#need to draw something with sharp teeth and sharp fangs and sharp claws and sharp talons and sh

[darkdragon768]

Ngh I NEED to draw feral animals, killer machines, murderous beasts and horrible creatures again. I NEED to draw monsters with nothing but blood lust in their eyes. Beings that want to kill, to destroy, to end everything. GNARRR

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Remmick and blood play🫢🫢

The thirst beanth||Remmick x fem!reader

MDNI+18

Word count—1325

Warnings—Blood Play Vampire Feeding Dom/Sub Dynamic (Dom!Remmick / Sub!Reader)

Choking (Light Breathplay) Oral Sex (F Receiving)

Overstimulation Rough Language / Dirty Talk

Possessive Behavior Dubcon-ish Edge (but ultimately consensual) Power Imbalance (vampire/human) Dark Romance Obsessive Love

Slight Pain Kink Emotional Intensity Reader Marking / Claiming

Summary—-When the reader invites Remmick into her space and her body she offers more than just trust.

@abriefnirvana

It started with a whisper.

A promise curled into the space between candlelight and shadow, as Remmick watched you from across the field, eyes dark, mouth parted, hunger leashed by something fragile and fraying.

You’d invited him in tonight. Not because you had to.

Because you wanted him to take something you weren’t sure you’d ever get back.

“You can come in, you know,” you said, voice low, deliberate.

Remmick obeyed.

He moved like a storm held barely at bay graceful, restrained, but too still, too quiet. Like something inhuman wearing a lover’s skin. When he reached you, his hands cupped your jaw with a gentleness that didn’t match the way his eyes drank you in.

“I can smell your blood,” he whispered. “It’s louder when you want me.”

You swallowed. “Then listen.”

That broke him.

He kissed you with a hunger barely disguised as reverence, mouth hot and open, tongue insistent. His hands roamed down your sides, under your shirt, tracing bare skin. Possessive. Worshipful. Terrified of what he might do next.

But you didn’t stop him. Not when he laid you back on the couch. Not when he unbuttoned your shirt with trembling fingers. And not when he stared down at your bare throat, lips wet, teeth glinting just behind them.

“I’ll lose control,” he murmured, voice rough and nearly breaking. “You don’t understand what it’s like to want someone like this.”

“Then show me,” you said. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He growled low feral and cracked and before you could breathe again, his mouth was on your skin. Fangs pierced flesh. Your gasp turned into a moan as pain bloomed sharp and sweet. Your blood rushed to meet his tongue, and he drank like a man dying deep, rhythmic pulls, obscene sounds in the candlelit quiet.

Your body arched, hips rolling up into nothing, heat pooling between your legs. Each suck of his mouth sent waves through you, like your blood was tethered to your need. Like every draw from him echoed through your core.

He groaned against your skin. “So sweet. You taste like you want it. Like you want me to ruin you.”

“Maybe I do.”

You barely recognized your own voice thick with desire, dripping with surrender.

He pulled back, blood smeared across his lips, dripping down your collarbone. His eyes burned with something unholy. Something obsessed.

“I dream about this,” he admitted, voice low and wrecked. “About you beneath me, bleeding for me. Begging. Offering.”

Your thighs clenched at the words.

“Then take it,” you whispered. “Take all of it.”

Remmick didn’t hesitate.

He dropped to his knees and pushed your legs apart, mouth hot and needy as he kissed up your inner thigh. He didn’t bother with your shorts, just tore them aside, dragging his fangs so lightly over sensitive skin that you whimpered. He licked the place where thigh meets hip, tasting sweat, blood, and desire all tangled together.

And then he bit again.

This time, lower. Hungrier.

You cried out as pain lanced through you but pleasure crashed in its wake, sharp and overwhelming. His mouth latched onto the wound, tongue stroking with obscene precision as he drank from your thigh, your core aching with each pull.

One hand gripped his hair, the other clawed at the bed spread. Your body trembled, flooded with heat and fear and want, your orgasm building not from friction, but from the knowledge that you were being consumed. Worshipped. Owned.

And when he pulled back, blood smeared over his lips and chin, he looked up at you with reverence.

“You’re mine now,” he said, voice rough with need. “And I don’t think I’ll ever give you back.”

Your blood was still on his tongue when he kissed you again.

Rougher, this time. Less human.

Remmick’s hand wrapped around your throat not tight, just firm enough to remind you who was in control. His thumb stroked your jaw as he pulled away from your lips, eyes locked on yours like he was daring you to look away.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured. “Is it fear… or something else?”

Your voice was breathless. “Does it matter?”

He growled low in his chest. “It matters to me. I want you to know exactly what you’re begging for.”

His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your breath catch and your thighs press together.

“You want to give yourself to me?” His voice dipped, thick and low. “You want to bleed for me, break for me, come for me while I’ve still got your taste in my mouth?”

You whimpered. Nodded.

That wasn’t enough.

“Use your words, sweet girl. Tell me who you belong to.”

“Y-you,” you gasped. “I belong to you.”

He smiled, sharp and wicked. “That’s better.”

Then he shoved you back down gentle, but firm and dragged you by the hips until your ass was right at the edge of the bed. He spread your legs with a strength that made you feel fragile, like a meal laid out just for him.

“Keep your hands above your head. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

You obeyed.

Heart thudding. Core aching.

Remmick lowered himself between your legs again, his breath hot against your soaked folds. He looked at you for a moment, just looked, like he was memorizing the sight of you ruined and dripping. Then he dragged his fangs along your thigh again, the sharp edges teasing but not biting.

“You’re already so wet,” he purred. “Just from my mouth on your blood. From the pain.”

He buried his face in you with no warning.

His tongue was relentless broad strokes through your folds, then tight flicks over your clit until your hips bucked and your hands clawed at the air above your head.

He held your thighs apart as you writhed.

Licked into you like a man starving no finesse, no teasing. Just raw, possessive hunger.

And then you felt his fangs graze your mound. Lower.

He didn’t bite.

Not yet.

“You want me to mark you here?” he asked against your skin. “Make you mine in the place that matters most?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please—Remmick—”

He bit. Just barely.

The pain was a white-hot spark that exploded into pleasure so intense your vision blurred. He sealed his mouth over the wound and sucked tongue stroking your clit as blood and slick mixed on his lips.

Your orgasm tore through you like lightning.

You cried out, thighs trembling, hands fisting in the air above your head like you were drowning in him.

But Remmick didn’t stop.

He kept licking, sucking, tasting, drawing every last drop of blood and pleasure from you until you sobbed his name.

And then finally he rose.

His mouth glistened with your release. His chin and fangs red with your blood.

“You’re going to come again,” he said, reaching down to press two fingers inside you thick and slow, curling just right. “And again. Until you forget who you were before me.”

You couldn’t speak.

You Didn’t need to.

Because he’d already claimed you.

And there was no going back.

[honestsycrets]

Hey! if your requests are open can you do a drabble where the spider society meets Miguel's and readers baby for the first time? like they show up with her one day where the sitter couldn't make it or something and it's so wild to see Miguel be so soft with her

❛ summary | Miguel doesn't feel secure letting anyone watch his daughter-- not even Peter. or, gwen tries to hold miguel's daughter for the first time.

❛ sy's notes | slightly different than the request above but still in the same vein.

❛ tags | reader and child from starved, family piece, some angst, some sweetness, reference to loss of child, mention of pregnancy.

He just had to do it. 

Despite the fact that Miguel knew everything about his body being amped up, he missed how it felt. In his rush to have sex, he didn’t consider the possibility that you could have been ovulating. That the temporary amenorrhea wouldn’t last. It was his miscalculation. A miscalculation resulted in Mireya’s presence in his lab, chewing on his knuckle as some poor substitute for a teething toy. 

“Ay chingado, where is that pinche--” he huffed under his breath, rummaging around his cluttered desk for the damn toy. Mireya pinched down on his finger again with those bright brown eyes, twinkling with mischievous curiosity for why her papi was cussing again. His claw popped forth, drawing a fantastic giggle careening from her lips. Miguel retracted them again, shaking his hand out at his side. “Are those fangs or teeth in there, mija, hm?” 

“That’s cute.” 

In his preoccupation with his daughter, he hadn’t necessarily heard the pitter-patter of feet behind him. Despite what everyone might think, Miguel doesn’t like visitors in his lab. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, realizing that it was Gwen in the lab. Great, he expelled a great puff of air. Wherever Gwen was, Jess or Peter never seemed to be too far behind. 

“What is?” 

“Mireya,” she bounced forward, hands behind her back, inspecting Mireya with a twinge of a smile. It grew on her lips, just a little. She flicked her index finger, making a point that he really didn’t feel like hearing. “And you too. I mean, even if you cuss a little at her. You’re so soft with her.”

“Enjoy the sight while it lasts.” Miguel bit out, drawing into a little sigh as he cradles his daughter close. “But I’m not cussing at her, I’m looking for her teething chew-- which is not my finger, Mireya.”

She bites down on his palm. Miguel’s face screws up in annoyance, rather than pain, settling a small kiss on the top of her head. Her soft baby curls tickle his lips. He turns back to his panels, inspecting the anomaly he had been tracking all afternoon. She bites him again.

“Wherever that thing went, carajo! Lyla, ¿dónde está?!” He forgot that his daughter had a low tolerance for his outbursts. Unlike Gwen, Peter, or even you, Miguel was usually well aware of his rising volume. Gwen held up her palms.

“No, mi vida, no, I’m sorry,” Mireya’s lower lip quivered, revving up in another sharp cry that Miguel hardly had the patience for. Her cry burst free, causing Miguel to tear away from Gwen, sliding Mireya onto his broad shoulder. He pats her back gently. “Is there a reason you’re here?” 

“Your wife sent me to help you. I’d… I’d really like to hold her. I mean. If you’re willing.” 

"¿Qué?" Miguel hissed, hiding the flash of displeasure that ripped across his face. Of course, you sent a teenage kid to come take a daughter from him! Why wouldn’t you? No way in hell— he took a step away, the sharpest way he could say no. Almost a year old and still Gwen had not held her. 

“She shouldn’t have. I don’t need help.”  

