppy thrusts. 

You mewl as he keeps the pressure on your clit, reach for his wrist and try to pull his hand away, but he’s determined and you’re tired. You twitch and throw your head back, whimpering, “Inside,” before you can think better of it. It’s his fault, you’ll decide later, for prolonging your high with his mean, unforgiving, wonderful thumb. 

He’ll blame you, for feeling so perfect around him—for fluttering, and leaking, and trembling better than…anything he’s ever seen in porn, and he’s watched...a lot of it, so he’s a bit of an expert on the cinematic orgasm. “You’re so fuckin—you,” he shakes his head against your heaving chest and groans, “you’re everything.” And when he finally comes in you, you’re okay with taking the blame for something that feels so good. He manages a few more thrusts, and then he finally lets you pull his hand away from your cunt when he collapses onto his forearms, barely holding himself up from crushing you with his full weight. You’d tell him to roll over, but then he’d be over there and not in you, so you put up with the sweat and heaviness while your head spins. 

“Baby?” Stiles hums noncommittally in response to your soft prodding, and you smirk against the top of his head. All the smugness leaves you when you finally feel the foreign sensation of his cum leaking out of you. Shuddering, you kiss his hair a few times and scratch up and down his back lightly until he’s able to breathe normally. He pushes himself up onto his arms and glances down when he pulls out, staring for a moment at the way your pussy gapes a bit, watching the trickle of cum drip down your folds and onto the bed. He rubs his hand over his jaw and licks his lips, shaking his head—at a loss for words for the first time in his life. Your tongue is a little thick when you fill the void for him, “Next time, towel first.”

He finds it within himself to tear his eyes away from your cunt and gives you a crooked little grin, “Next time?”

You roll your eyes, but your grin is stupid with affection, “Sure, next time. Maybe. If you’re good.” 

It’s a little disgusting, the way he just rolls over and pulls you on top of him with absolutely no regard for the various bodily fluids sticking to your skin, but you forget about the unpleasantness of drying cum and cooling sweat when he kisses you. “I’m always good,” he huffs against your cheek. You shoot him a look, brows arched and eyes narrowed, and he smirks, “Okay, maybe not, but I’m always good for you.”

You nuzzle in a little closer and scoff, but it’s true. Stiles is so good, always—especially for you. “I guess you did manage to woo me. You’re very sexy when you’re talkin’ astrology, you know that?” 

He smiles, wide and happy, and wiggles his brows, “An absolute banger of an ending, right? I don’t think they could chart it in the stars without ruining your pretty face, but that’s probably for the best.” Stiles brushes his fingers over your lips when you let out a little questioning hum and takes your hand, growling playfully as he nibbles at your fingertips, “You’re mine. Nobody’s allowed to see you like this but me—definitely not horny little nerds with their telescopes.” 

You grin and bump your nose against his, “You’re a horny little nerd with a telescope.”

Stiles tips his head with a sly grin, and you already know what he’s going to say—it’s still devastatingly adorable when he whispers, “No, I’m your horny little nerd with a telescope.” 

Adorable enough to make you consider pulling him into the shower with you, and if the heavy-lidded look he’s giving you is anything to go by, you’d say he agrees.

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: A herb which gives you greater awareness of your animal forms leads to a memorable night with Halsin. [Fem Reader x Halsin Silverbough]

Contents: Romance, pre-relationship, explicit sexual content, consensual substance use, shape shifting, vaginal sex, unprotected sex.

WC: 7220

Written as a gift fic for the lovely @tsukimefuku for her birthday. Here's a little something from me!

Dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

"I crave you mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me,

all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the colour of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond."

~ Love Sonnet XI (Pablo Neruda)

In Faerûn, the winds are changeable. The shift of seasons is as delicate as the colour spreading from the bruised flesh of a summer fruit, marring beneath scrutiny that delves too deep, beneath fingers that probe too hard.

You had always been one who preferred to let nature bloom along its natural course. 

You'll always have one hand on the wheel of your destiny, but you'll also let the land take you where it needs you most.

You supposed that this was what drew you to him in the first place.

He was the first of your companions who didn't look directly at you to set the path, to plot the lines that would lead to the emancipation of the vale that had fallen beneath Ketheric's shadow.

In the denouement, he'd leaned on you in the way only he could, leaving you with the task of watching his broad back fade into a realm where you could not follow. He had gone to fetch Thaniel, and you had believed faithfully in his return, holding off your enemies until the dawn.

Afterwards, there had been signs.

Like the faint embroidery of green in winter-brown branches, he'd looked to you with greater frequency, and certainty. You no longer felt that your paths had merely coincided, more as if there was a great guardian that stalked the woods and hedges beside you, partaking of your kill.

Silverbough was his name, and you grew to fancy that his tongue was molded from a similar vein, because you could listen to him speak endlessly.

On days when journeying consumed the largest part of your time, he would stride along at your side, or just slightly ahead, nose raised to the wind. You'd find yourself watching the way the soft, brown braids would stir in the breeze, the way the faint crows' feet at the corners of his eyes would deepen in direct sunlight, the way shadow played across the bulge and dip of his bicep when he raised an arm to shield you from the worst of the midday heat.

You could brush off Shadowheart's knowing smile, or the way Gale's eyes seemed to follow you with greater intensity, even Astarion's snide quips about 'receiving the many gifts of nature.'

That was not your way, and, you were coming to learn, it was not Halsin's way either.

He was attractive as all Hells, that was for certain, but there was a different kind of dance that played out between you two that went beyond the call of man to woman, and vice versa.

He was a zephyr who led you gaily from one reckless spar on a cliff edge to another. He was a stone sentinel that stood bare-faced to each scoring wind of challenge. He was tooth and claw and sinew, encased in the rare flesh of the changeling. You could follow, and you could also lead, and the destination was never marked down on any map known to you or him.

To know Halsin was to let go of yourself, as you came to learn, soon enough.

"What are you looking for?"

Your curiosity leads you to the banks of the river you have camped beside, one summer evening.

Halsin is standing before you, feet braced on the riverbed, the water lapping midway up his thighs. He must have been submerged a short while before, and you pause to take in the sight of water dripping from the ends of his braids, across the scarred flesh of his brow, darkening the coarse hair that fans across his chest. Your hand comes up to your throat and you lower it again, hastily.

He regards you over his shoulder, eyes lambent in the dark, and you watch the slow curve of his mouth.

"These. Have you seen them before?"

He holds out one hand. Within the large cupping surface of his palm, you make out what seems to be an aquatic plant, the roots still clumped together with dark alluviual mud.

Hands braced on knees, you shake your head.

"Some kind of healing herb?"

"Something like that."

You catch his eye and cannot help the small twitch of your lips.

"Should I be concerned?"

"Don't you trust me?"

"Humour me. What does it do?"

He clambers up the bank with that easy, powerful stride, shaking off his body as he approaches you. Small flecks of damp speckle your jerkin and you straighten as he places the herbs carefully on a rack that he'd set up nearby.

"These will dry in the sun, but they need to be harvested at low light. The compounds within them are quite volatile."

"So once they're dry, I can put them in a pipe and smoke them?"

He pauses, shoulders shaking silently, before turning to you.

"A pipe isn't required, but that's the idea, yes. This is Fidoram, a herb we druids are fond of using when we want to ... gain greater affinity with our wild shapes."

Halsin picks up a pouch from beside the drying rack containing what you presume to be the same herb which he'd harvested and dried earlier. He crushes the roots slightly between his fingers, holding them out for you to sniff. Leaning forward, you close your eyes, inhaling deeply.

Some barrier has broken down, between his skin and the torn flesh of the root. What was herbal before now seems muddied in essence, a warm animal musk, the sweetness of new sweat on skin, the mingling of smoke and breath from between parted lips on an evening beneath the trees.

Your eyes slide open and he is watching you, a gleam of clouded grey beneath lowered lids.

Halsin's gaze is always a contradiction to you; on the one hand, clear and piercing, parting the veil between worlds, and on the other, misted over at times with a strange quality, as if human nature were optional, a skin he wore to pass time amongst beings such as yourself.

It intrigued you to no end. It made you wish to part that curtain with tentative fingers, to drink from that forbidden lake yourself.

"It smells ... "

"Intense?"

You nod, throat suddenly feeling a trifle tight, saliva thicker as you swallow. Halsin places the herb carefully back in the bag, and you feel his attention wander over you, from your bare feet on the grass, to your slightly bruised knees from the scuffle you'd had with bandits a few days prior, to the front of your jerkin, slightly unlaced.

He breathes out heavily and the air suddenly feels warmer, as if he's savouring your unique scent, the feather-light fingers of restraint dancing over his large form.

"Would you like to join me?"

You tilt your head, questioning.

"Join you?"

"I'm partaking of this joining ceremony. These Fidoram herbs are to replace the dried ones I'll be using presently. Would you like to be part of it?"

Your eager nodding causes him some evident amusement before you hesitate.

"You called it a joining ceremony?"

"When we druids transform our bodies, a deeper connection with the wild shape ensures a smoother transition."

"So you ... join your conscience with that of the beast?"

He stirs and straightens, holding out his hand.

"Here."

You place your hand within his, trying not to dwell too much on how the size of his palm dwarfs your own. His grasp is warm, roughened across the knuckles and the pads just below the fingers.

"Close your eyes again," he commands gently, and you comply, shifting a little closer to get comfortable.

"Now, follow the sensations on your arm."

Keeping your arm outstretched, he begins a slow exploration, digits tracing over skin. It begins with the feel of his touch radiating up, from the center of your palm to the soft area at the inside of your wrist. Halsin's voice rolls across your senses like muted thunder, close, humid, heated.

"You can feel me here. Now, you sense man, and now... "

Something shifts, and there is a charge in the air that causes the hair on your arms to stand upright. Halsin's tracing now feels ... different. There is a heaviness there that wasn't present before, coarse hair brushing over the inside of your arm, large, cushioned pads passing over you ... as if he'd switched to his bear form, which you'd witnessed many times before.

And then, another change, the heaviness giving way to something sharper; a living dagger being drawn down the centre of your arm ... not one, but two, three, four. The claws of a larger beast.

Hot breath blasts across your face, that scent of wet pelt in the rain stronger than ever. You keep your eyes firmly shut.

And as the raking reaches your wrist once more, there is another shift, much lighter, no less bestial. The swift shake and fluff of feathers, the click of a beak, sharp and staccato in the growing darkness.

A series of sharp prods, never breaking the skin, and suddenly Halsin's fingers are back, stroking to firm completion the motion he had started.

You still kept your eyes closed tight, a sharp exhale escaping you as you felt him raise your hand and place his lips against the juncture of thumb and finger. His mouth was hot, wide, lips slightly chapped and softer beneath in a way that defied all the sensations he'd just given you.

"Look at me."

It is no longer a command, yet you still obey. Maybe it was that you trusted him so completely, that you allowed him these ventures where no other had dared before.

He is smiling at you, soft and knowing, and the angle of the light through the trees plants a verdancy in that penetrating gaze that some part of your mind recognizes as both familiar and not.

His mouth doesn't leave your palm, and now he speaks against it.

"I've never changed my form, in all the time we were sitting here."

"But - "

You take the initiative, leaning forward and crawling toward him, inching by on your knees. He watches as the laces on your front fall further open, as you keep your eyes on him in a way that exposes your throat a little more, hair coming loose across your forehead.

" ... but, I felt it. I felt ... the bear, and the displacer beast, and a crow, and - "

"And I've never changed my form. You felt ... what I wanted you to feel. A great portion of our transformations are sensory, and the rest rely on our own awareness of our bodies. I can become a bear more easily because I spent the most time in that form. My body remembers it."

You're seated much closer to him now, where he seems to want you. Some physical boundary has been crossed, your space overlapping easily with his.

"So what would I experience in all this? Would I also contact some inner beast?"

He leans back on his palms, body stretching out to its full length, almost an invitation. Chin tilting, his glance passes from you to the stars that are now revealing themselves from behind pastel-painted clouds, dimming to the greater darkness of nightfall.

"Perhaps. Or possibly ... you'll just become better acquainted with mine."

Your laughter echoes between the trees, and somehow, this reminds you of the distance between your current position and the main camp. Beyond here, your companions may be milling around the fire, helping themselves to the pot roast Gale had prepared for supper.

It was your arrow that had stilled that boar's heart.

Emboldened, you nod, sitting upright.

"Is there anything you'd like me to do to prepare?"

Halsin is silent, and for a moment, you think he might deny you, that he might ask you in that warm, firm manner of his not to join him after all.

He doesn't do anything of the kind. It seems that he is aware of some willingness on your part, some desire to tear down the shifting, rustling wall between you two even further.

When he speaks, his voice is lower, but no less clear, the last thread of restraint stretching against the swell of long-present desire.

"Take off your clothes."

"And?"

"Allow me to perform a small cleansing ceremony. In the river."

"All right."

It isn't that you're more compliant. You're testing the limits of his control, in the way you feel you must.

Standing, you catch his gaze and hold it as you finally and fully unfasten the laces that are, at present, barely holding the leather garment together over your shirt. You peel it away from your body, arms stretching outward, a shadow like the wings of a larger bird spreading over his reclining form for a moment.

You take one step back, then another.

The hem of your shirt is lifted slightly, a teasing glimpse of the skin of your stomach visible. You turn away, keeping your profile facing over one shoulder, and lift the garment fully, chest and shoulders exposed to the mellow chill of the evening air.

You hands drop to your belt and you unfasten the buckle with a quick motion, tossing it aside. You're not quite bothered about finding it later.

Still facing away from him, your fingers hook into the top of your trousers, sliding them down to your ankles. You lift one leg, the sleek material still entangled and pull it free of your foot.

Underwear follows next, removed and discarded with swift movements.

Halsin has been watching patiently from somewhere behind you. You're fully aware that nakedness means little to him, that he is as comfortable in his own skin as he is with witnessing the reveal of yours.

Something about the act of standing nude before him now feels ... different, though. As if you've shed one skin for another, as if you're taking one step further into a closeness that breathes an stealthy, sensual vitality into your form.

When he stands and joins you, and you realise that he has also shed all of his clothes, it becomes even more evident.

Every hair on your body seems attuned to his, lifting, sensing, prickling with intent. A beast moves in the shadows of faint outer consciousness, one in the shadows you have yet to breach.

Halsin is looking at you as if you are a distant light on the water, focused, intent, the gleam of his eyes parting the gloom. He takes your hand, touch light and steady, and leads you to the river bank.

The temperature of the water is a slight shock at first. You didn't expect it to be quite so cold, but your body grows accustomed within minutes. Gooseflesh spreads from your extremities, across your upper chest, but you refrain from shivering outright.

Halsin wades into a position opposite you, before reaching down with cupped hands to collect water within. He steps forward and a light cascade runs down one shoulder, then the other. He takes his time, placing two fingers under your chin and tilting your head back.

River water dampens your hair, running in rivulets down your back and neck, tracing soft, cool lines down your breasts, the curve of your ribcage and down, down, to the slight dip above your buttocks.

"Prepare yourself."

You nod, the slick gravel beneath and between your toes digging into your flesh.

Halsin places a finger on your brow, tracing lightly down over the bridge of your nose, and suddenly the world shifts around you.

Inhaling sharply, you grasp his wrist.

"Easy. Easy. It's a sense enhancement. It will help you perceive ... everything a little better."

That was something of an understatement, perhaps because, unlike him, this was the first time you'd experienced such a phenomenon. It took a few minutes before you processed everything in a meaningful fashion again, his grip steady and warm at your waist, supporting you.

You realised now why he'd taken you into the water.

The cool pressure of the river against your thighs, the dampness on your skin, all grounded you, held your consciousness prisoner by a shifting tether. It was almost overwhelming, and then it wasn't.

Now, the world flitted against your senses in the way he'd intended, each sensation vibrant, fleeting, processed by the heightened awareness of your mind before another took its place.

There was a tug on your hand as Halsin indicated the grassy bank ahead. Nodding slowly, gearing your body for movement, you accompanied him as he led you back to the sheltered space between the trees.

He had you sit on a rolled out hide, covering you with a cloth that felt shockingly warm against your skin. You shivered as he dried the water off your arms, then your shoulders and back. He draped the rest of the fabric over your legs and squatted, opening up his pack.

"You don't have to take this journey with me, you know. I can always help you back to camp."

His voice is as gentle as the rustle of the leaves overhead. You shake your head and smile as your hair seems to sway around your ears with a similar sound, restless, tired of playing a soft cradle.

You want more.

Jerking your chin at the small brazier he'd produced from within the pack, you sniff and drop the blanket slightly. It pools around your shoulders, settling softly under your breasts.

Somehow, in Halsin's presence, nothing about the human form seemed shameful, or required concealment.

"Is that what you'll use to burn it?"

"Not directly on the flames, no."

Another small earthenware pot, blackened and singed, is pulled from the depths of the pack and Halsin is now packing the dried herb tightly within, until all the space within the vessel seems occupied.

"This is reinforced clay. Whatever's in here will heat up very slowly. That's what we're after."

He builds a small blaze, placing the brazier over and on top of that, the pot carefully balanced over a few well-placed river stones. He'd evidently had long practice with this.

You bring your knees down, sitting cross-legged. Before long, pale tendrils of smoke begin to emerge from the clay vessel, threading through the evening air. Halsin makes no move to direct the fumes, simply keeping his warm, watchful gaze fixed on you.

Tilting your head back, you inhale deeply. The scent is heady, fragrant, tinged with a low-lying heaviness that steals gradually across the back of the tongue.

Pleasant.

The world shifts around you again, but this time, your awareness holds firm. Something stirs within you, deep and primal, powerful. You can scent it on the wind, and now you can even discern Halsin's soft exhalation from across the small blaze.

Unconsciously, your breathing syncs with his. A tingling warmth spreads through your limbs, the kind that signals the start of a fever. You straighten, alert, eyelids fluttering open.

Halsin seems to have been waiting for this.

He stands, and you inhale softly as you take him in, the coil and release of muscle under tawny skin, the stretch and lift of old scars, the dark hair that spreads across his chest, tapers, then spreads again to form a dense thatch over the apex of his thighs.

He lets you look, arms spreading out slightly as he rolls one shoulder, then the other.

The air around him changes, as it does when he transforms. The transition is one you have seen many times now, so it comes as no surprise when you're confronted with the hulking form of the bear, towering over you, the flickering of the small fire still in between.

You rise slowly, the blanket falling away, and pace in a slow circle until you come to his side. Even on all fours, he is substantial, shoulder almost reaching yours.

His fur is thick, slightly coarse and you're suddenly struck with a desire to take handfuls of it, carding it in between your fingers. His flank is hot, pressed against your bare stomach, and he feels indescribably powerful, vital, present in a manner that you'd never quite understood the weight of before.

This is the bear, and this is Halsin.

Before you can think it over further, he turns, body lowering slightly and with a sharp gasp, you're being gently maneuvered onto his back.

You let out an incredulous laugh, echoed by a soft snort from his muzzle as it passes, breath hot and wet against your calf. The prickle of his fur sets off a dangerous dance of pain and pleasure along your sensitized breasts, your stomach and inner thighs.

And here you are, beneath the stars, your breath now steaming out of your lungs into the summer night, the shift of ancient strength beneath your body.

Halsin carries you through the woods on a throne of bone, flesh and fur, heading deeper into the embrace of the trees.

Above your head, the night fires wheel and the silent swooping shadow of an owl passes, cutting through the night sky with a deeper darkness. Something inside you purrs in answer, preens at the thought of seeing all.

Nothing escapes you, not even the flick of a here's ears as it traces your passage with wide, cold eyes.

Halsin takes you through the fruit trees, and you arch your back, ready to drink the sweet riot of their nectar, the rot of their fallen flesh trampled further into the soil as you pass. You can reach up and pluck them, rubies that echo with distant heat, and bite hard as their juice runs down your chin.

You feast, naked, on a bear's back, half queen, half animal.

When he reaches the larger clearing, the standing stones forming a ring in the grass-covered dip in the land, you slide from his back, wiping off your lips.

You have realized that the enchantment and, perhaps, some effect of the herb has made your vision in the dark clearer, less muddied around the edges. Shadows don't blend into each other as they do, a hard, jewel-like quality to stone, soil and the earth beneath, transposed over the softness of the living.

Turning in a slow circle, arms outstretched, you spin in exultation. The bear follows you, bellowing softly as his large head presses against your hip; an invitation.

Indeed, you feel like joining Halsin in a different form, as carefree as if you were on stage at the theater, discarding one costume for another.

Some part of your spine stretches, then contracts violently, your face elongating. Your shoulder blades are suddenly pressing outwards, against the skin of your back, two bulges writhing beneath the surface before breaking free in long, spear-tipped appendages. Your drop to all fours, the pain keen and exquisite, nails drawing scores across the ground, body wracked with the convulsions of sudden, shocking change, until ...

Sleek and black, your fur gleams in the darkness. Halsin is still beside you, and you see yourself, reflected in the large, placid eyes, amusement stealing into their depths.

Displacer beast it is then. Who knew that this would be your natural inclination?

The dark tendrils that sprout from your shoulders join your elongated tail in a soft, experimental movement, tracing along the bear's back, shifting between his legs, along his snout. You span the shape of him, as he snorts and nudges you.

You think you have some level of command of the whip-like extremities, and you test it now, tickling across his ribs and binding his jaws together playfully.

He gives a loud, indignant cough, twisting to free himself. You slap him across the backside with your tail and leap out of the reach of his paw, claws out, skittering across the ground.

Let it never be said that dignity had a part to play in this shift.

The bear's eyes narrow. He sways lightly from side to side, as if to deceive your eye as to which direction he'll approach from next. Your tail flicks in anticipation.

Halsin feints left and comes in from the right, aiming to push you over. Your innate ability comes to the fore, almost by instinct. Dodging away from him, you leave afterimages on the air, blue-black and humming with faint energy, taunting.

He lunges for you, head-on, and he's too slow and ... ah!

Mid-stride, his form changes to match your own, brown streaking away to sleek darkness. His momentum carries him forward, bounding off the pillar of stone that partially conceals your form, and he lands heavily on top of you, dragging you snarling into the dirt.

So he plays dirty, too.

The twin tendrils that snake from his shoulders twine with your own, tugging you closer. You squirm in his grasp, using your smaller size to slip beneath his body and tip him over. He lands on his back, tail lashing through the air to wrap around your hind leg, but now that you've had a taste of change, it coils around empty air, because you are -

A raven, darting and fleet of wing, claws curving to talons, fur extending to feathers, nose hardening to a snapping beak. Flesh warps in on itself, defying space, and your form shrinks rapidly as you streak between the trees.

Halsin is an old hand at this though, and he is always close behind. His transition between forms is far more seamless than yours, giving him more time to catch up.

Greater wings sweep close to yours, encroaching, feet tucked up close to his body to give him more speed.

You weave between tree trunks, branches and out of the occasional path of another nocturnal creature, leaves whipping past you with stinging exhilaration.

Where every shift for you is pure instinct, Halsin's grace is unmatched, each movement measured, powerful, weighted with intention. He knows each of his forms as well as he seems to know yours.

But you're not out of tricks yet.

In a final burst of speed, you break through the trees, each flap of your wings taking you further. You're about to turn sharply in mid-air, to dive for the low lying brush, when his talons slot between yours and you find yourself drawn into a dizzying spiral.

You change direction, pull at his grip, but you realise that you'd only destabilize the formation he has wrapped you in.

Giving in to his relentless, teasing pull, you allow yourself to be dragged down, down, as if a whirlpool of air is forcing you down its centre.

In this moment, you are weightless, free, abandonment of your human sensibilities dangerously close. You know only the stars that form streaks across the night sky, the warmth of Halsin's feathers, the slow blink of your inky eyes as you prepare for another shift.

Infiltrating all of these sensations is the overwhelming feeling of trust, that you can place yourself so easily in his hands (paws, talons, the minutiae don't really matter) and he'll always land, feet to the ground, bearing you with him.

And indeed, he does.

Right before the grass of the clearing comes rushing up to meet your falling forms, his wings expand to many times their regular size, dwarfing your body. The sudden air resistance gusts upward, catching in the feathers, and as he slows your landing, you realise that your temporary flight through the forest had not taken you as far as you'd thought.

You are back to being ... yourself, you suppose,  although that was now a transient term. Arms wrapping tight around Halsin, you feel when he returns to himself as well.

His torso elongates within your grasp, the coarse brush of hair against your chest, the bunch and slide of hard muscle pressing into your back as he holds you against him.

You both land in the grass with a heavy thump, Halsin cushioning your fall, and something inside you is not quite ready to relinquish victory rights for this unofficial battle. You roll, end over end, warm body over his, a breathless, endless laugh rising in your throat as Halsin seems equally determined to win.

You come to a stop, him on top of you, skin covered in grass and earth, lips still stained with overripe fruit and dark feathers tangled in your hair. He is looking at you as if the Oak Father himself had just spawned you from the wild, lightning-hewn trunk of an ancient tree, reverence, desire, an all-encompassing tenderness that seems to pervade all of his interactions with you.

When his lips come down on yours, it is as natural as leaves falling to earth, the weight of his body on yours as welcome as soft summer rain. His arms hold him slightly aloft, caging you in as his head angles first this way, then that, each wet press and slide of his mouth more hungry than the last.

You body comes apart for him, arms rising past his into the grass above your head, back curving, the angle between your legs widening as he dips down, the entirety of his skin on yours almost too much to bear in your current sensitized state.

You are aware of your hair sliding through the grass with every movement of your head, of scrape of short, coarse hair across your nipples, the shift of his tightening abdominal muscles against your stomach, the way those muscular thighs stretch your legs further apart. He is already at half mast, the tip of him stroking a slow, wet trail of fire upwards, along your inner thigh.

You gasp, arching a little further off the ground, evening dew moistening the skin of your buttocks as you raise your leg slightly, stroking against him. All this time, you've witnessed him in the nude and it was not until now that the urgency of your want became vital, a lust-filled haze that only grew as you took in the size and weight of him against you.

Halsin seems to have decided that he is not simply satisfied with winning the tussle of changing forms.

He pauses above you, eyes drinking in your damp, parted lips before he descends again, lower, lower, and lower still. Hot breath eases over your extended throat, followed by tongue, the heated promise of that single lapping stroke sending you into delirium.

Your head is tilted almost all the way back, the ripe curve of your breasts presented to him with as much generosity as the fruit trees that had lowered their harvest to you earlier.