“She said you’d say that,” Gwen tippy-toed up to Miguel’s shoulder, peeping at Mireya’s big brown eyes. She screwed them shut, burning through another red-hot wail of pain. If Gwen didn't leave him alone--

“What exactly did she say?”

“Mireya’s teething and Miguel has a bad temper.” 

A bad temper, she said. Miguel scrunched up his nose. 

“Tch. Of course, I never would have guessed.” 

He heard another set of feet. Two, actually. He expected to see Peter’s too-happy smile beaming at him like an aggravating ray of morning light. He didn’t, however, expect your eyes to stare right back at him. Your voice cut right through Mireya’s inconsolable cries. 

“Miggy, are you giving Gwen a hard time?” 

He chewed on his words, using his foot to roll his chair out from his desk. You hopped onto the platform with Peter’s aid, a task on its own with your swollen belly behind a deep blue gown. Mireya’s sharp cries fizzled out into little chirps, somehow pleased with your presence. Miguel, however, was not. 

“There’s my girl!” Peter slapped his hands together, rushing forward when you were secure on the platform. Peter couldn’t help himself, even amid a fight. She bounced on Miguel’s shoulder, palms extended, squeezing and releasing. Why did she have to love Peter? “Hi, Mireya!” 

“No. You should be resting,” Miguel pointed toward his chair. You didn’t fight him on it, sliding into it with your hand under your belly to support the child that brewed in your stomach. He couldn’t help but feel a string of guilt for the exhaustion that was so easily apparent on your face. It’s why he took her-- in the hope that you would sleep. 

“I would if I knew you would take the help.” 

Peter swerved around Gwen, peering over Miguel’s shoulder at her squishy little body in double the glee the little girl looked at him with.

“I don’t need help.” 

“Lyla says you do,” you tilted back in the chair, folding your arms just under your swollen chest. Miguel threw another curse under his breath. The AI who mysteriously was not listening to any of his commands. “And if Lyla says you do, then you do.” 

He could have fought you but as fate would have it, you were close to pushing out another child of his. He glared at the glittering stone of your ring on your finger and relented, his head bobbing into a complacent nod. As per usual, you won.

“Fine, por hoy,” he said with a heavy breath, turning over to face Gwen. She cracked a nervous smile as he leaned in, settling Mireya in her arms. Gwen’s big eyes snapped down to the little girl, insecurity trickling from her person. Miguel picked up on it like blood pouring into a cup of water. “If you hurt her, I’ll—“

“Miguel, no threats.”

He cursed. 

“Now that that’s settled,” Peter ran his hands together, swiping up the chew toy that Miguel had been looking for. He obnoxiously slid Mireya out of Gwen’s arms,  the only person that Miguel would allow his daughter to be held by without standing threats. “Come to Uncle Peter! We can go get ice cream with Hobie and Pavitr, just you and me and Gwen!"

Hobie and Pavitr? He never--

“Tio Peter,” Gwen corrected, stroking her upper arm nervously. 

“Tio Peter."

Miguel couldn’t help but watch the pair slip away-- talking about things like ice cream for toothaches, park dates, and fun as they slipped into a portal. You caught Miguel’s hand, stopping him from jerking to snatch her back up. 

“She’s safe with them,” It itched-- it itched all over. The terrible feeling that no, his Mireya was not safe with Peter, or Gwen, or Jess, or anyone else that wasn’t him. If even him. You stood up. “Miguel, Miguel no--” 

He snapped to the monitor, drawing forth Gwen and Peter, his hand at his lip. Your stomach pressed into his back. His third-- no second-- child. His hand fell to your arms that intertwined around his muscular midsection. “She’s almost one. We talked about this. You said Peter was the only one you’d trust to watch her.” 

“Almost one,” he laughed it off, his hand falling away from his lips. “She could be forty and I would still worry.”

“You don’t trust Peter?” 

“I don’t even trust myself.”  He threw you back a glance, an undercurrent of sadness flowed through the words.

“I do, mi amorcito,” You held him a little tighter, finding the words came as easily as the movements of the child in your belly against his back. Miguel bit back a small smile at the feeling, following Peter and Gwen choosing ice cream for his little girl. The door jingled with a bell-- Hobie and Pavitr strode in, because of course they did, it couldn't just be a quiet outing. Who was next? Miles? “And I trust Peter too.”

“I know you do.”

Vanilla? Cotton candy? Not the cotton candy. If they only knew. It’s strawberry. Mireya’s favorite is strawberry. Gabriella’s was vanilla. His shoulders relaxed, watching Peter present a small sample of strawberry to his little princesa. 

“Bueno,” he slid his hand on top of yours. “I could… go for an empanada. ¿Quieres ir conmigo?”

“Sí,” you beamed. “Let's go. Just you and me.”

It’s a strange feeling— being without his little girl. At least for today, he’s certain she’ll be okay. 

[the-scythes-pen]

Shining Silver (Lucifer x Reader)

Soft lucifer propaganda

"I... ahh... (Y/N) (L/N), being of... a-ah... the three realms..." you squeezed your cunt around his cock; hand moving to cup his cheek and encourage him to look at you, "offer my soul... to the demon before me."

---------------------

"Are you sure about this?"

His voice was serene, gentle and full of love and concern. You swore you had never seen his eyes so soft before.

"I'm sure." You said with a soft smile of your own, and Lucifer was swift to capture your lips with his own; his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he pushed them back and down into your abdomen even more- his thick cock parting your slick lips and sheathing itself within you.

Your lips danced in a heated battle; unable to get enough of the other as if you two weren't already intertwined absolutely. Your cunt clenched around his cock, squeezing him to get him to start moving. But he didn't respond, only leaning deeper into your body as if he truly did want to merge as one with you.

It was only when he pulled away from you did he start the slow draw of his hips, setting the pace agonizingly slowly as he forced you to savour every inch of his cock.

His lips reconnected with your jaw, tongue swiping at your flesh before he sucked a little on the spot; moving down to a place high on your neck next and repeating the action. Your hands came up to entangle themselves in his raven-black hair, only moving slightly when you felt the slow but gradual protrusion of scale-y horns emerging on his head. You were quick to stroke them, lovingly running your fingers and palms over both appendages as you felt every nick and smooth scale in detail.

The drag of his cock within your walls was agonizingly delicious; you just wanted him to pound you, to drive you into the bed and make you scream for him over and over- yet this slow, loving pace was so good, you never wanted it to end.

His pace only picked up the further he traveled down your neck, sucking and licking your flesh all the way down until he stopped by the base of your neck. You felt fangs graze your skin- sending a shiver down your entire being. Your body was screaming with need, just wanting him to take the plunge, yet something in the back of your head told you not to submit. To fight it. To fight him.

"Relax." He mumbled into your flesh, pulling away to gaze at you with half lidded eyes. "Your natural instinct will be to run. But I need you to fully submit yourself to me if we are to do this."

You nodded; a jolt of pleasure suddenly running through your core as a soft pair of fingers rubbed over your clit. Your eyes screwed shut momentarily, and you could feel his cock twitch inside of you. You opened your eyes to give him a sloppy smile.

"I love you, Lucifer." You said as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "Take me."

The thrust of his hips picked up speed, driving into you deliciously as his hand pulled away from your clit, leaving you clawing at his shoulders for the loss of stimulation.

But his hands moved underneath you, and in one swift motion you were easily lifted into the demon's arms; he turned away from his bed and slammed your back into the nearest wall, roughly thrusting himself into your wet cunt as he panted into your neck. Wet slapping sounds filled the room, your juices spilling out onto the floor below.

"Lucifer..." you murmured, "start it."

He took a moment, but he pulled his face away from the crook of your neck, eyes closed and face loose with pleasure. He tightened his jaw, willing himself to open his eyes and hold your shining gaze.

"I, Lucifer Morningstar..." he took a sharp breath, "Avatar of Pride..... ngh..." his thrusts picked up more speed, "Son of the Holy Father..." he gritted his teeth, "offer to join with... ngh... this being before me."

Fuck, you could feel your orgasm quickly approaching. And Lucifer was only going faster.

"I... ahh... (Y/N) (L/N), being of... a-ah... the three realms..." you squeezed your cunt around his cock; hand moving to cup his cheek and encourage him to look at you, "offer my soul... to the demon before me."

You could feel magic flare up around the two of you; Lucifer grabbed your hips and stumbled away from the wall, slamming his hips into yours as jet black feathered wings moved to envelop you.

His face buried once more in the crook of your neck, his cock kissing your deepest parts with every ecstasy-laced thrust. You felt his fangs once more graze over your flesh.

Your nails dug into his back, your hips tightening around his waist as he pushed himself into you. And as you felt the coil of pleasure begin to snap, you leaned your body right against his, causing his breath to hitch.

You felt it. The sinking of fangs into your flesh; a stinging pain as your head suddenly felt light. But the pain came on too late to stop your orgasm; and you let out a loud, pleasure filled moan as you came on your lover's cock. Lucifer continued to fuck you through the orgasm to drag it out as long as possible.

It felt heavenly. The pleasure from your cunt and the sensations his cock continued to pump into you seemed to flow through your veins- it seemed to attach itself to every corner of your body as you fell limp in the demons arms, drunk on the pure euphoria of sexual pleasure.

You couldn't feel much else- but you were hyper-aware of the demon's cock inside of you. It felt like your senses were heightened wherever his cock touched you, while your other senses turned off everywhere else. You could feel thick ropes of cum paint your insides; you could feel the drag of his cock as he fucked his cum deeper into you. You could feel every twitch- every pulse of his member as he fucked you through your everlasting orgasm and through his own.

After what felt like an eternity, his face pulled away from your flesh as the thrusting of his hips slowly came to a standstill. He kept his eyes shut; breathing heavy from such a lovely orgasm and the rushing feeling of you inside of him. His wings moved even closer to you as he simply hugged you into his form.

Now that his fangs had been removed from you, your body was starting to come back to itself. You no longer felt every little inch of his cock still sheathed in you; every little drop of cum that soaked your walls and threatened to spill from your puffy lips. Your senses gradually returned to normal, and only now did you become aware of the lighter feeling within you, and the dull pain in your neck.

You kept yourself buried in him; your face in his shoulder and body slumped against him.