An explosive moan exits you as he lavishes your nipple with soft, hot licks, suckling the flesh slowly to the left and then to the right, drawing it in with the tightening suction of his cheeks. He takes his time, only coming back to the white hot centre of your areola when he is satisfied that the entirety of the rounded expanse has been tasted.

You jerk under him, fingers scrabbling at his immovable arm as he applies the same attention to the other neglected breast, tugging you gently between his teeth until you're crying out at the gentle but thorough stimulation.

A soft, ticklish sensation alerts you to his next move, as the ends of the beaded braids fall forward over the pointed ends of his ears, painting your ribcage with the swirling ripples of an unseen image of growing lust.

You raise your head slightly, hooded eyes watching him, his breath passing over your mound like a hot wind that comes sailing down from the mountains to collect in the humid harbour of your widening thighs.

Your knees bend, anticipation drawing your abdomen taut as he bites down into the softness of one thigh, then the other. Halsin preserves symmetry, in all that he does.

When he tastes you, a hummingbird pushing slowly, exquisitely, into the sweet burst of a flower's trembling centre, you cannot help the low, desperate keening that escapes you. One hand slams into the grass beside you, fingers threading through and grasping at the cool foliage, trying to anchor your mind that seems to want to abandon all rational thought.

Halsin takes you, with surety, confidence, peeling you apart with large, roughened fingers, plundering your soft heat with the same assiduous attention he'd shown the rest of your body. He grows more intense, his own lust taking the reigns, thrusting his tongue as deep as it will go, pushing the edges apart, suckling the tiny, glistening pearl at the apex of your folds as if it is the finest delicacy he's ever feasted upon.

The slickness that coats his mouth, cheeks, hands and your thighs is a ceaseless font. You writhe beneath him, begging, gasping, shrinking away from and then surrendering to every blissful feeling he bestows.

Just when the taut string of heat that stretches all the way from down there to the base of your throat threatens to snap, he lifts off you, smiling at your outraged gasp, one hand holding down your hip as you furiously buck upward at the loss of sensation.

You slap at his arm, scowling as he laughs, soothing strokes sliding down your stomach and legs as he brings you reluctantly down from the peak you have been teetering on seconds before.

Oh, but he isn't done with you, not yet.

He has been saving the true banquet for this time, when your body has recovered some measure of equilibrium, but not quite. Now, when your sensitized skin burns with unquenched flame, when you moan so wantonly and reach for him, scratching lightly down his chest, when he raises himself once more, looming over you and crawls forward, every move lithe and sinuous as the displacer beast who's form he had borrowed a short while before, now you prepare yourself for what he truly has in store.

Your arms extend, almost looping around his neck, when he grasps your hip firmly and turns you over onto your front.

Oh.

So this was what he intended.

Not that you didn't adjust to the circumstances almost instantly. You were not without your wiles.

Stretching in a distinctly feline manner, you raise your hips, back curving in a perfect, quivering arc, letting out small sounds of encouragement as you feel the supple flesh of your buttocks brush the waving length of his erection. He hisses, but makes no move to stop you, allowing you to have your way with him, albeit, briefly.

And my, do you take advantage of the temporary freedom he's granted you.

Your spine undulates, the folds between your legs long since slicked and wet with his preparation. You enfold him from the sides, dragging your sweet nectar along his length, the heavy tip catching slightly and making you dig your fingers deeper into the soil.

There is some connection here, more expansive than just the two of you. The earth beneath your hands and knees hums with latent energy, the kind that remains undetected when you are not here, with him, in this sacred space that flowers between the sky, the trees, the stones and your body beneath his.

You open your mind to it, kindling some deep spark within that Halsin detects. He hums with approval, leaning further forward.

Like a dull clap of thunder, an electric hum on the air, he rolls his hips forward, taking the initiative. The rounded head breaches you, forcing a full-throated cry as you're rapidly reminded of the sheer size of him.

It's not just the silky iron length that presses forward, inch by inch, displacing the dewy arousal that coats him. It's the feel of his weight sinking further down into your back, an echo of stigma and stamen, the slow spread of your fingers as his lodge between them, the resumed stroke of his braids at the nape of your neck.

Your mouth opens in a silent continuation of your ecstasy, tendons standing out in your neck with the supreme effort of acceptance. The invasive stretch eases as he rocks back and forth, whispering soft praises, obeisances, worshipping the way you engulf him whole.

Lightning now follows the deepening roar in your veins, sweat coating your skin in a luminous sheen as you slowly back onto him, feeling the probe at the edges of your ability to take, jerking away with a hiss, moving back again with intent.

Halsin allows you to set the pace, low grunts of effort sounding against the shell of your ear, hot breath mingling with yours.

You drag your awareness away from the pleasure that builds steadily as you tilt forward, until only the tip remains, then repeat the slow reversal that impales you. You want this to take forever, to last until the final frayed threads of your control slip between your fingers and you surrender to the storm that threatens to crash over your senses with each fluid movement.

When you feel that you're ready, you raise your hips slightly, and he almost slips from your tight heat. His fingers sink into the flesh just above your hip, followed by a low exhale of agreement, a sign to ready yourself.

His forward thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, and you cry out and sink down to your elbows almost immediately. The new angle allows him to penetrate even deeper, tearing hoarse cries of pleasure from your throat.

Halsin sets a steady, powerful rhythm, the impact of each slam of his hips rippling the flesh of your buttocks, the folds of your waist deepening as you drop further down. The blades of grass beneath you graze your nipples, snapping past with increasing intensity as he picks up his pace.

Hands fisting once again, you tear up clods of earth, howling, moaning, begging as the slaps of his body against yours matches the pace of his breathing, quickening like the blood in your veins, the heady sap that seeps into your mouth as you press your face into the grass and take it between your teeth.

Tears of pleasure gather at the corners of your eyes, roll down to your entwined fingers and he presses down on you further, lapping at them as they stream down the side of your face.

He is a veritable force of nature, sweeping you up into a maelstrom of unmatched, terrifying sensation. You turn your head to him slightly, sobbing breaths spelling out that you are close, so close, almost, to keep fucking you, to go harder, to -

The staccato encouragement only serves to slow his pace, and now, in spite of the protesting smack of your hand against his abdomen, your nails dragging on his flank, your cursing, he starts a new rhythm, one even more devastating in its undoing of you.

Two deep strokes, followed by a tender, shallower thrust that lodges somewhere different, somewhere that sparks a renewed series of deep, throaty moans, pitched higher and higher as a crescendo builds.

He fills you, stretches you, paints your inner thighs with the soaked traces of your joining, merciless in his assault on the tight ring of muscle at your entrance.

You're no longer aware of where the connection between your bodies ends, so immersed are you in each collision of your hips.

Halsin places a hand firmly in the small of your back, and you're now aware that he has also grown louder in his appreciation of you, almost incoherent in his litany of praises.

Under other circumstances (perhaps later, when you find the time to indulge in each other at a more leisurely pace) you would have taken the time to sling your leg over his, to twist until you managed to lever his body beneath yours, to ride him until that tell-tale ache in your lower back and thighs made itself known.

For now, you can only think of your immediate pleasure, the magnificent sweep of a cyclone that comes crashing across the coastline and catches you when you least expect it.

When it does eventually find you, when your back arches, your muscles convulsing, your body shuddering with an intensity that near rattles your teeth, you allow it to carry you away, hardly aware of your reactions in that moment.

Halsin's reaches beneath you, hand caressing your stomach with soft, grounding fervour, even as you become aware that he has not allowed himself the same abandonment of release. He is harder than ever inside you, the twitch that makes itself known now that he has stilled his pace causing you to gasp and stiffen.

There is still a certain tension coiled there, one that makes itself known as he slowly eases himself in and out, building to steady rocking against you. He throws back his head and growls, body now fully spread across yours, and you raise your legs, tucking your feet behind his knees to pull him further towards the newly set line of completion.

Your second orgasm is less intense, but reverberates through you in a manner that makes him pause again. The wringing contractions around his length seem to finally push him over the edge, and he lets out a gutteral roar as a searing warmth floods within you, the irregular spasmodic slide of him coming to a gradual stop.

You reach back, hand placed flat on his abdomen for some modicum of control as he eases out, the cool night air a shocking contrast to the overwhelming heat of him. Consciousness of your own breathing returns, ragged, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Something slips down your leg, pools on the ground behind you. You keep your rear raised, glancing back over your shoulder, a dazed smile spreading as you note the glazed, shattered stare that Halsin directs at you, at the banner of your union that drapes in a pearlescent string between your once-joined parts.

He sits back on his haunches and runs those large hands through his hair, attempting to bring himself back under control.

Under the circumstances, your expression should not be so self-satisfied, considering that he has all but taken you in the most base, animalistic manner possible. You are aware of how you must look, with your hair draped in sweaty tangles over your forehead, the gleam of perspiration that now covers you from head to toe, the marks of earth on your buttocks, knees and elbows.

Halsin catches your eye and strokes down your back before raising you with that delightfully easy strength, bringing you closer to him. 

You seat yourself on his lap, legs parted as if you've assumed your natural throne once again. The soft shake of his shoulders builds to a laugh that you feel all the way down to your bones.

"I take it you've made the acquaintance of your inner beast?"

"And a fine one at that."

"I wasn't expecting such a chase."

"Was it worth it?"

His fingers find their way beneath your chin, tilt your head until he is able to gaze upon your face once again.

There it is, that infinite tenderness, the kind he always reserves just for you. When he speaks, you shudder slightly at the weight of passionate promise there, the rumble that begins somewhere deep in his chest, that let's you lean against him in the lassitude of well-earned submission.

"Well worth it. I'd even go so far as to ask for a re-match."

"Oh? And which form will you choose for our next bout?"

His voice is muffled slightly, from where he presses his mouth to your shoulder, but you hear him nonetheless, and your teeth gleam in the faint light of the clearing.

"The bear. Definitely the bear."

[hoo-n-i-ki]

Cold One. (Fin)

A vampire’s love is eternal—it transcends lifetimes that others can’t live.

PAIRING - Volturi!Riki x Cullen!fem!reader

GENRE - Twilight AU

CHAPTER WC - 5886

WARNINGS - Vampires, shapeshifters, graphic violence, death, suggestive/fade to black. (This is a complete work of fiction and is in no way a representation of Riki/Enha).

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

Aro lifts you with ease, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. Cruel, cruel amusement.

Riki jumps, escaping the two tigers he’s facing.

It’s pure instinct, pure desperation, but Caius intercepts him, blocking his path. Riki snarls, his muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap, but Aro only chuckles.

“How tragic, my dear Riki,” Aro muses, his voice velvety smooth despite the carnage surrounding him. “Look how far you’ve fallen. A heart where there should be none. You would betray your own for this girl and her accomplice? Pray tell, is she your mate?”

Riki struggles against Caius’s grip, his ruby eyes burning with an emotion you’ve never seen before.

Fear. For you.

“She’s not the one who needs to die.” His voice is low, trembling with rage. “You’re here to kill me.”

Through his distraction, he lets the tigers’ minds go.

No.

But the tigers stay where they are.

“Caius, Master Caius, kill me. Let her and the Cullens go.”

“Oh, we will in due time,” Caius growls.

“But it is only fair you witness me take someone from you, dear Riki, is it not?” Aro’s smile widens, his fingers twitching around your throat. “After all, when you left, you took my prized Jane and Alec with you, and she was meant to die long ago, regardless,” he tsks.

Jasper moves, a blur of motion as he crashes into Caius, tearing him away from Riki. A split second is all Riki needs to break free, rushing for you—

But Aro tightens his grip.

“I wouldn’t,” Aro hums, lifting you even higher, causing the stony skin of your throat to start cracking.

Crack. By crack. By crack.

Alice screams your name.

Carlisle and Esme move in tandem, flanking Aro from either side, but Marcus intercepts them, knocking them back with a thunderous blow.

Riki closes his eyes.

Aro stiffens. His grip on you falters—just barely.

“Get out,” he hisses at Riki.

But Riki doesn’t reply. He’s trying his hardest to focus.

You can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch. He’s reaching, pulling, fighting to invade Aro’s mind.

But it won’t work. You know it won’t, because this past week, you were told all there is to know about the Volturi.

Aro is over 3000 years old. If Riki had centuries to hone his skills, Aro had several millennia.

The moment Riki is lost in his concentration, Caius moves faster than a blur. His hand snaps around Riki’s throat, yanking him back with an unforgivable force.

Riki chokes. His eyes fly open—but it’s too late.

Caius snarls, his face twisted in pure fury. “Pathetic boy,” he seethes, tightening his grip. Riki claws at his wrist, struggling, but Caius is older. Stronger.

Riki is losing.

And you’re helpless.

Your knees buckle, and the world around you slows to a dull hum, the chaos fading as a sense of peace washes over you.

This is it—the end.

Goodbye to Misora, who stood by you and made your last couple of months enjoyable.

Goodbye to the Cullens, who saved you the first time, gave you shelter, and let you feel like you belonged even when you didn’t deserve it.

Goodbye to Riki.

Riki.

You wish you had more time.

A wish. A regret. A gradual fall never spoken aloud.

And finally, a hello.

Hello to the parents you haven’t seen in twenty years.

Hello to the light you pray will still be willing to take you in despite the darkness that temporarily washed over your soul.

“This is not what we agreed on!”

A blur of fur. Glowing streaks of amber eyes. The crackling of bones as four legs move upright, shifting to two legs and two arms, covered by light honey skin.