You felt weak, but complete. Soft hands moved to stroke your back gently, as if comforting a small child as Lucifer moved backwards towards his bed.

"Come on, love. You need to rest properly."

You mumbled something incoherent into his flesh, causing him to chuckle before prying your koala-like body from his own and placing you onto the soft mattress of his bed.

He was quick to climb in with you, scooping you back into his embrace and placing you on one set of wings, while the other set moved to wrap around you once more.

He held you close, simply steadying his breathing and enjoying the pure warmth your body emitted. His entire being tingled with power; with something new. And while it was a strange feeling indeed, he could proudly say he loved it- because it was you. It was your soul fusing with him. It was the two of you becoming one.

He couldn't help the soft smile that graced his lips at the thought. He couldn't wait for you to come to and feel it yourself.

Leaning down, he brushed his lips against the top of your head, earning a small hum from you as you nuzzled into his chest. His hand idly dragged through your hair, fingers gliding through locks softly and occasionally stopping to rub into your scalp.

He loved you. And now, the two of you had been bound for eternity.

[sadiecoocoo]

Uncle Snot and Cousin Fang Part 1 - Little Spitfire Chp. 2

Summary - Snotlout works on figuring out how to take care of a baby fireworm while also trying to avoid the rest of the gang as much as possible

Chp. Word Count - 3,212

Total Word Count - 5,846

Read on AO3

Read Chp. 1

Notes: You all are so incredible and amazing and perfect because i have NEVER gotten asks about a fic before and the first one I work on after getting through writer's block I get asks??? this is the bestest thing ever and I love you all so so much <3 also i found a way to pirate riders of berk so now i can rewatch the episode where the fireworm queen saves hooky (and hear the stupid "get another sword" speech from spitelout so i can hate him at full force even more) anyways, this one is pretty dialogue heavy, which I will admit is not my strong suit, so please bear with me with this one please enjoy <3

Snotlout had taken care of hatchlings before. The first time he ever had was on the first Snoggletog with the dragons. It was everyone else’s first time too, so it didn’t feel too bad when he messed something up.

He could still remember the little monstrous nightmare that he had placed on one of the large tables in the great hall. The little guy was jumping up at his upheld hand and trying to bite his fingers.

So far, Spitfire shared that trait. She liked to gnaw on things too, which often led to something getting set on fire. It had been a couple of days since she was added to the family, and Snotlout still didn’t have the best preventative for that.

She also still loved climbing all over Snotlout, why she ignored the fireproof dragon for a fragile, fleshy human, he had no idea. She loved to do it at night too, curling up on his side until he jolted awake with the discovery of a new burn.

He had had to make multiple trips back to the clubhouse to get more bandages and burn cream, which worried whoever happened to be in the room at the time. Except the twins, they just snickered and pointed at Snotlout as if he wasn’t standing right next to them. He didn’t have a fic for that problem either, both the twins and the continuous burns.

The next problem he faced was food, which was something they honestly were both struggling with. He hadn’t really been to the clubhouse for dinner since he’d been taking care of Spitfire. Something about it just felt wrong. He’d taken his meals to his hut for the past few days, partly so he could see what Spitfire liked to eat.

 He still wasn’t sure what fireworms liked to eat. He had tried fish, rocks, bugs, and even eels! It wasn’t much of a surprise, but she shied away from the slithering thing and proceeded to avoid Snotlout the rest of the day. Though, he woke up in the middle of the night again to her trying to cuddle.

So far, funnily enough, she liked worms the best, but she still ate them reluctantly. Despite the little guys being one of the more docile “untrainable” dragons, neither Hiccup nor Fishlegs thought it would be worth it to figure out what they ate. Maybe he’d actually be more knowledgeable about a dragon than the two brainiacs were for once (though no one knew more about monstrous nightmares than him).

Snotlout, having found at least one thing she would eat, was currently trying to dig up as many worms as possible. It was a task a lot more difficult than it sounded. He only had a few of them, and had been digging for about an hour. His little Spitfire would need to get some new preferences if his luck stayed this bad.

The thought made something ache in his chest. Snotlout didn’t want to force feed the hatchling something she didn’t want. He had already taken her away from her home and put her in a dangerous, new environment.

He knows, deep down, that Hiccup had a point about getting her someplace she could really grow, but he couldn’t just leave her out in the wild. She couldn’t breathe fire, her claws and teeth were hardly sharp enough to draw blood, and she still wasn’t even that warm yet! The only reason he had gotten burned so many times was because of long contact, and that’ll do her no good against predators. Not to mention that Snotlout was fairly sure Spitfire was just as clueless about her diet as he was.

All in all, she was staying, end of discussion. And she couldn’t stay, he would be happy to leave and take her back to Berk. Though, that would probably be worse than the Edge.

Snotlout groaned and hung his head. This was useless. He didn’t know how to find worms other than digging in the dirt, and that was hardly working. He couldn’t even get the worms they use for bait either since the little rascal needed to learn to catch live food.

“Snotlout?” a, somehow, degrading voice started from behind him. “What are you doing digging in the dirt?”

Snotlout startled and turned around quickly. Astrid was staring down at him with a brow raised. She was holding her axe, which probably meant she had been looking for a good place to go axe-throwing.

“Oh- Astrid! Hey…” Snotlout said nervously as he got to his feet. He started doing something to fidget with his hands, but they were covered in dirt. He subconsciously scrunched up his nose at the feeling of the coating of soil.

“I was just digging… for worms…” he explained, trailing off with a crooked smile. He gestured down at the pathetic pile he had gathered.

“For worms?” she said, her tone making Snotlout want to shrivel up and die.

“For Spitfire, it’s the only thing she’ll eat.” he added with a cough.  He looked back down at his embarrassing pile and debated just giving up and hoping Spitfire would have enough until he had a chance to get more.

“There’s nothing else?” She asked. He frowned at the suspicion lacing her tone. I don’t know Astrid, I only tried worms! He thought to himself.

“Not that I know of.” He grumbled. Snotlout regarded the pile for another moment, then he leaned down and scooped it up. The worms writhed in his hands and he suppressed a gag.

“Well she’s probably waiting for some snacks, so I better go!” He said quickly, already walking past the girl and towards his hut.

“Do you need us to get anymore?” She called after him.

“No it’s fine!” He yelled back, because how embarrassing would that be? How is he supposed to take care of a baby dragon if he can’t even get her food on his own?

When he made it back to his hut, it was to the smell of smoke and his dragon running around outside with his wings outstretched in a panic.

Snotlout’s shoulders slumped and he let out an annoyed groan.

He dropped his meager pile onto the ground and ran towards his hut. There weren’t any flames that he could see, so he was hoping it was something small. Knowing his luck, he didn’t hold his breath.

Once he made it to the hut, he swung open the door. A plume of smoke blew into his face and he let out several coughs.

Snotlout gagged on the smell, but he went into the hut. His eyes watered as he ran up the stairs to his bedroom.

Maybe Thor was looking down on him, because it was only his sheets that were ablaze. He grabbed them and threw them onto the floor, stomping on them until they went out.

Snotlout rushed to open every door and window in his hut, then we went back outside. He practically collapsed into the ground once he was out.

Hookfang, with the little arsonist sitting on his snout, came and nudged Snotlout’s shoulder. Snotlout patted his nose, then carefully tapped Spitfire’s head to let her too.

Snotlout heard the sound of wingbeats behind him, and his shoulders slumped further. He turned around to see Hiccup landing a bit behind him.

The rider ran over to Snotlout, with his dragon trotting behind with little worry. Snotlout screamed internally.

“What happened!?” Hiccup demanded.

“I left for a bit to get Spitfire food and she set fire to my bed.” Snotlout explained, fighting to keep the tiredness from his voice. It ended up with him sounding more frustrated and whiny, but he could live with that.

Hiccup looked from the house to the little fireworm. He sighed, placing a hand on his hip and using the other to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Snotlout, listen,” Hiccup started, “you can’t take care of a baby fireworm on your own.” He insisted.

Snotlout scowled. He could take care of any other baby dragon, why not a fireworm? They’re smaller and at least don’t breathe fire every two seconds. He made a mistake and he could learn from it.

“Hiccup, it’s been like three days!” Snotlout yelled, holding up three fingers for emphasis, “of course I’m gonna make a couple of mistakes! My house isn’t fucking fireproof, Hiccup, nothing on this island is!” He finished, gesturing wildly.

Hiccup looked startled, to say the least. No one was ever surprised when Snotlout yelled, but sometimes he could hit them with something new, something that made them turn around and think that they aren’t always the smartest person in the room.

“Snotlout, I understand you want to do this-“

“Yeah, and I will do it!” He interrupted, “I’m gonna make sure that little fireworm is safe and grows to be the best fucking queen the archipelago has ever seen!” He pointed a finger and pushed Hiccup’s chest as he said it. Toothless let out a small warning growl, which led to Hookfang spreading out his wings further.

“Yeah, I get that,” Hiccup’s voice started to raise too, “but you can’t-“

He was once again interrupted when Spitfire jumped off of Hookfangs snout. She hopped onto Snotlout’s shoulder and let out a long rasp that could’ve been a roar if she was bigger. Her body glowed brighter and Snotlout could feel heat through the leather of his tunic.

That seemed to silence the whole group. Snotlout and Hiccup both stared at the little fireworm. He let a small smile grace his lips and he patted Spitfire’s head in thanks.

Hiccup let out a soft sigh. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose again.

Toothless rubbed against Hiccup with a croon and the Viking placed his hand on the dragon. “Yeah, I know bud.” He muttered, almost enough for Snotlout to not hear it.

“Snotlout,” Hiccup started again, much quieter this time. “You’re right.”

Snotlout blinked. Okay… that was honestly new. I mean, he was right all the time! Of course he was, he’s Snotlout… it just never really got acknowledged like that.

“I-I am?” He asked in disbelief. He knew this time he was stretching it, taking care of a hatchling was difficult at best, and he never expected Hiccup to trust him to do it. He still didn’t hold much hope for it.

“Yes, yes you are.” Hiccup doubled down, “that dragon needs someone to take care of her and she clearly trusts you a lot.” He gestured to where she still sat on Snotlout’s shoulder.

 Her wings were outstretched, like she still saw Hiccup as a threat. She snapped at him when he gestured to her, and he pulled his hand back quickly. 

“I think maybe it would be best for her to stay here.” Hiccup declared finally. Snotlout’s heart leapt into his threat and he released a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Seriously?” He asked, eyes wide and hopeful. Then, the Viking coughed and cleared his throat, “I mean, it’s not like I needed your permission!” He corrected, rolling his eyes.

Spitfire chirped at him. She rubbed her head against Snotlout’s cheek. He thought she was starting to get hotter, he could still feel a sting after he stopped.

“But we need to lay some ground rules.” Hiccup continued, immediately souring a bit of Snotlout’s mood. Telling a full grown dragon what to do was one thing, but a baby? You might as well argue with a Berserker. 

“Firstly, if she’s gonna stay here, she needs to be properly taken care of, and you can’t do that on your own.” He started, Snotlout scowled. “You have to let us all help.” He demanded.

Snotlout was silent for a moment. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. He could take care of her; he didn’t need the others’ help. He knew if they did they’d just be second-guessing him the entire time.

He looked at Hiccup again, who was staring at him with a brow raised. Snotlout didn’t really have much of a choice, did he?

“Fine. Whatever- but you’re still backup!” He relented, adding on his own term to the deal.

“Of course, you’re clearly her favorite anyway,” Hiccup agreed with a chuckle.

“Second,” he continued, “we need to keep her somewhere fireproof. Maybe the stables-“

“She’s staying with me.” Snotlout interrupted. He wasn’t leaving this for discussion.

“Your hut almost burnt down,” Hiccup reasoned.

“Then we should find a way to fireproof it.” He suggested with a determined scowl.

“Snotlout, you have to understand-“ he didn’t have to do anything. He’s been the one taking care of her and he would continue to do so. She didn’t like being alone, even if she had other dragons with her, and Snotlout did not want to sleep in the stables.

“No, Hiccup.” Snotlout said forcefully, “she’s staying with me.” He declared.

Hiccup let out another sigh. Both Toothless and Hookfang chuckled in low rumbles.

“Alright fine, she stays with you.” He gave in, his tone exasperated, “but you can’t keep letting something like this,” he gestured towards the smoke still billowing out of Snotlout’s house, “happen.” he finished.

“I can handle it.” Snotlout declared. Hookfang set his body on fire every time he got a little annoyed, he knew how to handle things like that. How difficult could it be?

Turns out, a fireworm starting fires is a lot more difficult to prevent than a monstrous nightmare starting fires.

Snotlout had been through three pairs of bedsheets in just a few days. Every time he left to find some new food for her to try, she made herself comfortable on his bed and ended up causing it to burst into flames.

He was actually debating if moving into the stables would be easier after all. He could handle the smell, probably. Then again, the combination of Barf and Belch’s flammable gas and Meatlug’s other kind of gas would smoke him out of there faster than his burning bed.

He was currently sitting outside of his hut, leaning against the door on the raised wooden pathway. He felt exhausted. Spitfire kept waking him up at night by almost burning his skin off; which was unfair since every time she only ever tries to snuggle.

The little arsonist was sitting in his helmet, which he had rested on his lap. She was getting warmer, and he didn’t trust himself to be able to keep her off of him once it started to burn.

Snotlout already had some burns that he knew would turn into scars. Add another to the collection, he supposed. He knew his legs had an assortment of burn scars from when he first started riding Hookfang and before he had gotten a saddle. Now his hands and shoulders would match.

At least with his shoulders he had the leather padding of his tunic, but his hands were another story. He still had them bandaged, since every time he took them off he just got burnt again. Snotlout wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about that.

Spitfire chirped up at him. He looked down to see her staring up at him expectantly. He sighed and leaned his head back against his door, making it bump against the wood with a small thud.

He grabbed a worm from the tiny pile he had brought out with him (he was seriously starting to hate touching the slimy things), and dangled it over Spitfire. She jumped up and down to try and catch it, but Snotlout kept on raising his arm higher so she couldn’t reach.

“Oh, is this what you want?” he asked, his voice teasing, “you want the gross little worm, huh?” it wasn’t bad to call her food gross to her face, right? It’s not like she understood english.

Spitfire chirped and spun around in a circle. She put her front feet on the rim of his helmet and opened her mouth to try and snap at the worm. Snotlout chuckled and gave it to her, tired of holding onto the squirming creature.

She smacked her lips as she ate, almost as if she was exaggerating the action. Then she spun around again until she settled and lied down. At least his helmet couldn’t catch fire while she slept. It couldn’t have been pleasant to wake up to your bed on fire. He would know, actually.

Snotlout was alerted to being hungry too when his stomach growled. He frowned and let out another sigh.

The Jorgenson got up, careful not to jostle Spitfire awake, and headed towards the club house. It was about lunch time now. He had missed breakfast since he was looking for more food for Spitfire. He really should have stopped by the clubhouse and grabbed something that he could eat on the way.

He walked along the wooden pathway, his helmet in his hands, until he made it to the club house. He frowned when he heard voices inside. He really didn’t want to deal with anyone at the moment, and it was painfully difficult to take food to his hut with the others there.

He paused for a moment, biting his lip as he thought. Then Snotlout shrugged and whirled around to head back to his hut. Food could wait, in about an hour they would all be off to their own things again anyway.

“Snotlout?” someone asked from behind him. He cringed internally, but fought for his shoulders not to slump with annoyance.

“Oh hey,” He turned back around, “Tuff, what’cha doin’?” he asked, as casually as he could. He smiled, though it must have been more of a grimace when Tuffnut scrunched up his nose.

“Eating lunch with the others,” he answered carefully, “shouldn’t you be doing that too?” he added, a combination of suspicion and concern lacing his voice.

“No, I- uh- had a big breakfast!” He lied, that was something he was usually good at, hopefully his greatest skill wouldn’t fail him now.

Unfortunately, Tuffnut did not look convinced. For a moment Snotlout wondered why he even bothered trying to get Tuffnut off his back, it’s not like the Thorston could tell him what to do. But, Snotlout realized, he could tell Hiccup, and Hiccup could be more annoying than the twins with his coddling.

“So, what are you doing here?” Tuffnut asked. Why was he so nosey all of the sudden? Couldn’t he just go back inside and have fun with the others?

“I was just taking Spitfire for a walk!” Snotlout snapped. He snapped his mouth shut with an audible clack and suppressed a sigh. “Listen- I’m gonna go back to my hut.” He said, much quieter. He started walking away before Tuffnut grabbed his shoulder.

“Before you go, me and Ruff thought up a good prank that we could use the fireworm in! You wanna help?” He said quickly. He sounded eager. Snotlout pressed his lips together in a thin line.

Tuffnut looked excited, and strangely hopeful. Snotlout’s brow furrowed as he watched Tuff’s smile slowly falter at his silence.

“Maybe later,” he relented. He couldn’t bring himself to really smile, but he hoped the sentiment was there.

End Notes: I can never escape gay love again ty so so much for everyone that's interacted with this either here or on tumblr I love ya'll a bunch and will sacrifice my first born child to you next chp will be from the other rider's POV throughout this fic, then it's onto the next in the series! :)

NPT: @green-slithering-thing @nox-in-a-box @nyxnightincarnate

Next Chp.

[whisperwritingstuff]

reverse beasts are here! and they are! they sure are.

-----

Scar wakes up. Scar wakes up. Fuck. He wakes up.

All he can hear is the thudding race of his own heartbeat in his ears. His Summoner's magic- A bulging reservoir, settled deep in his gut, warm and tingling, sharp and pulsing. His brain feels slightly more inside out than usual, which he ignores.

He's got to focus. On… Something. He wishes he knew what, but he needs to.

The call to fall back into that magic is so tempting. Scar hasn't had a high like that in- Seasons, years. Every nerve alive and singing with power, all of his senses resonating with the very strings of the world itself- He shudders.

Scar focuses on that, on not wanting that. On how to not want things. On the shape of the word 'no' in his lips and tongue, imagining how it would feel.

Silly. Silly thoughts, why would he ever need that?

But- He's allowed to be silly sometimes. He can indulge this. It's just a single tiny word after all, nothing threatening.

Scar becomes aware of bodies pressed close to his. His fellow Vex beside him, their Summoner draped over top of them both. It's good, his den is good, air sweet with magic.

Why is his heart still running like it's trying to burn itself out? Nothing is wrong.

He seeks to press closer to them, claws digging in as he drags his fellow Vex closer.

Turns out they're not super fond of being woken up that way. Which Scar discovers when they bite down on his shoulder, digging in their fangs and shaking their head back and forth.

A sharp bolt of clarity hits Scar with the pain, and he wrenches himself free of those teeth, scrambling backwards and away from Cub and Grian.

Ow. The floor greets Scar unfriendly-like, when he forgets to check where the edge of the bed is.

The scent of sweet-sharp blood hits Scar full force, drawing Scar to look down and realize he's clawing at his own chest, hands seeking to rip out a bond he can't find.

A brief flash of glowing eyes in his periphery is the only warning he gets, before firm hands dart out and drag him under the bed.

"Stop That." Cub's voice, firm. Scar's hands falter, fall still.

Cub gathers him closer. The space is dark, and tight. Scar clings onto the tiny scrap of comfort, holds Cub so that his hands won't find something worse to do.

"I don't- I can't- Cub. Cub." Scar babbles, his unruly heart giving him no relief.

"Eat something." Another firmly commanding tone from Cub.

Scar can do that. He finds a bit of meat in his inventory, and begins gnawing at it.

The stinging pain of his chest eases, gradually. Scar clicks fear to Cub, shivering and trembling in his grip.

"You're okay. You're still free, Scar." Cub murmurs to him.

"Doesn't feel that way." Scar hunches in on himself, reflexive cringing from having disagreed.

Cub moves one of his hand between them, slips it into Scar's chest. Scar can feel it, passing through his organs, fingertips sliding along his magic. Meticulous. Thorough.

Long moments tick past. Cub takes his hand out, and goes back to crushing Scar close. Unbound, Cub clicks, with an undertone of relief-regret, the two sentiments clashing with one another.

Only now does Scar's heart finally relent its driven pace, beginning to slow at last. He's not bound. He hadn't been taken in his fledgling trust. "Why'm I full of his magic?"