Where the tiger who goes by the name Jay once prowled at the edge of the battlefield, a black-haired human boy you’ve never seen before now stands, eyes burning with fury.

“But our agreement was to remove the threat from your little town, was it not?” Caius speaks. “The newborn might be in the Cullens’ coven, but she is just as dangerous as Riki and his sister. Look at her red eyes.”

Jay’s eyes flick from you, to your captor, to Riki and his, and to your family being held back behind you.

Please.

“You’re right. We see the red eyes.”

Jay shifts back. Heeseung growls—a deep, guttural sound that rumbles through the clearing. Behind them, the rest of the tigers step forward slowly. Deliberately.

Sunghoon’s lip curls over his teeth. Jungwon’s claws extend. Jake’s shoulders tense, fingers flexing.

“Finish the job,” Aro growls, his minor disorientation making him lose his decorum.

The tigers don’t need to be told twice—they’re already moving.

Jay lunges.

Straight for Caius.

Caius is fast, but Jay is unexpected. He slams into him, tearing Riki from his grasp, sending them both crashing into the dirt.

The Volturi are no longer the predators. And you are no longer the prey.

“Traitors!” Caius spits, dodging Jay’s next attack, but he’s outnumbered.

The six tigers are everywhere. And even better?

The Cullens who were out hunting return with an unmatched vigor.

A roar splits through the night as Emmett crashes through the trees, his massive frame barreling straight into Marcus, sending them both tumbling. Rosalie follows, her hands catching his throat before twisting—

A sickening crack.

Riki twists to face Caius, finishing the job on behalf of the Baekho clan. He paralyzes him, while Heeseung tears his throat out.

Edward and Bella collide with Aro. His grip on you weakens, so you move while you still can.

You run straight toward Riki.

He reaches for you, arms about to pull you close, but—

“You think I’d let you have all the fun?”

A blur of motion. A flash of familiar long black hair.

Misora.

She bursts into the clearing, her crimson eyes burning, her fangs bared.

Edward is fast. Bella is strong. And Misora is Aro’s downfall.

She strides forward, her eyes locked onto Aro as he fends off Edward’s blows.

“You know, Aro,” she purrs, “you’ve had a long reign. But even the greatest kings fall eventually.”

Aro snarls, dodging Edward’s next strike, but he hesitates. Just for a second.

And Misora smiles.

“Did you by any chance think I was powerless?” she taunts.

Aro’s body stiffens. His expression contorts.

Then—he staggers.

His red eyes dart around wildly, as if trying to see something that isn’t there.

“What are you doing, lowly nomad?” he hisses.

Misora tilts her head. “Shutting you up.”

Riki watches, frozen, as his former master stumbles.

His movements become sluggish, his expression turning from rage—to confusion.

Aro reaches for his head as if trying to grasp at something that isn’t there.

And Riki, beside you, is just as confused.

“What—” His voice is hoarse as he steps closer, gaze snapping between Misora and Aro. “What are you doing to him?”

Misora smiles. A slow, dangerous smile. “I’m stealing away every last bit of his mental fortitude.” She turns to her brother with a raised eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

So Misora’s power… compliments her brother’s.

You see the moment the realization clicks into Riki’s head, in the way his eyes regain their fire, in the way he takes a deliberate step forward.

He takes his sister’s invitation.

Aro gasps.

His fingers twitch at his sides, his head jerking slightly—like his own body is no longer listening to him.

“You—” Aro chokes, but the rest of his words die in his throat.

Because without his centuries of control, Riki is inside his mind. It’s like he’s finally able to invade a kingdom without a king.

Aro’s body stiffens completely.

His own hands twitch at his sides.

Then—they rise.

His lips part in a silent scream as his fingers curl around his own throat, his grip tightening—

Harder.

Harder.

Crack.

His head yanks violently to the side.

Crack.

His arms twist.

Crack.

With a sickening, final wrench, Aro’s own hands rip his head clean from his shoulders.

His red eyes—filled with terror—stare at Riki.

Finally, Aro falls.

Carlisle steps forward, his usually gentle face is hardened with resolve as he carries a torch in one hand. The flames flicker, casting an eerie light across the battlefield.

The Volturi’s bodies lay sprawled in unnatural angles, a testament to the brutality that just unfolded. Aro’s lifeless head is still locked in the wide-eyed expression of terror, his crimson eyes frozen in the moment of his demise. The others are equally still, their once-immense power now nothing more than lifeless husks.

Without hesitation, he lowers the torch to the first Volturi corpse—Caius’s body. The flame flickers and dances, igniting the exposed flesh, the smell of burning vampire flesh acrid in the air.

Riki watches, his eyes never leaving Aro’s head, his face a mask of quiet satisfaction, though his fists are still clenched. Misora stands nearby, her expression hardened, but there’s a flicker of something softer behind her gaze.

Carlisle moves methodically, his eyes sharp as he turns to Marcus’s body. Finally, Aro. As the final body catches fire and the flames roar louder, you stand there, surrounded by those who fought for you—those you care about most.

Riki turns to you, his gaze softer now, though his expression still carries the strain of everything that just happened. “We won,” he whispers, voice still hoarse from the struggle. “It’s over.”

Is this it? Is this the flicker of hope you’ve been longing for all these years? Beckoned by this beautiful’s man deep voice and carried by the scent of smoke engulfing the clearing?

You don’t need to inhale, none of you do, but it’s a smell that ensures that they’ll never rise again, so you savor it.

But then, breaking through the heavy stillness, comes a low, rumbling growl. It starts as a faint vibration in the ground, a guttural sound that seems to come from the depths of the forest. The tigers. Even they are inhaling the thick smoke, their animal instincts drawn to the scent of burning flesh.

For a brief moment, the tension is suffocating. Riki’s muscles stiffen, and his eyes dart toward the source of the rumbling. Misora’s posture shifts, a subtle but noticeable shift as she prepares herself for anything. A flicker of fear in her eyes betrays her calm exterior, but there’s also determination there. Your family have come so far, fought so hard, but it isn’t over yet, is it?

The growls grow louder, and you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as the tension in the air becomes palpable. You can sense the change in the atmosphere—another threat, still present, lurking. The tigers, the ones who’ve been an uneasy ally throughout this, are not actually on your side. They’ve been here with a mission of their own. They believe the treaty is forfeit by having Riki and Misora around…

But before any movement can be made, the heavily striped tiger—Jungwon—slowly steps forward. His powerful form shifts and cracks, bones realigning with a sickening sound. In an instant, he stands before you, human once again, dressed only in the shadows cast by the surrounding trees, and already perfectly healthy, perfectly healed like you didn’t manage to injure him to begin with. His sharp eyes scan the clearing, assessing the situation, his body still radiating a tense energy.

The other tigers, their eyes wary and calculating, tense up. Their movements are slow, deliberate, as if testing whether the situation will turn hostile once more. The clearing is once again on edge, the air crackling with the energy of lingering uncertainty.

Jungwon doesn’t speak at first, but his gaze flickers to the burning bodies of the Volturi, to the smoldering remains that still hiss and crackle in the fire. He looks from Riki to Misora, his expression dark.

“We came here for one reason.” His words are clipped, sharp. “To kill you.”

A quiet tension fills the air as his words land, but then, as if to dispel the weight of them, he adds, “But it seems… at our core, we’re more alike than we thought.”

With that, he steps back, signaling to the others. They turn, almost in unison, retreating into the shadows of the trees, their movements swift and fluid. For a moment, it feels as if nothing has changed, as if the battle is far from over.

But the retreat is final. The tigers vanish back into the forest, leaving behind only the fading rumble of their presence and the promise that this fight is done. For now.

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

Riki enters one of Cullen house’s various unused bathrooms, more than ready to wash away the last remnants of the battle. The proof that it happened. Proof that they survived.

His body aches, though not from injury—he heals too fast for that. It’s exhaustion, the kind that sinks into his bones, deeper than any wound. His mind replays the fight in sharp flashes: the Volturi’s lifeless bodies, the fire in Carlisle’s hands, the scent of burning vampire flesh. And then the tigers—the way their growls had rumbled through the clearing, how, for a second, it had felt like they weren’t done fighting after all.

And then her.

Through it all, she was there. (Y/N).

He turns on the hot water, and watches it cascade in steady streams. He presses his hands against the tile of the walls, head bowed as the steam curls. He tries to distract himself with the motions, but there’s no stopping his thoughts from drifting to her. The way she fought, despite her tangible terror. The way she ran to him. The way she looked at him when the flames consumed Aro’s body—like she wasn’t sure if she could let herself believe that it’s really over.

And maybe he wasn’t sure, either.

A sound. Faint, but distinct. Footsteps just outside the bathroom door.

His head lifts slightly, eyes narrowing. He knows her steps anywhere. They haven’t even known each other for two weeks, but all of his senses are now attuned to her, so even if her footsteps barely make a sound, even if her presence is subtle—he just knows.

And she stops. She just knows that he’s the one in there, too.

For a second, he wonders if she’ll knock. If she’ll say something first.

She doesn’t. But she doesn’t walk away, either.

So he walks up to the door and speaks. “You’re still wandering around.” His voice is rougher than he expected, still worn from the night.

A pause. Then, from the other side of the door, “I’m feeling restless.”

He huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh. “I get that. I figured a shower might help.”

A beat of silence. He can picture her standing there, arms crossed, maybe leaning against the doorframe. Thinking. He wonders if she’s listening to the water running, if she’s imagining him like this—tired, drained, but somehow still wired.

Then, softly, she asks, “Would it?”

He exhales, watching the steam curl upward. “Not really.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, and for a moment, he wonders if she’ll leave. But then—

“I don’t think it ever will,” she admits. “Not completely.”

His fingers curl slightly against the tile near the door. “Yeah.” He swallows. “I keep thinking about it. How close it was. How easily it could’ve gone wrong.”

“We won,” she reminds him, her voice steady.

He closes his eyes. “I know. But that doesn’t make it stop.”

Another pause. Then, softer this time, “Make what stop?”

His grip tightens against the wall. He doesn’t want to say it. But for her, he’ll spill his truths. It’s some effect nobody but her has had on him.

“The feeling,” he murmurs. “That it’s not really over. That something else is coming.”

She’s quiet for a long time. Long enough that he almost opens the door, almost steps out to face her.

“Maybe it is,” she finally says. “For now, at least.”

For now.

He sighs and turns around to tilt his head back against the wall. He doesn’t know why those words make something settle in him, even just a little.

For now.

It’s not a promise. But maybe it’s enough.

Riki stays quiet for a moment, letting the sound of the still-flowing water fill the space between them. He feels her still standing there, a pure mind he simply brushed his power against.

Just to feel her. He’ll never use it on her, nor on anyone he cares about ever again.

Misora’s face of betrayal is still imprinted into his thoughts.

Then, her voice, quieter now. “Back there… when Aro looked at me. When he asked you if I was your mate.” A pause. “What did he mean?”

His fingers still.

The words didn’t register at the time, but now she reminded him.

Now, and for a solid minute, it’s all he can think about.

His mate… could she really be? Does he deserve to have one?

“You don’t know?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”

A small smirk tugs at his lips despite himself. That’s just like her. Finding ways to make him smile. Tearing down his brick wall of stoicism.

He leans forward, crossing his arms. “It’s… complicated.”

“I think I can handle complicated.”

He closes his eyes. “A mate is…” He exhales sharply, trying to find the right words. “You know vampires feel everything more strongly than humans. But vampires are also unchanging. So when we fall for someone? It’s more than love. It’s something deeper, something that gets ingrained into our very being. When we find our mate, that’s it. It’s irreversible. It’s…” He hesitates. “Forever.”

Silence.

Not for the first time around her, Riki wonders if he’s said too much. If he should’ve held back, softened it somehow. But then—

“Forever,” she repeats, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Then, hesitantly, “Is that… could I be that to you?”

Riki’s heart—silent, still—somehow feels like it should be racing. He takes a second to look up at the ceiling, feeling something he hasn’t felt in centuries.

The urge to pray to Ebisu, the Shinto deity of fortune.

He doesn’t remember much from his old life, not even the language, but lately he’s been feeling more and more human.

Now, he could make this easier on himself and lie. He could deflect. But she’s standing on the other side of this door, asking him something real. Something she deserves an answer to.

So he gives it to her.

“I think you could be, yes.”

The words lingers in the air between them. Vague, but just as heavy.

He waits. A shift in her stance. And then, softly—

“Oh.”

Just that. Just oh.

Riki huffs out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Not exactly the reaction I was expecting.”

She lets out something that sounds almost like a laugh. “I just… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

She’s quiet again. Then, barely audible, “How would you know?”

He shrugs even though she can’t see it. “It‘s supposed to be something you just feel. I guess I… felt something for you from the first time we spoke, but I never thought I would…. I didn’t put two and two together.”

A shaky inhale from the other side of the door. Then, after a long moment, “Okay.”

It’s not a rejection. It’s not disbelief. It’s just okay.

Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He expected more—questions, hesitation, maybe even denial. But she’s still just standing there on the other side of this thin wall.

A smile tugs at his lips. “Just okay?” he murmurs, the words slipping past his lips like silk. “That’s all you have to say?”

She shifts on the other side, and he can almost picture her expression, the way her brows might furrow, the way she might chew on her bottom lip, thinking.

“Well,” she finally says, her voice quieter now, laced with something softer. “What else am I supposed to say?”

He shouldn’t push. He shouldn’t—

But what if he throws caution to the wind just once? See what happens if he chases happiness rather than duty?

“Come here, then,” he says, a hesitant invitation.

Silence.

“I—”

Riki reaches for the door handle, twisting it just enough to crack it open, enough to see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—but also something else. Curiosity. Intrigue.

“Scared?” His voice dips lower, something between teasing and reserve so similar to her own it makes her comfortable.

She swallows, and he watches the movement of her throat, watches the way her fingers twitch at her sides.

But she steps forward.

It’s happening.

The second she’s within reach, he tugs her into the steam-filled space, but through their excitement, they tumble back together into the walk-in shower, the warmth of the water swallowing them both. The thin fabric of her shirt clings to her instantly, darkening as it absorbs the water, molding to the curves of her body. His eyes drop, flickering over her, taking in every inch, every tiny shift in her expression.

She shivers—not from cold, but from him.

Riki reaches out, trailing wet fingers over the line of her jaw, tilting her face up so she has no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You sure about this?”

She doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

This is all he needs. Since the past couple of weeks.

Since the past couple hundred years.

He doesn’t want to waste another second before closing the space between them. But something tugs at him.

200 years of conditioning.

His fingers tense slightly against her skin—not because he doesn’t want to—fuck, he wants this more than anything—but because they’re still standing on the edge of something neither of them fully understand. Because this is new, because he’s spent centuries guarding himself against anything that could make him weak.

And he’s giving someone the power to break him.

His hands still. His jaw clenches, restraint warring with the part of him that just wants to feel.

She notices. Her brows furrow slightly, her fingers ghosting over his forearm. “Riki?”

Her voice is softer now, questioning. Searching.

He closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. If he stops now, she’ll understand. He knows she will.

But then she shifts closer, her body pressing against his, warmth meeting warmth. And it shatters him.

The restraint, the doubts—gone.

He opens his eyes, and before she can say anything, his lips finally find hers, slow at first, deliberate—like he’s giving her time to pull away, to rethink, to stop him. But she doesn’t. Instead, she presses closer, her fingers finding their way to his shoulders, gripping, grounding herself. She glides her lips against his full ones, teasing, tasting.

The water cascades over them, heat seeping into their skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning between them.

Riki’s hands move, slowly sliding down her sides, memorizing. His fingers find the hem of her shirt, his touch featherlight against her skin. He tugs at it, just enough to test her reaction, to see if she’ll stop him.

She doesn’t.

The shirt is gone in a matter of seconds, discarded somewhere behind them, leaving her standing before him, glistening under the soft light filtering through the steam. Riki lets out a quiet curse, his eyes drinking her in, lingering on the way droplets of water trace paths down her skin.

“You’re—” He exhales sharply, like he’s struggling to find words, like for once, he’s at a loss. “So damn beautiful.”

Her blood orange eyes gleam, but she doesn’t shy away. If anything, she tilts her chin up slightly, as if daring him to keep going.

And so he does.

His lips find her neck, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the slope of her shoulder. His hands settle on her waist, strong and firm, holding her in place as he explores, as he takes his time.

She gasps when his teeth graze over a sensitive spot just below her ear, her fingers digging into his skin. He smirks against her neck. “That’s a nice sound,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “I think I wanna hear more of it.”

She barely has time to react before he’s backing her up against the cool tile, his body pressing into hers, leaving no space between them. The contrast of the heat from the water and the chill of the wall sends a shiver down her spine, but Riki is there, anchoring her, warming her, setting every inch of her alight.

And he’s not done yet. He doesn’t think he ever will be.

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

The sunlight barely peaks through the dense forest, the morning mist still lingering, as you hang around the spacious living room of the Cullen house. You stand by the window, watching the shifting shadows of the trees, lost in thought. Your mind is a tangled web of everything that’s happened in the past day. The Volturi. The tigers.

Riki.

Just then, a soft knock at the door makes you stiffen. Carlisle walks up to open it, and there he is—Dr. Park.

His eyes sweep the room, landing first on the Cullens, then on Riki and Misora, before finally resting on you. There’s no surprise in his eyes, just a quiet acknowledgement of the tension that lingers.

“I see the house is still… more crowded than I anticipated,” Dr. Park says awkwardly. His voice is calm, but there’s a hint of something else beneath it—something like resignation.

Edward stands by the fireplace, his hands clasped together, his face unreadable. “You’re not welcome here,” he says firmly, his voice lacking any warmth.

Dr. Park doesn’t seem bothered by the coldness. He just steps further into the room, uninvited but not deterred. His six tiger shifters follow behind him, their human forms nothing short of imposing, both the two you saw last night, and the four others. They stand in a loose formation, eyes narrowed, but they’re not hostile. They’re just… waiting.

Misora, standing by the back wall, crosses her arms. Her eyes stay cold, but there’s no aggression in her posture. She’s here to observe, just as much as the rest of you are. Dr. Park apparently wanted her dead just based on her eye color. But now, it seems, he’s learned how to differentiate between friend and foe.

At least, you hope so.

You can feel the tension in the room tightening, but Dr. Park seems determined to move past it. “I’m not here to make excuses. I did what I thought was necessary. I… miscalculated.”

Carlisle remains composed, but his gaze sharpens. “Miscalculated? You put all of us at risk, Dr. Park. You played your hand too long.”

There’s a long silence as Dr. Park looks at Carlisle, his eyes flicking to the six tigers, then to Riki and Misora. “I know. I can’t change the past. But I can try to make this right.

“We’re not used to letting vampires walk our territory.” A pause. “But I can see now that not all of you are the same.”

“We have no interest in staying where we aren’t welcome. Our family will be leaving soon,” Carlisle responds.

Dr. Park takes a deep breath, seemingly collecting his thoughts. “That will not be necessary.” He sighs. “The treaty Chief Black of the Quileutes forged between us was too limiting. Let us agree to a new treaty. So long as your matters do not concern our settlement, we will not interfere.”

Then, Jungwon steps forward, extending a hand toward Riki. “Apologies to you and your sister, and thank you for helping us kill the blonde one.”

You tense slightly, waiting for Riki’s reaction, but after a moment, he takes it. A handshake. A truce.

It’s not friendship, and it never will be, but it’s enough.

After Dr. Park’s visit, the tension in the Cullen house starts to settle, but an unsettling quiet remains.

Misora doesn’t move much from her spot by the wall, her arms still crossed as she watches the others, her expression unreadable. You know what she’s thinking—she’s never been the type to settle in one place for long. She’s a wanderer, always moving, always seeking the next challenge, the next horizon.

It’s something you both shared, for a while. You hunted together, finding moments of freedom that both of you crave so fiercely. You’ve seen each other at your best and your worst, and there’s a comfort in that unspoken understanding.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” you ask quietly, your voice breaking the silence.

Misora looks over at you, her gaze amused at first, but then softens just slightly. “I always leave,” she replies, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “You know me. I can’t stay in one place for too long. Not even for you.”

You let out a small, frustrated sigh. “I know. But it’s different now. You don’t have to run anymore.”

Her eyes flick to the others and then back to you. “I’m not running from anyone.” Her voice is firm, resolute. “I just don’t fit in here. I never have. And you? Are you going to stay with the Cullens?”

You hesitate, your gaze drifting towards them. You’ve felt the pull of belonging, of finding a place to settle, but you’re not sure you can embrace that life yet. “I don’t know yet. I think I’m still figuring that out.”

Misora steps closer to you, her presence grounding. “You don’t have to decide now. You’ve got time. But me? I know my path. I always have.”

You want to say something, to tell her to stay, but you can’t. You know better than anyone that she needs to go. Misora’s freedom is her own, and it’s not something she can easily give up.

She gives you a small nod, like she’s saying goodbye, but it’s not final. “Take care of yourself. Don’t let them tie you down. If you ever want to leave with me… you know where to find me.”

With that, she turns to walk toward the door, her movements smooth and sure. But just as her hand touches the doorknob, there’s a sudden shift in the air—an energy that only comes with Riki’s… your mate’s proximity.

Misora glances at you one last time, her lips twitching slightly in a way that could almost be mistaken for a smile, before she steps toward her brother. Getting through this last piece of unfinished business.

“Goodbye, onii-san.”

Riki pauses, his chin quivering. “Is that it?”

Misora shrugs. “We fought together, and we won together. That’s more than we can say for our previous life. I still don’t forgive you for the past 200 years or for you using your power on me. But… I might be ready to in a later lifetime. But for now? I’m not gonna pretend everything is fine when it’s not.”

Riki doesn’t reply right away. He stands there, his expression unreadable, the air heavy between them. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he exhales sharply and extends his hand.

Misora hesitates for only a beat before accepting the gesture. It’s not a friendly handshake, not a truce—just a silent acknowledgment of the past they share. And, perhaps, a quiet farewell.

“Goodbye, Misora,” he says softly.

With that, she steps past him and out the door, leaving behind a heavy silence in her wake. Riki watches her leave, his gaze lingering on the empty doorway for several beats.

Without thinking, you step closer.

He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he finally does, there’s something raw in his expression—something unguarded, vulnerable. And then, without a word, he leans into you.

Your arms wrap around him instinctively, grounding him. His body is tense at first, but eventually, his muscles relax. It’s quiet, but in that silence, so much is said.

After a while, you murmur, “What now?”

Riki doesn’t answer immediately. He stays where he is, as if he hasn’t quite decided if he’s ready to let go yet. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “I don’t know.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Are you staying?”

His brows furrow slightly, and you know why.

He’s never been offered a safe, loving place before.

“If they’re okay with it…” he gestures to the Cullens. “Can I?”

But he isn’t seeing the way they’re already fondly smiling at the two of you.

“Of course,” you murmur.

He laughs awkwardly. “Maybe if I stay for long enough, my eyes will start to turn gold like yours are doing.”

You smile softly at his words, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You don’t have to rush it,” you murmur. “You’re already starting to fit in.”

Riki exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I feel like I’ve been fighting for so long, I don’t even know how to stop.”

“You don’t have to figure everything out right away.” Your fingers trail down to his wrist, a silent reassurance. “You’re allowed to just… be here.”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the room fades away. The weight of everything he’s carried, everything you’ve both survived, lingers between you, but in this space, in this second, it’s just the two of you. No threats, no expectations. Just quiet understanding.

Riki shifts slightly, his forehead nearly resting against yours. “You make it sound so easy.”

You chuckle. “It’s not. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

A beat passes. Then another. Neither of you move to pull away just yet, as if breaking the moment would make it less real.

His fingers brush lightly against your waist, hesitant, testing, and you can feel the way his breath hitches. Your own hand lingers at his wrist, your thumb tracing soft circles against his skin. There’s something fragile yet certain between you.

Then, slowly, Riki leans in.

The kiss is soft—uncertain at first, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real despite the ones you shared last night. But when you don’t pull away, when your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his shirt, he deepens it just slightly, exhaling against your lips. It’s slow, tender, a quiet promise exchanged between two souls who have spent far too long in limbo.

And it sets the tone for the rest of your day.

For the rest of your week, actually, as the two of your force yourselves to get used to the vegetarian diet under the supervision of the Cullens.

After a day trip with the wildlife, you follow Alice and her dainty, dainty footsteps back to the house.

She turns to you, halfway through your walk, gold eyes shimmering. “I saw you, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

Alice smiles, but there’s something wistful in it. “Nineteen years ago. When I first met Riki in Volterra. I had a vision,” she continues. “I saw him standing beside a girl with golden eyes. A girl who was part of our family.”

The words settle over you like a gentle weight. For a long moment, you can’t speak.

Alice’s smile widens, just a little. “I didn’t know who she was back then—but now I do.”

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

HOLY SHIT I JUST FINISHED MY FIRST FANFIC??? MEEE THAT QUITS EVERYTHING!!

Special thank you to everyone who actually liked it and was hyping me up throughout this novella-length journey yall have no idea how happy seeing the notifs made me😭😭

Deadass will miss Riki and (Y/N) sm

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Finale

@angelengene3011 @opheliaas-stuff @melzonly @meyinyin @nshmrarki @lizzygrantwrld @skyearby

[revelboo]

Ouch! Prowl asking about his human’s life before and immediately getting denied an answer. That’s rough, buddy. 🙂‍↕️

Yeah, he’s not going to take it well, either

Stand Too Close Pt 12

Prowl x Reader

• Catching your wrists, he pins them over your head and shifts over you. Pulling his head up to break the kiss and sees you scowl. Understands that you don’t think he deserves to know you, that he’s not worth it. And why shouldn’t you keep hating him, he hates himself most of the time. But it still hurts. “Is this all you want?” He growls, voice frustrated as you wriggle against his grip, eyes narrowing. “To be fragged?” Just his spike and body, nothing more?

• Like he deserves anything more from you? Especially right now. Everything was good, but no, he had to pretend he cares. Or maybe he felt bad about screwing someone he barely knows. “Not anymore. Get your hands off me.” Furious, you roll away from him as soon as he lets go of you. But there’s nowhere to storm off to. Trapped and at his mercy. Stomping as far away as you can, you start getting dressed. Seeing him mass displace, right his panels and just leave. And abruptly you want to cry even though you’re more angry than anything else. Why couldn’t he have just let it be? It’s not like he actually cares about you, so why ask except to hurt you?

• Pacing in the hall, he tries to calm down. Because right now? He wants to destroy something. That look on your face when he’d asked about your life, the way you’d just shut down so suddenly, bothers him. Going from smiling and joking with him to furious all because he’d wanted to know you. Not just your body. But maybe that is all you want from him. For a moment, he’d thought maybe you could talk to him. Open up. Of course not. In your head, he’s still the enemy, isn’t he? The bot who ruined your life.