"That was me." Cub says bluntly. "He was giving it to me, and I shared."

"Why were you full of his magic." Scar asks, a bit arch, a bit irritated. Hadn't they gotten through to Grian?

"That I don't quite remember. He hit me? Or something like that. It's a big blur." Cub rubs his cheek into Scar's.

"He can't just blow away the memory with magic and act like that makes it better." Scar murmurs bitterly.

"He's not-" Cub's face twists up, words grinding to a halt. Arguing with himself, no doubt. A silent debate to defend or condemn his Summoner.

Soft peeping confusion sounds faintly from above them into the silence of the moment.

"He can't get away with that." Scar mutters, shaking his head.

"What if I want it?" Cub asks.

"What if you want to twist me up with that high until I don't know my ups from my downs, so I'll walk right into the snare and you can both call it my choice, all because your fingerprints are hidden beneath the surface?" Scar's glare tries to burn holes in Cub's face.

"Not that part, you know not that." Cub looks away. "Just like you know I like power. I like it. Doesn't having it feel amazing, man?"

Scar lifts a hand to Cub's cheek, turns Cub back to face him. "Sweet thing, you are the picture of temptation." As Scar had known they'd be, Cub's eyes greet him, pale as moonlight. He can't stay mad at that part of Cub being true to what he is. "But we're not who we were."

"We could be." The ache of longing shines in the way Cub leans faintly toward him, in the softest tremble of hope in Cub's voice.

Scar shakes his head. "Moving backward is just lying to your you."

"You love lying." Cub's protest comes immediately.

"I do love lying." Scar nods. "But it's only fun when it's a show."

"We could be a perfect show, all the time. Think of it, yeah?" Cub presses on. "Think of it."

"I have. Thought of it, I mean. I can hardly keep my mind off of it. Us. I want to be us again." Scar presses his forehead to Cub's. "But I want other things, too. I can't give them up for that."

"It used to be simple." Cub sighs.

"You'd get bored if it still was." Scar boops Cub's nose with his own. "After all, you already did get bored with it."

Instead of answering Cub bites Scar's cheek. The peeping above them gets louder, pulling Cub's gaze upward. the call of his Summoner, more insistently pressing on him.

"C'mon." Scar takes his hand off Cub's face, to take Cub's hand instead. When Scar does it, it's a choice to phase them up through the bed. To wrap himself around Cub and let them drop onto the mattress and pillows, sitting and warily watching Grian from across blankets, white like snow.

"Oh, there you are." Grian looks relieved for a brief time, before he gets a complete lack of response. Unease creeps into the curl of Grian's fingers against his own leg. Into the slight tucking of his wings behind him. Into the flicker of his gaze across Scar's face, no opening to be found.

Scar pictures himself holding a bow in his hands, arrow nocked and pulled back, but tip for now pointed at the ground. He draws Cub closer to himself, flashing his eyes at Grian. Magic bubbles and sloshes inside Scar, begging to be used.

"What have you decided I've done wrong now?" Grian snaps, impatience rising up to meet Scar's wariness.

A soft growl rises to Scar's lips, redoubled and echoed by the magic spilling into it.

Grian's gaze unfocuses, his body listing to the side.

Power. That's the kind of thing this power can do. That was easy, Scar barely even had to try. Heady thrill threatens to pull Scar under, whispers to him commands he could speak. What would it be like to taste this magic directly from the source?

Cub shifts uneasily in Scar's grip.

"Turnabout's fair." Scar murmurs, honey over silk.

Grian shivers, his wings flexing outward slightly. As if pulled on a string, he leans toward Scar.

Cub's hand grips Scar's thigh.

"All I'm doing is making him feel good, sweet thing." Scar assures, spiking a bolt of magic into those two words, that has Grian fully snapping his wings out and warbling breathless. "Just returning the favor." If bitterness colors his words for a moment, well, Scar gets it under control quickly.

Cub twitches faintly, but he makes no move to stop Scar. Good. Scar's walking a line with a dizzying plummet to either side.

"Come here, pretty thing." A crook of Scar's fingers has Grian scrambling to get closer. "Here you go, just like that. Turn, present your wings."

Like a marionette, Grian spins in a twist. He flares out his wings as Cub's claws dig into Scar's thigh. Wary, at the vulnerable position of his Summoner.

"Not me, sweet thing. You. Go on, I know you want to touch. You can make him feel good, too." Scar encourages, nuzzling his cheek to Cub's.

Only the barest moment of hesitation, before Cub commits to his choice, burying his hands in Grian's feathers. Scar knows the soft texture of them well, can very clearly imagine what Cub is feeling.

"Very good. Don't be too careful, he's not glass." Scar hums, watching the juncture of Vex and Summoner. Silvery fingertips disappearing into rainbow feathers.

"Wh-" Grian blearily tries to speak, wings twitching under the claws suddenly against the sensitive skin of his wings.

"No words, pretty thing." Scar wraps his magic around Grian, a muffling blanket of cotton candy that will last long enough. "Our touch feels so good, just sink under it." Scar can't get over the way his magic simply works, simply slides into Grian and takes hold, backed by the rolling thrum of power swirling through his gut. This isn't supposed to be this easy, but it is.

Grian moans softly, slumping forward while straining to press his wings back into Cub's hands.

"No control now, no thoughts. Just us. Just the joys of falling deeper for us." Scar murmurs. He should have done this from the start. He couldn't have done this from the start, not this effectively.

A covetousness laced in red wraps around Scar's chest. His Falcon. His Soulmate. If Grian is just going to take what he wants from them after all, then Scar can do the same.

What does he want?

He wants to be the one to claim. He wants to be in control of anything at this point.

And he is. He is. So that's good. He's winning. He's happy about that. He is.

Scar presses a hand to the side of his own face, steady pressure. A breath in. A breath out.

Just watch Cub's hands moving through Grian's feathers. He can do that.

"Your wings are your soul, for us. You're letting us shape your soul." Scar doesn't give himself time to think before speaking, and even he's startled by his own words, his rawly beating heart of desire spilling into the air as pure buzzing power beyond the words. The hook of his magic connecting him to Grian, digging in.

Cub pauses for a second, but then carries on. They're just taking care of his Summoner, after all, just making him feel good. Nothing to object to.

Scar presses himself closer to Cub's back, pulls Grian toward them, and sinks his hands into Grian's feathers as well. He hadn't meant to. He had just meant to watch Cub. But he needs this. Scar needs this, he feels like he's just going to blow away. Grian's wings feel real. "Just like this, sweet thing, nice and orderly, just how you like." Scar settles into preening with the ease of familiarity. His steady breaths follow the motion of Cub's back. He's fine.

Scar plucks a broken feather, and Grian slumps back into them.

"Careful, pretty thing, careful. We've got you. We'll make you perfect for us. No unimportant thoughts." Scar punctuates by pulling another cracked feather, making Grian breathe out a moan. "Just bliss. Our touch, blissful. An irresistible pull downward."

Grian's head lolls down limp when Scar moves to the next row of feathers.

"Good Falcon, our good pretty thing." Scar chirps a fond sound.

Why is he doing this?

The power bubbling inside of him demands to be used.

Why is he doing this?

He needs Grian to know. To understand.

Why is he doing this?

He can't stop now.

"You're ours. You're ours. You belong to us." Scar presses his face into Grian's feathers, nuzzling.

Grian chirps eager agreement, twisting something sharp in Scar's chest. Scar keens, muffled into Grian's feathers, willing himself to be happy about this. To feel anything other than this unnamed sick lurch of emotion.

He should be happy. He's taking what he wants. That's what he's always done. That's what he's supposed to do. Why can't he stop the shudders running up and down his spine? Why?

Why?

"Sleep." Again Scar is almost startled by his own voice, ringing thick with power.

Grian tips forward immediately, faceplanting into the blankets, while Cub- Cub has long enough to look at him with wide bright eyes, before Scar's charm drags him under as well, collapsing atop Grian.

As soon as they're both knocked out, Scar is gone. A loosed arrow in flight. Phasing through whatever he needs to until his feet hit dirt, and then running from there.

A single moment longer in there, and he was going to do something he couldn't take back, he's certain. The burgeoning power inside him crackles and flares with his emotions, seeking to lash out at something to change, to warp, to distort. To break and reshape.

No plan, no direction, Scar simply flees as far as his body will carry him.

[minorvamp]

Bullet with Butterfly Wings

Astarion x f!Tav, Explicit

Ascended Astarion, Vampire sex, blood, Vampire bites, AFAB tiefling Tav

"On your knees darling."

But this, this is something entirely new. There's something glinting, sharp and dangerous out of his eyes now. Something deep and dark, pulled up from the recesses of his soul by the ritual. Something not Astarion.

Reposting this from a few weeks ago, because Tumblr decided to not show it on any of the tag feeds.

Title is from the Smashing Pumpkins song of the same name, because I can't hear it without thinking of Astarion

Available on AO3 or under the cut

"On your knees, darling."

The first thing Aranrei feels after sinking to the floor is the press of his cold fingers against her shoulders. The gentle bite of his claws pricking the skin around her collar bones as he leans in behind her. It's a firm touch, possessive even, but not threatening. Not yet.

She shivers as he traces one of those claws up her neck, pulling up a pink welt across her skin that he soothes quickly with his tongue.

"There." She feels his lips pull into that dangerous smile against her skin. "You know how I adore those little shakes of excitement whenever you feel my mouth near that delectable neck of yours. You'll be my undoing, my love."

He presses a trail of kisses up her neck, and she feels her pulse quicken as his lips follow along the artery there, his tongue pressing over his favourite spot where the thrum is strongest. She feels her heart fluttering wildly against the cage of her ribs, nerves, anticipation, fear, as he sets his fangs against her skin. Astarion nips softly, drawing a few pinpricks of blood to dance sweet copper over his tongue. He's delighted by the power he holds over her even with such a delicate touch. The thrill of it washes over him and settles as deep thrum in his groin, pulsing in time with every frantic beat of her heart. He moves his mouth up to tease his tongue over her ear.

"Patience, my sweet. We have an eternity to explore a cornucopia of carnal delights. I have plans for centuries of ecstacy, lost in each other. There's no need to rush so quickly to the main event." The honeyed words, the sultry tone are all so familiar, but as he turns her face towards his, she sees something in his eyes that gives her pause. She's seen them lost, vacant as they were during their first night together. She's seen the melancholy that lingers in them far too often, the fear that sometimes even his most practiced of charming veneers won't hide. She's watched them fill with joy, the lines around them creasing deeply as he laughs at Shadowheart and Lae'zel, their blades at each other's throats. And she's seen them full of white hot rage, the red of his irises burning as he recounted some of the fouler things Cazador had done to him. Or worse, forced him to do to others.

But this, this is something entirely new. There's something glinting, sharp and dangerous out of them now. Something deep and dark, pulled up from the recesses of his soul by the ritual. Something not Astarion.

"You always flush so beautifully for me my darling." He says as he admires the pretty pink blush smudged across her cheeks, the hue lustred by the pale lavender of her skin. He moves to kiss her, and she allows the press of his mouth against hers to push away the doubt that has started gnawing in the pit of stomach. They had made the right decision, he was finally free. Free of Cazador, free of fear, free to live for himself for the first time in 200 years. She had done the right thing.

Aranrei feels the moan rumble through his chest as she takes his bottom lip between her teeth and bites down the way he likes it. Just on the edge of too painful. Responds with her own when he slides that silver tongue against hers, pushing into her mouth to claim every inch of it. His hands smooth over her shoulders before pressing against them, encouraging her to spin around and bare herself to him. He pulls away from the kiss and drinks in the sight of her before him. Her lips and neck bruised a dark purple from his attentions, face and breasts flushed with arousal. "I can taste it, you know. In the air, on your skin, in your blood. I can taste how much you want this. How much you need me."

He pushes her down against the hard wooden boards, but she manages to catch herself on her elbows before her head smacks against the floor. She feels another pang of fear race through her heart as she stares up into his beautiful face. The soft halo of white curls catching in the dim light of the room. The face of the man she loves more than anything else in the realms. A face that could charm all the gods above and below. All hers, but now turned stranger. That dagger smile of his now a smirk cut across it like a gash. The cold steel in his eyes that she doesn't recognise.

She's prey, she realises. That gnawing doubt in her stomach now a lump of cold hard rock. He pushes her legs apart with a foot, taking in the whole of her, before sinking to his knees between her thighs. There's a feline quality to his movements as he slinks up her body, hands coming to a stop either side of her head as he fixes her with that predatory gaze once again. "Astarion, I'm not-"

"You are perfect." He leans down to capture her lips in another kiss, cutting her off before she can bring voice to the feeling. She relaxes into the kiss, allowing the slow grind of his body against hers to reignite the fire inside. Even through his trousers, the insistent press of his hard cock against her soft core leaves her aching for him, and he feels the wetness of her soaking through his clothes. She finds herself helpless to the waves of arousal his well practiced movements pull from her, soothing away her doubts with the stroke of his tongue against hers.

Keeping himself braced above her, his other hand moves to massage her breasts and she breaks the kiss with a gasp. Her pupils are blown as he gently rakes his newly clawed hand down her side, sending yet another shudder of arousal to race through her. He sits up on his knees, hand now stroking its way down his own chest over sculpted muscles before coming to rest over the closure of his britches. He moans decadently as he squeezes his hand over his erection, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he relieves some of the ache of his arousal. It's performance, any good bard would be able to tell, but it sits somewhere on that fuzzy line of exaggerated truth. And it's for her, Aranrei tells herself. They did the right thing.

With a few motions of his deft fingers, he opens his trousers and pulls his cock free from their confines. Gives her another deep moan of pleasure as he pulls his hand over the shaft, twisting slightly as moisture beads at the head. He grins, wicked, at her reaction to him. Leans down over her again and uses his hand to guide his cock to stroke through her wet folds, head rubbing over her swollen clit. Tuts at her when she tries to move her hips to press him into where the ache of her arousal is deepest. "Patience, my love. You've waited so long already, what's a minute more to savour the moment, hmm?"

She suppresses the sudden urge to cover herself, feeling trapped and exposed by the ravenous stare he gives her as he takes in the state of her. Her chest still flushed and now heaving as the anticipation of him starts to overwhelm her. Her hands are desperate for something to dig her claws into, her tail winding around his clothed thigh trying to pull him to her. She's missed him, missed this, so much. Dreamt of this moment a thousand times, where he would trust her and himself enough to share this with her again. And yet the nagging feeling that something isn't quite right resurfaces. Persists through his pretty words, and his touch even as he hitches her thigh against his hip and enters her in one smooth, strong thrust.

She moans his name, long and loud, relieved to finally have him inside of her again, the glorious stretch as he fills her. He responds in kind as the feeling of hot, tight, wet, mine surrounds him. He stills for a moment, enjoying the sensations of her walls fluttering around him, inviting him to thrust deep and hard. To not stop until she's stuffed full of his cock and his cum, his fangs buried in her neck, his name on lips, her blood in his mouth, until she's so full of him that there's no room for her anymore. Until she's mine, all mine, only mine.

He traces a hand down her chest and stomach, feeling the shape of every ridge as he moves it down to her core. She draws in a sharp gasp as his thumb finds her swollen clit, draws the wetness around in small circles across it that have her muscles squeezing vice like around his throbbing cock. "My perfect, pretty consort." He offers her another dangerous smile as he pulls halfway out of her, enjoying the delicious friction as he drags himself out, "I do so love to hear you sing out my name, little bird. Do it again." He thrusts back in, slow and deep, wants to hear her whimper for him.

"Fuck, Astarion. You feel so - I-" she can't help the strangled moan that escapes her as he continues his languorous strokes inside of her. He watches, enraptured by the sight of his cock filling her, watches her as she squirms and whimpers, already so sensitive for him. How could he have been so weak before, to not take this, what was his to own and to treasure. He resists the urge to rut into her, hard and fast, to cum and to take her. He relaxes his jaw to try and relieve some of the ache in his fangs, he won't feel complete until he's claimed her as his. Instead he continues his slow rhythm, pausing to grind deep every time his hips meet hers. A gasp of pleasure falling from his own lips as his sensitive head rubs against the spongy bundle of nerves inside her.

Her lilac skin glows with a sheen of sweat as she rolls her hips to meet his thrusts, twisting slightly to feel every inch of him sliding into her. Their deliberate pace draws out the pleasure, winding them both higher and higher with ecstasy and holding them there, not yet ready to crest and fall. She closes her eyes against the mounting wave he's bringing her to, little gasps and hiccups of pleasure escaping uninhibited every time he grinds against her g-spot. The delicious curve of his cock that fits so perfectly inside her. Like they were both made for this.

She opens her eyes to watch his face, the pleasure dancing across its planes unable to hide the desperate hunger shining in his eyes. She reaches for him, and he allows her to pull him down, burying his face against her neck as his hips finally pick up speed. She traces her fingers down the scars on his back, digs in her claws as her nerve endings start to sing out their joy. Muscles in her lower body growing tense, her thighs gripping his hips and her walls pulling tight as he fills her over and over.

He pants his pleasure into her neck as she clenches hard around his swollen cock, feels her pulse racing under his tongue as the hot, wet pull of her body drives him higher still. "Ah- Ast- I'm cu- Ah!" She chokes over her moans, unable to get the words out. Every thrust of his perfect cock winding the pleasure tighter and tighter in her center, until it's too much to bear. He growls as he bares his fangs, allowing his instinct to take over, and he sinks them into the soft skin of her neck.

Aranrei screams out as he bites her. The sharp pain in her neck is nothing compared to the white hot waves of pleasure now crashing through her body. Her muscles spasm around his cock as her orgasm washes over her, it radiates out from her core sending tingles through to her fingers and she surrenders herself completely to the incredible pleasure he's brought her to. Her world narrows down to the feel of him inside of her, his hips still working relentlessly, his skin under her hands, hair brushing her ears, his mouth at her neck. Every deep suck at her throat sending another wave to wash over her, pulling her deeper and deeper into him, until she's delirious with it.

The rush of her blood into his mouth as she cums is exquisite. He can taste the sweetness of her orgasm as it pours over his tongue, the tingle of magic in her blood better than any nectar of the gods. His hips are frantic now, pumping rapidly to work her through the last of her orgasm as he chases his own. He drives himself into her desperately as she gushes wetness and contracts around him, her blood singing through his body as he drinks. His cock sensitive, swollen, harder than he's ever been and every nerve ending is aflame with pleasure. He rides the delicious agony of almost there, floating higher and higher, desperate to live in this moment with her forever. His moan is a broken sob against her neck as his balls draw up tight against his body before his pleasure finally crests, he thrusts deep and hard one last time before he erupts inside of her.

His vision goes white and there's a roar in his ears as his cock jerks over and over again, painting her walls with ropes of his hot cum. It ripples endlessly through his body as he drinks from her and she trembles through her aftershocks, clenching her muscles sporadically around his over sensitive cock. She is divine in her pleasure, his beautiful saviour and dark consort, and she belongs to him.

And still he drinks. Sucking hard at the puncture wounds on her neck to draw more of her blood down his throat. She starts to lose herself to it, her mind already hazy with pleasure; she feels everything start to wash away with the ebb and flow of her blood as it leaves her body. Her doubts, her worries, her pain, her joy, everything lost to the feel of Astarion at her neck. She relaxes completely, there's no strength left in her muscles to keep her thighs held around his hip, and her arms slide off of his back as darkness starts to cloud her vision. She's left with only one tiny spark of fear, one last thought before her consciousness slips away and everything goes black.

We did the right thing.

He feels as she goes limp underneath him. Thinks he can taste the last drops of life spilling over his tongue before he finally pulls away from her neck to admire his work, cock slipping out of her. She's beautiful. The sheen of sweat still lingering on her pale skin gives her an ethereal glow, the flush of her arousal still present despite her bloodless state. It's a stark contrast to the bloody red mess of her throat, the vulgarity of his seed dripping out of her onto the floor below, the dark bruise of his fingers across her thighs. He's enraptured by the ruin he's brought to her, such a pretty thing to be marred by such violence, and he burns it into his memory.