• Sitting with your legs drawn up, you glare at the closed door. Wondering how long he’ll sulk this time. Something’s very wrong with you for enjoying that temper of his. Most of the time. It’s bad enough to be kept here against your will, but to have him ask those questions? Like he was trying to figure out what he was taking away from you. And it’s none of his business. You’re not together, not really. Hell, the only thing either of you have in common is liking angry sex. That’s definitely not a relationship. You’re just stuck with each other. That’s all. “Bastard,” you mutter, looping your arms around your legs.

• Spark aching as his back hits the wall, it occurs to him that sooner or later, he’s going to have to face you. Almost wishes he’d pushed. Made you tell him, but then you’d have resented him even more. Just wants to know you. Because when you smile at him, it spreads warm through him, leaving him oddly light. All his worries and his stress momentarily gone. Wants you to smile for him, to laugh. Be happy to see him. Wants more than just the feel your body under his. Wants to know you. All of you, the good and bad.

Previous

Next

[valve3nthusiast]

Decepticon and Autobot propaganda definitely got weirder as the war went on and I'd personally like to believe that there's officially sanctioned patriotic pornography. for my own amusement

Somewhere out there is small porn studio barely skating past the censors by claiming their work is glorifying the superiority of Lord Megatron, when everything they shoot is cheesily scripted and horrendously acted pornos of "Megatron" spiking any and every high ranking 'con they had a vaguely similarly-shaped actor for (but like,,,, they're probably quietly funded enough to stay afloat by Tarn and his cuck kink tbh)

With a shoestring budget and audacity, they end up producing such gems as "Our Glorious Leader Foils His Traitorous Commander's Evil Plot With His Massive Fusion Cannon!" and"Loyal Officers Kneel For The Throne To Recive Our Emperor's Magnificent Throbbing Favor" and "Decepticon High Command Non-Stop Penetrating Action" just to name a few. There are many, many other works of similar... Artistic Value, that end up getting made fun of at Autobot movie nights for all eternity

Autobots of course prefer tastefully written Prime-kink erotica, except for Optimus Prime himself, who still can't find the person that gave the go ahead for propaganda division to write a series of spicy romance novellas about him. This haunts him at every officer's meeting. Someone will be presenting about troop movements or smth and he'll be staring into the middle distance wondering no, Prowl wouldn't... right?

The neutrals might not need propaganda, but of course they're still making porn so some are gettin freakay with it. Given how long they live I bet if cybertronians have copyright law itd be a fucking mess. They probably can't get away with using real names, but there are definitely some very thinly veiled stand-ins for various Autobots and Decepticons fucking in numerous offensive arrangements

Of course you can't throw a rock without hitting a vid starring a blue and red truck and a gray mechanism of indeterminable alt-mode, but that got old fast, and the neutrals started to get creative. The poor sucker that personally received a Cease and Desist from both the heads of the Autobot and Decepticon intelligence divisions went so underground that no one knows who to credit for the smash hit spy vs spy romance novel they wrote. sad

And like. neutrals making crossfaction porn isn't explicitly policed by either faction. but if someone wants to make a vid about Legally Distinct not-Skywarp getting stuck in a wall via teleporting accident and having his ports pounded by the not-Autobots, then they have to reckon with the very real chance that Skywarp the Actual Person will show up to beat the shit out of them

Idk where I was going with this. If you want to make me laugh come up with a terrible name for a terrible cybertronian porno and put it in the comments or replies or whatever the fuck it's called. peace

[my-anndreamer]

BreakBee short story.

This is a short story about what happened after the events of the third season of ES. And what happened in the relationship between Bumblebee and Breakdown Bumblebee found out about her pregnancy even before Malto locked the Decepticons in the dome. Bee reported his condition to Breakdown as soon as they met again under the dome.

Breakdown was scared and did not know what to do, he did not want to leave Bumblebee to raise their sparkling alone, but he could not leave his family.

And he could not take Bumblebee either, because he began to think about his words at the race. "How do you know that Cybertron is alive?". Break thought that if it was true, if Cybertron was dead, then what was the point of taking Bee with him so that he would give birth to their sparkling in the middle of space in a spaceship and understand that it had nowhere to live and could die? Breakdown did not want such risks.

Therefore, when it came time to choose whether to stay on Earth or go to Cybertron, he chose the latter, leaving the pregnant Bumblebee on Earth.

Optimus didn't want to tell Bumblebee about this, because he didn't want him to lose the sparkling due to a strong emotional outburst, but unfortunately, Bee was infected with the Hate Plague by that time.

The Hate Virus unfortunately affected at sparkling in the spark chamber, and after recovering, Bee felt a stabbing pain in the spark, which meant the early separation of the spark of the sparkling from the spark of the carrier (it was then that everyone learned that Bee is carrying ). Megatron with the search team set off to look for Ratchet for the individual signal, access to which Bee had given him.

Meanwhile, on the spaceship that was moving to Cybertron, the Breakdown spark did not give him peace, it hurt and he was tormented by conscience and doubts, in addition, his schizophrenia returned, and objects spoke to him that cursed at him, said that he was a terrible father, a worthless weakling, and the like. Schizophrenia led to uncontrollable anger and Breakdown broke everything he saw. Soundwave caught this picture and barely calmed the psychotic Stunticon. After a frank conversation, Soundwave gave advice to Breakdown to listen to what the spark told him, and while he was walking to the command post, he deliberately said that all evacuation ships were can headed directly to Earth.

After some time, the ship sounded the signal to detach the evacuation ship.

Soundwave: proud smile

The evacuation ship in which Breakdown was literally crashed into a rock, tearing off Break's leg during the fall and falling into stasis, because he had not recharged for a long time and already understood little and was like a zombie(this was probably the reason for the emergency landing). Fortunately, Jawbreaker, who was on patrol, found him and brought him to the Autobot base.

At the Autobot base, Breakdown was repaired, but locked in prison, Bumblebee recovered, Ratchet was able to save both him and the sparkling in time.

After the recovery, Bumblebee himself went to the prison to talk to Breakdown, after a difficult and emotional conversation, Bee persuaded Optimus to release Stunticon but on the condition that he would wear restraining shackles (which do not allow him to transform). And so they did, Breakdown was free with his beloved bot, but could not transform.

While Bee could transform, the Autobots began searching for their friends to restore the space bridge, at this moment Prowl reunited with his sons, who he had not seen for many years. And Cliffjumper almost killed Breakdown three times, and Octantis also joined his brother. (Poor Breakdown)

The shackles were removed from Breakdown when Bee could no longer transform, and his belly began to grow, and he needed protection. Break was constantly with Bee and could protect him.

(There was supposed to be some cute BreakBee sketch here, but I'm tired so here's cute Bee)

[surielstea]

Trick or Treat

Selected: Treat

Pairings: Rhysand, Azriel, Cassian, Eris, and Lucien x Fem!Reader (Separately)

Summary: A series of SFW one shots all pertaining to a very cozy Halloween.

Warnings: None. All fluffy goodness!

Rhysand

"Come on, all the candy is gonna be gone!" Nyx's voice rang through the house, his little legs bounding down the hallway as I tried my best to finish zipping up his costume. At four years old, my son was bursting with excitement to finally go trick-or-treating. The big event had been all he could talk about for weeks.

"Hold still, sweetheart," I said gently, trying not to laugh as Nyx wriggled, barely containing his energy. He was dressed as a tiny bat, his little wings on his back fluttering as he moved. His eyes, the same color as mine, shone with uncontrollable excitement.

"I am holding still." he declared, though he was clearly doing the exact opposite. "We have to go get candy, Momma!"

I smiled, managing to get the zipper up at last. "There we go, all done. Now go show your father how handsome you look."

With a squeal of excitement, Nyx darted out of the room, his wings flapping, propelling him slightly as he raced toward Rhysand, who was waiting at the front door.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror for a final check of my own costume—a black cat, with fuzzy ears perched on top of my head and a matching tail pinned to the back of my fighting leathers. Rhys had been insistent that I dressed up, and this was the easiest thing I could come up with.

"Dad, look!" Nyx exclaimed, skidding to a halt in front of Rhys. "I'm a bat!"

Rhys knelt down to his level, his eyes gleaming with pride and affection. "A very scary bat," he said, playing along as he ruffled Nyx's dark hair. "You look perfect."

Nyx beamed, clutching his pumpkin-shaped candy bucket, but Rhys's eyes shifted toward me as I approached, taking in my costume with a smirk. "And you, you look perfect too," he teased, rising to his feet. "I don't know if I'll survive trick-or-treating with such a stunning feline on the prowl."

I rolled my eyes playfully, but my heart fluttered at the way Rhys was looking at me. "Don't forget the scary bat that's going to protect us," I said, nodding toward Nyx.

"I'm a very scary bat," Nyx chimed in, his wings flapping as if to prove his point.

"Yes, you are," Rhys agreed, scooping him up with ease and spinning him around, much to Nyx's delight. "The scariest."

Rhys set him back down, offering me his arm as we followed our son out into the crisp autumn evening. "Shall we, darling?"

I slid my arm through his, giving him a soft smile. "We shall."

Halloween was a prized holiday in the night court, aside from solstice, it was the only holiday that truly belonged to us. The streets were alive with children in costumes, laughter, and chatter filling the air as families moved from house to house. Nyx's wings flapped excitedly as he skipped ahead, his small hand occasionally reaching back for ours to guide him along.

"Look, Momma! Pumpkins!" Nyx pointed to a house decorated with glowing jack-o-lanterns, his eyes wide with wonder.

"They're spooky, aren't they?" I asked, squeezing his hand as we made our way up the path to the front door.

Nyx nodded eagerly, still staring at them as he rang the doorbell. The door creaked open, revealing an older woman with a smile on her face.

"Well, aren't you the cutest bat I've ever seen," she exclaimed.

Nyx puffed out his chest proudly. "Trick or treat!"

She dropped a few pieces of candy into his bucket, and he grinned up at her. "Thank you," He said with a wild grin, not noticing the way the older female now stared at me and Rhys in shock, the High Lord and Lady on her doorstep.

"C'mon, we've got more houses," Rhys said, grabbing Nyx's hand, either he didn't notice either or he was too unbothered to care.

As we walked back down the path, Nyx peeked into his bucket, clearly pleased with his growing candy collection. "This is the best night ever!" he declared.

Rhys chuckled, slipping his arm around my waist as we strolled behind him. "I think he's enjoying this more than I expected."

"I think you're enjoying this more than you expected," I teased, nudging him gently.

He raised a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "What gave me away?"

"The way you keep sneaking glances at him like he's the only person in the world," I replied softly, my heart swelling as I watched Rhys's gaze soften again.

"Well," Rhys said, his voice warm and intimate, "He's one of the best things that's ever happened to me."

I leaned into him, my heart full. "And the other?"

Rhys glanced down at me, his violet eyes sparkling in the fading light. "You, of course. Though I have to admit," he added, slipping his hand lower, his fingers toying with the tail of my costume, "this might be my favorite version of you yet."

I gave him a playful swat, though I couldn't suppress the grin spreading across my face. "Behave yourself. We've got a little bat to take care of."

On queue, Nyx turned around with a spring in his step. "Come on, more houses!"

We continued through the neighborhood, stopping at each house as Nyx eagerly rang doorbells, shouted his "trick or treat," and ran back to us with his ever-growing stash of candy. At one point, he paused, looking up at me with wide eyes.

"Momma, can we eat some now?" he asked, holding up a candy bar.

"Not yet, sweetheart," I said, kneeling down to his level. "Let's wait until we get home. Then we can all have some together, okay?"

Nyx pouted for a moment but quickly brightened when Rhys chimed in, "I'll make us some hot chocolate to go with it."

"Hot chocolate and candy?" Nyx's eyes lit up. "That sounds yummy!" It sounded like a sugar high that would have him bouncing off the walls.

We finally made our way to the final house, but by the time we reached the doorstep, Nyx's wings were drooping a little, Rhys using his magic to ensure they didn't drag on the ground, the boy's energy starting to wane after the excitement of the evening.

Rhys glanced at me, a knowing smile on his lips. "I think our little bat is running out of steam."

I chuckled tiredly. "It's about time."

Nyx rang the doorbell one last time, his voice quieter now as he called out his trick-or-treat. The male at the door smiled, dropping the last handful of candy in her bowl, into his bucket.

"Thank you," Nyx said, his voice sleepy but happy nonetheless.

As we turned to head home, I could feel Rhys's hand slide into mine, his fingers warm and reassuring. "You know," he said softly, his voice just for me, "I think this is the most perfect night I could have asked for."

I squeezed his hand, leaning my head against his shoulder as we walked. "Me too."

When we arrived back at the house, Nyx was barely awake, his candy bucket clutched tightly in his small hands. Rhys scooped him up, carrying him inside as I held the door open.

"I think someone needs to go to bed," I said, smiling down at our son as his eyelids fluttered.

"But, hot chocolate," Nyx mumbled, already half asleep.

Rhys chuckled, pressing a kiss to Nyx's forehead. "Maybe tomorrow, little bat."

We tucked Nyx into bed, his costume still on as he snuggled into his blankets. As I brushed a kiss against his forehead, I whispered, "Sweet dreams, my love."