He shifts up onto his knees and raising his hands he drags a sharp claw across his wrist, satisfied as blood blooms to the surface. He turns her face towards him and gently opens her mouth before holding his bloody wrist over it. He allows one singular drop of his blood to fall into it, dropping onto her tongue and sealing her fate.

He strokes his thumb over her cold cheek, and smiles at her as he waits for the changes to start.

"Oh my love, we're going to have so much fun."

[nickle-moth]

TW: BLOOD, GORE, UNCONSENTUAL BODY MODIFICATION, LOTS OF EYES, EYE CONTACT, UNSETTLING IMAGERY

(It's a horror exchange what did you expect)

Hello! This is a gift for @kitty-dunks for the @mcythorrorgiftexchange !

I hope you don't mind the first part of the fic is from Doc's perspective, I had an idea and got carried away lol. This is two drawings that I gave a story to, as I was having a lot of fun with the horror and decided to keep going. It's not quite 1,500 words but I feel like thats ok because my main objective was the drawings, and I just decided to try and write something, I'm not very good at writing but please enjoy!

Fandom: Hermitcraft

Characters: Docm77, Grian, Mumbo Jumbo, GoodTimesWithScar

Words: 1,200

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Doc was trying to fix his tunnel boar. After Grian and Scar blew it up, he kind of forgot about it in all the mayhem of their newfound war. So, he's fixing it. He has already gathered the resources necessary for this, it's just a matter of putting it all together. Doc was so focused on building; he never realized the sounds from the wardens had stopped. He was so focused; he never noticed the sound of an approaching entity. It sounded like a slime was trying to slither but was failing, but it was still approaching, and fast too. Doc had his back turned to the exit when he heard a noise. A small thump, from behind him. He turned around to see, nothing. 'Weird' he thought and went back to working on the tunnel boar.

Had it gotten colder? He swears it wasn't this cold before. Now shivering, he brushes it off as another weird thing about Hermitcraft, or it could be the altitude. Either way, he needs to get this done. Doc feels a… hand? No. Claws, run up his arm. He freezes as it grips his shoulder, and another clawed hand is set on his head. The claws feel eerily cold but, at the same time, warm, but the warmth isn't coming from the entity, no, it's coming from something liquid-like on its claws. Blood, he realizes. He should run, turn, and fight, do something… but he stands there, unable to move. Another hand grabs at his cyber-horn this time. 'How many hands does this thing have!?' Doc wanders to himself as he brings his hands up, hugging his arms.

He is terrified. In one quick movement, he is picked up off the ground and thrown against the wall. *CRACK* He has lost all feeling throughout his entire body. He is picked up with one of the clawed hands by his neck. Helpless now, as he can see his attacker.

The bottom half is a goopy black mess of god know what, and there’s three people, or what he assumes to be people, visible from the waist up: The Buttercups, Grian, Scar, and Mumbo. The one on the left, Grian, is wearing his normal outfit, red jumper pulled down just below the shoulders, with a black skintight shirt underneath. But his wings are bone, being held together by flowers (buttercups he asumes) and brown vines. His jaw has been torn off, revealing rows of sharp teeth, with more flowers at the corners of his mouth, and the vines growing out of his mouth and skin.

"Hello, there dear friend." Grian says with a voice that sounds way to friendly.

The one on the right, Scar, is wearing his Scarland uniform, the bright orange safety vest with a yellow stripe down each side, over a blue button up, with a white undershirt and a black tie. But he has large wings that could only be described as a vex's covered with the same yellow flowers, and brown vines. His mouth is spread uncannily across his face, with fangs poking through. and the scar on his face looks fresh and is growing more of the flowers and vines.

"We see you're fixing up your tunnel boar, sorry again about that." Scar says with the same over friendly voice.

The one in the middle, Mumbo, is wearing his normal black suit, white under shirt, and red tie. But his stomach has been torn open to reveal a worrying lack of organs, with only the heart remaining. Mumbo looks as if he were crying redstone. And a flower crown seems to be growing from his head, consisting of the same flowers and vines the other two had.

"I'm sorry it had to go this way, but we draw the line at eggs." Mumbo said, sounding genuinely sorry, and, was his voice coming from his chest?

Doc couldn't foucus on anything right now, as he was unable to speak, seeing as his spine was close to shattered, and he was being choked to death.

~~~~~

Doc awoke in a cold sweat. Had he just been killed? He checked his communicator, no death message, just: Docm77 went to sleep. Sweet dreams! It was a dream? No, it was a nightmare. He stumbled out of bed, and quickly pulled out his elytra, flying to The Buttercups camp. He landed and, there they were, The Buttercups, looking completely normal. Just as they normally do, no black mass, or flowers and vines growing from their skin.

"You good man?" Mumbo asked him, sounding concerned.

"Yep, fine!" Doc replied, way too quickly.

"Okayyy, well, I was 'bout to head off, those rocks don't build themselves!" Grian said standing up, he sounded nothing like he did in Doc's dream. With the overly friendly voice being replaced with his normal mischievous one.

"Ok, well, bye now."

Doc said and turned to leave but turned back just in time to see Grian fly off. Doc then turned right back to the Perimeter and flew back to his base. Ignoring the black goop, he swore he saw on Grian's wings.

~~~~~

"That was weird, even for Doc, right?" Mumbo asked his friend. Scar, who was sitting right next to him agreed.

"Maby he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed? Happens to me all the time!" Scar's voice was just as cheery as it normally is.

"Let’s be real, he was probably fretting over the prank Grian had us play on him." Mumbo admitted.

Like saying his name had summoned him, Grian popped up behind them.

"You're probably right Mumbo."

"AHHHH!!" Mumbo and Scar screamed in unison, falling off the logs they were sitting on.

"HOW DO YOU DO THAT!?"

"YOU DIDN'T EVEN MAKE ANY NOISE!!"

The Buttercups were now laughing with each other, and the successful prank they pulled on Doc. If he was going to fill their bases with eggs, then they would retaliate. And Grian had a plan the end this silly war, but it would require a load of grass and dirt. And some outside help most likely!

~~~~~

Mumbo awoke with a jolt, as his lower body was in pain. Not sure what to do, he wobbled out of his little tent, Grian had convinced them to stay at the Buttercup Camp tonight, something about 'Doc might want revenge so we should stay together.' Mumbo was pulled from his thoughts when he saw Scar lying on the ground curled up on himself. He stumbled over to his friend, crouching down and laying a hand on his shoulder,

"You ok dude?" He asked Scar, getting only a muffled groan in response, he continued,

"Me too man, I'm not sure whats going on."

Moments later, Grian emerged from his tent and joined them in the center of the camp,

"All three of us? What's going on?"

As soon as he said that, the three were hit with an immence pain from their waists to their feet, and in an instant, there was an explosion of pitch black goop, combining the three into one entity.

Grian's jaw had been ripped off in the blast, with yellow buttercups, and brown vines growing at the corners of his mouth. The feathers and flesh had melted from his wings, leaving bone that was being held together by the same flowers and vines.

"What the hell?" He said with a shaky voice, or said as well as you can say something with no jaw. But still understandable, suprisingly.

Scar's mouth had torn at the corners, giving him a wide and eeri grin. The scar that adorned his face looked fresh, like it had just been given to him, and had more of the flowers and vines growing from it. His vex wings had trippled in size, now covedered by the buttercups and vines.

"What's going on!? Whats happening to us!?" Scar said through the pain of his new mouth.

Mumbo now had a gapping hole in his chest, or rather his chest was now a giant hole, with all of his organs missing, whith the exception of his heart, but it wasn't beating. The flowers and vines were growing from his head in the shape of a crown, a flower crown. His eyes had begun to spill redstone, like he was crying, burning his eyes as the redstone-tears ran down his face. His mouth had been sewn shut with the vines.

"I think were becoming the monster we used to prank Doc." He said, although, it sounded like it came from his chest. Where from in his chest? Who knows.

There body's (and minds for that matter) had become distorted. They had been robbed of their memories, personalities, and humanity, all three now shared one mind, and that mind had one thought: Kill Docm77. But the goop wasn't going to leave them unarmed, no, it gave them a weapon, with a suspiciously familiar symbol on it. And the ability to perma-kill any player.

With their new weapon, and lack of self-control, they went in search of Doc.