Azriel

The cool autumn air nipped at my cheeks as I glanced around the yard, admiring the cascade of orange and yellow leaves fluttering in the breeze. A blanket of fallen leaves covered the grass, and the pumpkins scattered across the porch stood out like bright little beacons of autumn.

Today was pumpkin carving day—a long-awaited tradition for me, and a newly introduced one for Azriel.

I eyed him from where I sat, sitting cross-legged on the porch steps, my tools laid out beside me. Azriel was already at work on his pumpkin, and to my utter amusement, he'd chosen a tool I hadn't expected: Truth Teller.

The revered blade gleamed in the waning light, slicing into the pumpkin's tough skin with effortless precision. I had to bite my lip to stifle my laughter as I watched the way he wielded it with all the seriousness of a seasoned warrior. Carving pumpkins with a sacred blade? Of course, Azriel would make even this casual activity into an art form.

"Are you sure you want to use that?" I asked, grinning as I gestured to Truth Teller. "I don't think the pumpkin is a worthy opponent."

Azriel glanced up, his golden eyes crinkling with amusement. "It's handling the job just fine."

I couldn't help but snicker. "Are you going to take it into battle next? I can see it now—Azriel, the Pumpkin Slayer."

He paused, tilting his head as if considering the idea. "It would certainly be a new addition to my title."

"The Spymaster with a penchant for gourd warfare?" I teased, wiping a bit of pumpkin guts off my hands. "Sounds very intimidating."

"Don't mock the artistry, love," he said with a smirk, twirling Truth Teller in his hand before driving it back into the pumpkin with a flourish. "This requires precision."

"Oh, I can see that," I agreed, my eyes drifting to the intricate pattern he was already working on. "But why not use, I don't know, an actual pumpkin carving knife?"

"Where's the challenge in that?" he replied his voice light but laced with that cool, unwavering confidence he always had.

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. "I think you're overcomplicating things."

Azriel just raised an eyebrow at me before returning to his masterpiece. Despite my playful banter, I had to admit his carving was impressive—lines smooth and clean, the pumpkin yielding to his every cut as if it knew better than to resist.

I dug into my own pumpkin with the decidedly less sacred and far more ordinary knife I had in hand. "So, are you going for something spooky? Classic jack-o'-lantern?"

Azriel hesitated for a moment, his fingers still wrapped around Truth Teller's hilt. "I haven't decided yet. What do you think?"

I pretended to ponder it seriously, tapping my chin. "What about the night sky?" I suggest. "Moons, stars, the whole shebang."

"The night sky?" His lips twitched in amusement.

"Yeah, it's shadowy and brooding—just like you."

His laugh was soft, the sound warming me from the inside out. "I'm not that brooding."

"Mhmm." I shot him a playful look, wiping my hands on a towel. "I'll believe that when you wear something other than black."

He shook his head, the smallest of smiles playing at the corner of his mouth. "I'll consider it. When you stop insisting on decorating everything in orange."

I gasped dramatically, placing a hand over my heart. "Orange is the essence of fall. It's a tradition."

"Tradition or not, our entire living room looks like it's been overtaken by pumpkins and leaves."

"Well, it's either that or I break out the glitter for winter," I warned, smirking as I saw him visibly flinch at the word "glitter."

"No glitter," he said quickly, the mirth in his voice unmistakable. "Anything but that."

"Then you'll endure the pumpkins," I said sweetly, before turning back to my carving. "Besides, I happen to think they look adorable."

Azriel said nothing, but when I glanced over, I caught him watching me—his eyes warm, his usual guarded expression softened by the easy comfort we'd found in each other. There was something about these quiet moments with him, something grounding about the way we could tease and laugh and exist together, free of the weight that usually clung to him.

"You're staring," I teased softly, meeting his gaze.

"I can't help it," he murmured, his voice dropping to that hushed tone that sent shivers down my spine. "You're beautiful."

My cheeks warmed, and I nudged a piece of pumpkin in his direction to cover my flustered smile. "Flattery won't distract me from the fact that you're taking forever to carve your pumpkin."

"Perfection takes time," he said with mock solemnity, earning a giggle from me.

"So modest, too," I quipped.

Cassian

The glow from the TV casts eerie shadows on the walls, and I already regret my decision to let Cassian pick the movie. I clutch the edge of the blanket, biting my lip as the creepy soundtrack builds up.

"You're not scared, are you?" Cassian's deep voice rumbles next to me, amusement clear in his tone. His arm rests lazily across the back of the couch, but I can feel the heat of his body beside mine.

I scoff, trying to appear unbothered. "Please. It's just a movie." My voice is steady, but my heart isn't. Not when there's a shadowy figure creeping across the screen, ready to jump out and—

I yelp as the creature lunges, squeezing my eyes shut and instinctively burrowing into Cassian's chest, which rumbles with a low chuckle, and I feel his arm tighten around me, pulling me closer.

"Uh-huh," he teases, his lips quirking up in a smirk I can practically feel. "You sure you're not scared?"

I peek up at him, glaring. "I'm not," I protest weakly, though my body betrays me by staying firmly pressed against his side.

Cassian shifts, wrapping his arm fully around my shoulders, his other hand settling on my knee as he pulls the blanket over both of us. "If you say so," he murmurs, his voice soft now, but there's still that teasing lilt.

The movie continues, and every jump scare has me sinking deeper into Cassian's hold, my fingers clutching his shirt. He doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he seems to enjoy it a little too much, his thumb drawing lazy circles on my shoulder, grounding me in a way that distracts me from the terror on the screen.

"You're so cute in my arms like this," he whispers in my ear after another jump scare, his breath hot against my skin.

"Shut up," I grumble, though I can't help the warmth spreading through my chest at the sound of his teasing.

He grins, clearly enjoying himself. "You know, I could turn it off if it's too much for you," he offers, though we both know he's only half-serious.

"No way," I say stubbornly, forcing myself to focus on the screen again. "I can handle it."

Cassian chuckles, shifting us so that I'm practically curled up in his lap now. "Sure you can, sweetheart. But I'll keep you safe. Promise."

His words send a different kind of shiver through me, and I lean into him more, letting his warmth chase away the fear. Maybe scary movies aren't so bad—if it means I get to stay in Cassian's arms like this.

Eris Vanserra

The meadow stretched wide before me, its golden grasses swaying in the crisp autumn breeze. The trees on the outskirts were ablaze with hues of orange, red, and yellow, their leaves tumbling through the air like a promise of something magical. I breathed in the scent of damp earth and the unmistakable fragrance of apples that wafted from the orchard in the distance. It was a perfect autumn day.

But nothing compared to the sight of Eris Vanserra.

He sat atop his white stallion with the kind of grace and confidence only he could command, his billowy shirt rippling in the wind. The fabric, loose and white, tugged at his broad chest and arms as he adjusted his hold on the reins, the tall riding boots fitted perfectly to his legs. His red-gold hair, untamed and flowing like wildfire, caught the light, making him look every bit the regal and untouchable prince of autumn.

"You're staring," he said, a sly grin creeping up his face as his sharp eyes caught mine.

"Can you blame me?" I shot back, trying to sound more confident than I felt. The truth was, no matter how many times I saw him like this—so effortlessly captivating—my heart still skipped a beat.

With a quick click of his tongue, Eris urged his stallion forward. The rhythm of the horses' hooves on the forest floor is soothing, and soon, the world falls away, leaving just the two of us wrapped in the embrace of autumn.

"I think you love this time of year more than I do," Eris teases, his voice carrying through the wind.

"I just like seeing you in your element," I say, smiling softly. "You belong here."

Eris looks over at me, a tendril of fire curling around my wrist, up my arm. "I belong with you," he murmurs, his voice low and full of warmth as he looks back to where his horse was leading him.

My heart flutters, even though I know how busy he is, and how much responsibility weighs on his shoulders as the heir to the Autumn Court, he never fails to remind me that I am his constant, his sanctuary.

We ride in comfortable silence for a while, letting the serenity of the forest envelop us. The trees around us seem to glow under the setting sun, their leaves casting a golden light across our path. The smell of damp earth and pine fills the air, and I close my eyes for a moment, soaking it all in.

"Look," Eris says softly, and I open my eyes to see him gesturing toward a small grove of apple trees, their branches heavy with ripe fruit. I smile at the sight.

Without hesitation, we guide our horses toward the grove. Eris dismounts first, his movements swift and effortless, and then offers me a hand as I climb down from my mare. His touch lingers for just a second longer than necessary, his fingers trailing down my arm the way his fire had before he lets go. I step closer to one of the trees, reaching up to pluck an apple from the branch. It's cool in my hand, its skin glossy under the fading light.

"I remember the first time you took me apple picking," I say, biting into the fruit, its sweet juice spilling over my lips. "You were so serious about it," I mumble through a mouthful

Eris chuckles, leaning closer and wiping the juice from the apple off my chin, watching me with that familiar look of amusement. "It's tradition," he says, his voice rich with nostalgia. "And I wanted you to enjoy every part of it."

"Well, you certainly made it memorable," I reply, staring up at him with a love-sick kind of smile. "Especially when you tried to out-pick me."

"I wasn't about to lose to you," he says, crossing his arms with a smirk. "Even if you were unfairly distracting."

I roll my eyes, stepping closer to him. "You're lucky I love you."

"Very lucky, indeed." He tilts his head down at me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, then cradling my jaw with a reverent touch.

I rise onto my toes and place a gentle kiss on his lips, one of my hands on his chest for support. A warmth settles over me that has nothing to do with the setting sun. It's the kind of warmth that only Eris ever made me feel, and that warmth didn't so much as flicker as a cold breeze breezed past us.

Lucien Vanserra

I had just slid the last tray of buttery pastries from the oven when the bell over the bakery door chimed, letting in the cool autumn breeze. I didn't need to look up to know who it was, Lucien always carried that earthy, slightly smoky scent no matter where he ventured.

"Evening, love," My mate said whilst hanging up his coat.

"Hi Honey," I smiled up at him while taking my oven mitts off and tossing them onto the counter.

It was late, shopkeepers closing up for the night and silently making their way home on the cobblestones of Velaris. Tomorrow was the debut of my Autumn Menu that I had been developing and revising for the past few months, I had been so stressed about getting everything together that I had completely forgotten about me and Lucien's date night last week, he had told me it was fine, that I shouldn't be worried about him when I was so busy with the bakery, so this was a compromise, I could finish the pastries while Lucien kept me company—and as my official taste tester.

Lucien leaned against the counter, watching me intently as I arranged the freshly baked pastries on a display tray. His golden eye gleamed in the warm glow of the bakery lights, and he was as familiar in my little shop as the scent of vanilla and caramelized sugar. He reached for one of the pastries, his fingers hovering over the flakiest, most tempting treat of the batch, but I swatted his hand away with a laugh.

"No," I teased, drawing the word out and raising a brow. "They just came out, they're too hot."

He frowned, feigning an expression of utter betrayal. "Fire runs in my veins, I think I can handle it." He smirked. "But you already know that, don't you?" He added in a tone that made my heart flutter and my eyes roll.

The humor faded, replaced by a soft sincerity that warmed me more than the oven ever could. "I've missed this—just us here, the world quiet outside." He confessed.

I finished arranging the pastries and brushed the flour off my hands before sliding around the counter to stand in front of him. "Me too," I murmured. "It's been such a crazy week. But I couldn't do this without you." I say as I watch him push off the counter, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me into a warm embrace. For a moment, I just melted into him, letting myself relax for the first time in what felt like days. "I'm proud of you," he said softly, his voice a comforting rumble against my ear. "Tomorrow, everyone in Velaris will be lining up to try your autumn creations, and they'll be back every week until the trays are empty. I can feel it."

I couldn't help but smile, drawing strength from his confidence. Lucien always had a way of grounding me, reminding me why I loved what I did, even when the pressure was high. I tipped my head back to look at him, brushing a kiss along his jaw. "Thanks, Lu. But you know," I added with a mischievous grin, "if you're so set on getting a taste, I suppose I could make a little exception."

His eyes lit up as I turned back toward the tray, picking the perfect pastry. I held it up to his lips, watching as he took a careful bite, his eyes fluttering closed as he savored it.

When he opened them again, a look of pure bliss had settled over his face. "Amazing," he declared. "Absolutely perfect."

I felt a sense of relief and joy bubble up within me. "Really?"

"Really," he assured me, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to my lips. I tasted the buttery, delicate sweetness of the pastry mingled with his warmth, and my heart gave a little flutter. It was moments like these that reminded me how grateful I was to have him as my mate, my support, my everything.

Read the NSFW version here -> Link

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[lovekabaneri]

Getting Dunked - Apocalyptic Ponyo AU

Inspired by @keferon Apocalyptic Ponyo au. Brace yourselves - it will be long and unpolished.

This will be something of a divergence, based on this particlular post: Link.

So, after getting inspired by the “Human gets dunked in toxic chemicals and mutates” idea in Apocalyptic Ponyo, I came up with several ideas for Blaster being dunked.

AN: I don’t quite see Blaster as another orca mer. Don’t get me wrong, the art of him in orca wetsuit was good, but I think he can be something else, something more fitting since his whole thing is *blasting* music and so on, also he has a cassette and has a lot of dancing clips. For now, I am torn between a few options – on one hand I want to make his more flamboyant, keep his bright colors but I also want to keep him some sort of sea mammal for his music, which doesn’t fit too well with his red color scheme.

So, it’s either I make him a fish mer to keep his color: rockfish, parrot fish, angel fish.

Or I keep him a mammal mer for the music, since fish are not vocal: beluga (sea canary),  Weddell seal (almost musical underwater calls), sea lion (very loud and kind of similar color, but we already have Roddy and Ratchet).

V1 – Blaster is rescued by Jazz and Prowl from a sea monster. Jazz wants to help him get to safety and won’t just leave him, despite Prowl’s protests but then when they navigate the ruins, Blaster ends up slipping and falling in some polluted water with strange chemicals from the big industrial facility that are… oddly suspicious. He thinks nothing of it but oh, no! He had been scraped and some of the stuff got in him. He starts feeling sick, feverish and itchy, his bones even hurt and he shakes.

Jazz is worried about his friend, since Blaster was one of the few he trusted, maybe even the only human he trusted with personal things. Prowl wants to leave him, since he’s an inconvenience and a danger, after they discover that Blaster has somehow started to mutate into something. There will be angst as Jazz watches his friend mutate, not knowing if he’ll be fine of if the human would turn in a mutant like those weird-legged fish things they were attacked by near the big, tall ‘sky towers’.

Prowl gets frustrated and almost leaves Jazz and Blaster but returns after noticing some odd movements from the mutants (hunting behavior?) and his conscience gnawing at him. He comes back in time to help as Jazz and barely conscious Blaster are surrounded by those freaky-legged mutants. They must have followed the blood trail from Blaster? So, they manage to slip away, Jazz and Prowl carrying still mutating and delirious Blaster on their backs as they run away. But it is difficult to run, since those thinks have claws and spindly legs and can climb, so Jazz can’t just pull them up high to wait it out. Blaster begs Jazz to leave him, but Jazz doesn’t want to, since Blaster kind of was his only friend for a long while. Jazz suggests they hide Blaster in one of the nearby buildings while they deal with the mutants but then, Prowl’s brain uses the environment and cooks up a trap for the mutants with the half-destroyed apartment building. But… they need bait, aka Blaster, Jazz is loke “NO!” but there’s no other way and Blaster does agree, even though the poor man just wants the pain to stop and to not be jostled around so much he’s feeling like he’d purge his organs out.

(At this point, Blaster is still looking a lot like a misshapen human, his spine as wonky and doing these *concerning* pops and cracks, there are splotches on his body, clammy skin, his legs feeling like jelly and maybe turning purple from the blood flow being cut? Or maybe his legs do what froglets do with their tails and they are slowly getting shorter and are re-absorbed in his body as extra calories to grow the mer tail? Oh, and that tail – damn does the man hurt as this thing is stretching out from his spine, his pelvis is shifting along with all his organs. If he ends up a whale-like mer, would he have a blowhole? Imagine growing another breathing hole! Or maybe if he’s seal, he’d grow fur? Or scales for a fish? Still not sure.)

So, after a quick calculation in Prowl’s noggin, the trap is set, the mutants go for defenseless Blaster and Jazz is *this* close to jumping out as the mutants get close, but they activate the trap. Jazz pulls Blaster up with a rope and Prowl topples the unstable building on top of the mutants, killing them all.

Blaster is very sick for a few days after and Jazz and Prowl have to hunker down in an abandoned building for a bit. During that time, he slowly and painfully changes into… an actually pretty ordinary-looking mer (*cough* unlike Brainstorm *cough*). In fact, Prowl wouldn’t have thought he could have been human if he had not seen Blaster mutate with his own eyes.

Blaster wakes up and Jazz is super happy his friend is not only alright after mutating but also fully aware (Jazz either learned or saw a savage mer while with Prowl) and Blaster is genuinely freaking out. Because… He’s a mer now! Like, legit one, he can feel all the weird new limbs, he can’t move properly in his new body, his vocal cords are also VERY weird and make even weirder new sounds like chirps, whistles and such very easily (even does it sometimes unconsciously) while trying to speak English feels like gargling marbles. Now, he has to not only learn to speak mer from Jazz and Prowl, but also how to move, swim, hunt, basically survive the apocalypse as a mer.

By the time they reach the ocean proper, they would have mostly smoothed things out and would be working as an odd little pod. Prowl no longer hates all humans, only the bad ones, and his opinion of Blaster has changed a lot. Maybe they would try and find the reason why blaster mutated and to see if it can be reversed, even if it is unlikely.

(more under the line)

V2 – Blaster is alone when the tsunami hits and he’s in big trouble. He almost drowns but manages to save himself by climbing up a fire escape on a tall building. Well, not so tall after only the roof is left dry after the wave passed through. He is all on his own, his phone was sopping wet and there was no way to contact anyone, he has the option to escape, to go towards where he saw a couple of emergency flares in the distance (towards the ‘shore’) but… everything is a mess and he’s worried about Jazz and Prowl, his colleagues too, but mostly the two mers since they had no way to evacuate and animals are usually left behind in emergencies. The wave had hit suddenly while he was not on shift, so he knew nothing of what happened at the aquarium. The aquarium is in the opposite direction of the flares… but he’s determined to see if the two mers survived or if they need rescue.

(Completely unaware Prowl had sensed the tsunami earlier by using the magnetic fields or air pressure, or something similar, and the two told no one in order to make an escape attempt since Jazz heard they were going to take Prowl back to the wild and he’d be alone again.)

So, Blaster gets whatever supplies and tools he can, including a sharp broomstick for self-defense from the new freaky fish, and starts navigating the flooded ruins while making his way to the aquarium. At some point, he ends up accidentally stumbling across a few of the freaky-legged mutants near the industrial zone and has to hide in one of the flooded factories. He’s unaware that during the run he had not only cut and scraped himself but that some of the strange ‘secret’ chemicals in the warehouse were leaking and he slipped and got dunked straight into the mutant soup.

He does treat his injuries after getting away from the mutants but it is too late, the transformation has begun! Within the next 24 hours he starts feeling sick, skin clammy and developing fever, his insides feeling like they were flopping around as he moved (not untrue) and soon it becomes a bit too much but he pushes trough, reaching the aquarium. He goes inside and feels dread on top of the physical pain because the place is in ruins. Thankfully he sees that Jazz’s pool was empty and there were no bodies, so he goes “Oh, thank goodness!” and finally collapses.

Blaster would be alone, in pain and delirious. He’d have to struggle to keep himself safe as he feels and watches his body mutate. As he loses the ability to walk properly, growing a tail and his whole anatomy changing. He can’t keep anything down during this whole time. Finally, he fully turns into a mer and feels sweet relif – falling in a fitful sleep. He wakes up, groggy, uncoordinated and heavy. Tries opening his supplies and earing a protein bar or something but such dry human food does not agree with his new biology, so he chokes and finally startles into full awareness.

He is so confused, scared and freaked out because he’s not only on his own in the apocalypse, but now he’s mutated in a new body. He hears strange noises and panics – maybe the building is going to fall down even more, maybe it is the monsters, so he takes whatever he can and runs- or at least tries to. Blaster realizes he can barely move and only flop around, barely manages to drag himself to the water, arms burning from the strain and then rolls himself into the water… only to almost drown because he can’t swim.

He fasttracks the swimming part because he wanted to get away from the odd noises and now in the water, he could *feel* the vibrations inside his head and it was NOT good! His new instincts scream to run away! So, with a lot of flailing and colliding with things, he swims away from the aquarium.

Once safe, he does a quick look over his new body and he comes to very concerning realizations (read more below the line). He clearly has his mind intact but he’s also looking like the average mer. He’s barely able to recognize himself, forget about other people recognizing him.

As some extra angst, he could see other survivors and goes to ask for help, not realizing he now looked quite intimidating with how much bigger he was, plus sharp teeth. He also did not take in account it was quite dark, since he had good night vision, so he scares the survivors when he pulls himself out of the water. They scream and point stuff at him, trying to shoo him away. Then, he realizes with his new vocal cords, he can’t speak normally, because when he tried smiling and asking for help, all the people saw was this large mer baring sharp teeth at them and making weird/scary noises. They end up throwing things at him, even take a few mock swings with a broom and Blaster is forced to swim away. He is feeling SO bad after the encounter. Would his family and friends even recognize him or has he changed too much? Will he be like another of the ‘dumb animals’ to them?

Then he’s attacked by a leviathan and with his poor swimming skills (since his mer for would usually move quite fast normally) he almost gets eaten. He’s injured and thinks it’s his end but then Jazz and Prowl come, after they had heard his ‘screech’ for help.

But then… he faints.

Jazz and Prowl also don’t recognize Blaster, since he’s a mer now. Although Prowl does look at Jazz weird when he tell Prowl he felt like he’d seen the injured mer before. (Impossible, since Prowl was the first proper contact Jazz had in a LONG time.) but then he takes a careful took and- huh, he does look kind of familiar from somewhere?

Well, the two end up taking unconscious Blaster to a safe place and treat him the best they can. When he wakes up, Blaster is both surprised and happy to see that his ‘dream’ of seeing Jazz was actually real.

Both orca mers are shocked to learn that Blaster is now a mer, after a LONG game of charades and bits of rough human speech, maybe even a bit of scribbling on the wall? Jazz is in disbelief and Prowl… well, his feelings are complicated. He thought it was a normal mer but now turns out it is one of the humans, but just mutated somehow? Prowl does not like Blaster and gets jealous when Jazz starts hanging around Blaster. Jazz is happy his friend was safe, since he was also worried if Blaster was alright, but now he was there and Jazz  was eager to teach him a lot, especially after they see how bad he is in all the mer stuff, including swimming – the one thing mers need to know the best.

Again, there will be tension between Prowl and Blaster. Jazz would want to keep him close, but then he’s a burden in Prowl’s eyes. They quarrel and Blaster tries to mediate, it does not go well. Prowl swims away angry but then he does stumble across a leviathan and being alone makes him vulnerable.

In this scenario, since Blaster is not incapacitated, he and Jazz think up a plan to rescue Prowl, since Jazz is still not in top shape and Blaster is mostly useless when not used to his new body. They pull up some boom boxes, hook them up and with Jazz as bait this time (being the nimbler one) just blast the monster with a booming burst of noise and static. Jazz helps Pull disoriented Prowl away and the 3 swim to safety, well more like Prowl and Jazz swimming at max speed while dragging Blaster away from danger. After that, Prowl reluctantly thanks Blaster and accepts him, if only for now. Again, takes a while for Prowl to get it that Jazz and Blaster are just good buddies and that Blaster was not going to ‘steal’ Jazz.

At this point, Blaster is really starving and needs food, so the two do share their meal with him. Blaster is… reluctant to say, to bite in a chunk of raw meat but his hunger says otherwise, so he eats it and… it is not that bad. Prowl says something and Blaster needs translation – basically that was the best they had at the moment and once they got to the ocean and Prowl’s home, they would have something proper to eat. By the time they reach the ocean, Blaster would have gotten used to  swimming properly and have a basic understanding of the mer language.

Both Jazz’s and Blaster’s minds will be blown when they realize mers have actual cooking, technology, music and so on. It is after that Blaster learns Prowl is a cop and they technically held a law enforcement officer captive.

...............................

Blaster is not having a good time, he’s now almost completely unrecognizable with his new body, he has tail, flippers, his voice sounds different and struggling to speak in both languages, even his hair and face has changed a bit to fit the mer body. He’s missing his music because not only did he lose most his tunes in the apocalypse but he also has no human ears to put earbuds in. Oh, he also realizes he’s now technically naked and all his organs and ‘things’ have moved to new spaces. He is having a lot of body dysphoria, can barely drag himself on the shore and just… flails for a while in the water, maybe almost drown (Pathetic for a mer) until they get him up and swimming correctly. There’s also the realization at some point that no one would look at him and think “Oh, that’s Blaster from the aquarium.” He’s unrecognizable, just another mer to other humans, just an animal.

Not to mention, now that he’s more aquatic and sturdier with his new, larger body, Jazz is even more clingy. Prowl is not pleased and feels jealously because Jazz spends not only more time with Blaster, but he and Jazz can communicate with each other better, since Blaster knows human and all the body language, so Jazz is basically on the same speaking level. They will eventually resolve it, by the time they reach the open ocean, but for now there will be more tension between Blaster and Prowl. (Yeah, it takes time for Prowl to realize Jazz and Blaster are just good friends that love music and food.)

Blaster on the other hand, in both scenarios, Blaster will have a big freak out/realization moment as he travels for a while with Jazz and Prowl, especially when he’s a mer. As he learns more and lives with the two orcas as a mer, he comes to realize they are not ‘Just very smart sea creatures that resemble people’ but that mers ARE actual people, with their own language, culture, music, even laws and cuisine. They are literally sea people and Blaster feels *really* guilty, because even if he did treat Jazz like his own person and not dismiss him as some beast, he still kind of though of Jazz as an animal, a really smart one like a monkey or a parrot, if only just a little bit. After all, some animals can also imitate speech and are as smart as a child. And then witnessing just how smart Prowl is, a real computing machine, a genius, he feels even more embarrassed.

Also, I think Blaster would be quite grossed out when he has to have his first proper meal as a mer. Maybe Jazz and Prowl teach him some hunting but since it has been a few days since he changed and is not only exhausted and starving from the mutation, but also still healing and quite uncoordinated, Jazz and Prowl share what they caught with him. Could be fish, could be crustacean, or could be something bigger and he has to ‘dig in’ the carcass before the mutant sharks smell it or they’d have to fight mutants.