~~~~~

He was fairly easy to find, just go to The Perimiter (wich they were right next to), and look around. And as soon as Buttercup laid eyes on Doc, he was doomed. They slowly approched from behind, not wanting to scare their prey.

~~~~~

Doc was playing with his tomatoes. They don't get much attention, seeing as Doc is very busy most of the time. With the war, and The Perimeter nowhere near done, he doesn't have much off-time. But he has some now, so he's using it wisely. But the tomatoes are acting strange, are they… trembling? And some are hopping off too. Oh dear.

" H̴̡̨̢̜̣̘̝͇̻̺̮̥͌̊̐̌͋͘͜ͅe̷̞̱̭͈̟̎͐̓̓̃̑͋l̵̪͍̙̱̇̐̎͆̽̀͑̆͑̒̆͜͝l̸̨͎͈͚̫̘̬̼̳̳̱͉̪̦̜̽͐͒̽͂̈́̃͆̕ǫ̷̗͚̫̬̟̘̪͖̝̆̈̒͘ ̷̡̡̻͍̗̮̘͖̲̣͒͌̄̀̈̿͆́̇͊͘̚͜͠͠a̸̳̐̌̔̈̈́̉́̿̂g̴̦͎̭̼̝̰͈̈́̂͊̂̉͂̏̒͊̂̔̆ͅa̷̧̧͙̮̣͍͔̣͎͙̯͔̻̾̍̚͠ͅi̴̡̺̗̣̭̰͓͈͇͕͖̼͍͈̖͆͒͒̇̇̌́̆̃̿̓͒̎n̷̝̎̓̆͝ " (Hello again) Three voices said at once, but heavily distorted.

Doc turned around, slowly, and was face to face with the monster of the buttercups he faced in his dream.

"Th- this… has to be a dream again, right?" He asked… himself? The monster?

"h̵̨̩̪̜̙̘̠͇̠̺̰̜̠͌͌̎͛̿̔̔̾ͅe̶̻̗̔̐̕̚͜h̴̛̙̟̥͔̙̭̋̑̋͛͐̽̒̀͝͝ę̵̡̧̢̧̛͖̰̹̻̗̞̻̝̽̃̏͆̈́̕ͅ,̵̟̲̼͈̭͖̰̍́̏̍͛̏͗̇̓̀̐͗͠ ̵̢̙̺̭͙̠͕̙̹͑̀͜s̴̛͕̝̗̠͔̊̆ǒ̴̢͈͙̬͓̜̘̰̂͜͜ŗ̶̝͔̳̹͎̗͎̘̘̤͛͑̿̒̕̕r̶̢̧͓͇̞̹̲͈̹̰͉͎̀̂̽͆͜͝͝y̶̨̩̞̰͖̺̠̘͗̍̏͆͊̔̾͑̉̈̉̈́̀̔͠,̷̨̛̝͓͈͂͂́̓͆̏͆̓̿͊́͌̿͜ ̴̛̦̻̼̲̲̤̍̐͊͛̈̑̅̌͌̌̆ͅb̶͔͔̗̠̫͇̊͋͂̌̅͝ữ̶͔̗͎̥͛̌̊͒͆̾͘͜͝ţ̵͈͍͇̥̞̌̆͊͑͂͠͠ͅ ̵̢̨̻̞̜̗̰̦̟̟͐̀̈͐̌͑̈͂̈́̀͐͆̃̓ń̵̡̡̹̜̖̗̻̹̩̟́ỏ̸̯̣̟̈̈̈́̃̉̓͂́̀͘.̶̧̛͔͍̯͔̩̃͂̀͊͑̇̈̽́̒͘ͅ " (hehe, sorry, but no.) It responded, giving him the answer he feared most.

Doc turned, and ran. He ran far enough to equip his elytra, and fire a rocket. Only to be shot out of the sky by god knows what, but it wasn't an arrow. Hitting the ground took half of his health, with no time at all to react, he was pulled to his feet by his horn, with a large clawed hand that seemed to be giving him a potion effect. 'What potio-' Stopped halfway through his thought by an ache in his head, 'Oh, wither effect' Not good, not good at all. Then, something started to block his vision, the ach growing and spreading, and now acompanied by brown vines (the ones that adorned The Buttercups) and, looking down at his hands, the flowers too. He was thrown against the wall, being held to it by the vines, and now had a good look at the monster in front of him. The temperature had dropped by atleast 20° (Fahrenheit).

"W̷̛̛̹͓̲̞͉̘̟̹̭͉̦̑̈̈́̀͒̓͘͝ę̵̛̤͙̭̮͎͙̘͇̓̈̐̉̋'̴̛̖̖͉͎̯̠̯́̀͗͛̉̇͋̾͛̊͜͝v̷̭͉͚́́̊̀̚̚͝e̷̛͎̖̜̝̘͙͈̓͌͑̽͋́̚͝ ̶̛̘̭̭̲̺̪͓̠̜͓͙̣͎͝ͅb̷̢̹̖̹͖̠̲̺̀͑͂̈́̎̅͠͝é̸͉̺̠̉̓ę̶̛̜̩̜̘͔͇̙̞͖̪̋́̇̉̊͋̓͊́̎̑͂ͅ��n̸̠̰̯͙̊͊́͒̏̋͐̂̒͛͆͠ ̸̨̛͚̩̘̬̼͙͉̤̄͊͒̄́͘ģ̴̬̦̮̥̥͇̓̐̓̽̈́̈͗͋̇͑́͘̕̕͝ĭ̸̧͚͕͔̟̺͉͓̳̻͍̮̝̼̜̔͆͗̎͑̆̄̚͝v̶̧̩͖͎͇̣͔̭̪̼̜̭̜͊͋̀̍̃͂̋e̶̡̮̬̭͋̓̂̿̍͐̿̊́͌͗͛̎̚ͅn̵̨̫͙̯̲̺̻̟̲̖̣̲͚̙̓͐̉̌̎̃̌̊̄̓̅͜ ̸̨̢̡̼̲̞͍͚͓̺̹̩̰̱̼̿ḁ̴̪̈́̂̐́̈́̈́̚͠ ̸̮̩̈́͆͑̔͑͌̎̍̍̉͆͠g̶̨͖͍̼̦̙̮̉́́̽̑̅̀́ͅō̵̰̳͕̙̦̩̚à̴̛͈̦̖͖̫͈̠̪́̒̀̓̿̓̍̚̚͜͜l̶̙͉̍̒͂͗͛͑̍͗̉̇̏͊,̵͉̏̂̓̿̒̚̚ ̸̡̧̘̗͙̖̘̥̖̪̆̂â̵͖̯̙͉̪̈́̂̂̊̒̈́͜͝n̷̨̖͎̮̖̼͖̦̖͒͗̐̀̈́͌̃͝͠d̶̗̫̫̤̜̳͇̳̜̦̘̀̍ ̷̣̮̗̮̫̺̥̣̗̹̣̅̇̐̒͜ͅr̸͓̍͋e̸̡̧̢̧̡͖̱̻̦͉̮̻̻̲̝͆͛͐̄́ḟ̴̯̩̠͉͎͖̘̯̱̘͓̟͕̩̗̉̾͝u̵͔͍̜̿̈̅̌̈́ṡ̶͙̗̜̺͓̻͖̭̺̠̯͓̘͆̽͘ẽ̶̡̛̟͚̝̯͕̜̖̗̞̘͙́̅͛͌̌̍̑̇̍́̍͝͠ ̴̢̨̫̥̩̬̰̪̙͔͓̌̿̆̊͛̅̓͐̒͛̌̕t̷̢̨̼̟͚̙̘̖̣̤͇͙̺͛͆͂̈́̈́̿͛͊̌͜͜͝o̵̹̣̝̝̭͚̲̪̺̙̩͆͒̓̔͆̃̐͊͠ ̷̦̏͋̒̐f̷͖̥͙̻̈̈a̷̘̱̳̲͐̽̉̆̂̃͐͐̌̆͘͘͝i̸̩̫̟̹͆̇̾̀͋͆͂̌͌̕̕͝͠͠l̴̡̠̳͍̦̰̥̲̫̯̈́̾̃̔̈́̐̈́.̸̡̜̗̫̘̕ " (We've been given a goal, and refuse to fail)

Suddenly, a cold blade is plunged through his chest and pulled out again. It leaves, leaving him to bleed out, held to the wall by vines and flowers, bleeding out, and cold and tired, Doc sits, and waits for a respawn that never comes, left to float in the endless void of the afterlife.

~~~~~

Buttercup now has no goal, no driving motivation, nothing keeping it in line, the goop leaves it to its own accords. Buttercup goes mad. It was designined to kill Doc. But there is no Doc to kill. What is it supposed to do.

" W̴̛̪̟̬̹̤̔̿͑̈͑͆̅̚ḩ̷̦͍͉̯̪͇̞̘͇̰̰̽̈́̃̄́̍̅̌͆͠a̶̱̘͔̰̮͈̼͋̆͊̑̓̓͌̄͘͜t̷̬̻͍̥̠̲̀͒̊̚͝ ̷̳̦̣̟͎̳̩̹̾̃̌̄͂͋͑́͜͠͝a̵̧̨̠̳̖̭̪̬̪̪̗̽̆̀r̴̞͕̐̔̆̉͝͠ͅȩ̵̞̠̣͙̖̮̪̤̋̾͗̔̅̾̈́͘̕͠ ̷̡̠̣̻̝̍͋̑͂̍̓̓̆̂̍ͅw̸̨͇͈̍̽͆̇͛̅̉͜é̵̢̮̦͇̞̥̟ ̵̦͇̫̣̺͓̥͔̣̩̗̥̌̐͌̑̈́̓̈͛̃̔͌͝ͅs̶̛̤̼̒̎̇͛͆͛̎̽͛̀̎ư̴̢̳̙̝̤̳̪̇̄̈́̕͠p̴̢̨̧̡͔̳͚̯͇̦̥̟͖̰̊̓̈́̇̽̇̓̀͂́͘͜p̸̢͉̰̬̤͇̮̗̰̠̦̣̤̣̆ͅơ̸̧͙͉̞͍͖͈͆̏̍͌̈́̾͊̏̔̂͘s̸̝͔͙̉͐̎̐̍̏̄́̓͝͝e̴̛͓͍̟̝̱̙͐͒̈́͆̕̚̚͝͠d̷͕͎̰̹͕̜̩̜͚̈́̔̒̀͑̀̇̚̕͝͠ ̸̜̥̦̲̬̏̊t̵̨̫̝͎̜̦͖̟͉̳̜̅͂̅̎̑̍͛̈́̋̚͜͠ͅõ̵̢̱̹͎̒̒̊̂̓̊̈́̒͆͠͝ ̵̧̨̡̧͉͈͗͌̀̉͒͋d̴̡̨͕̠̝͓͖̠̙͍̰̈́͐̓̋̃̀̅͌̚̚ó̸̧͓̜͚̲̯̦͔̅̍̇̕͝?̴̡͎̭͙̲̫̼̯̜͌ " (What are we supposed to do?) It cries out, into the night, with no one to hear it.

" W̶̧̡̧̠̪̫̥̩̩̖̱̻̪͕͂̅͐͋̈́̆̾͂̂ê̴̡͔̫͇̲̯̬̈́̾͊̿̕ ̴̤̬̩̞̦̗̜̻̜͎͔̰̼̏͋͒͊̄̓̋͋̈̍̀̿̇͝͝w̵̧̘̣̗͚̳̱̫̠̠͛̔ͅę̶͇̫͙̗̙͎̭̍ͅͅͅŕ̶̡͈̹͆̎̊͐͒̓̅͂̈́́̚͝ę̸̧̼̘͕̥̱̞͕̬̣̿̔̋̔̋̅̓̈́̂̍͒̈́̈̚͜ ̸̧͍͈͙̥̠̣̮̗͉̀̈̋̎͗̀̆̑̊̋͝d̸̢̗̱̜̙̩͉̠͂̄͊̌̋̎̔̓̕̚͜e̶̢͙̲͈̳͙̙̘͍̿̊͐͛̿͐̽̐͐́̓͛s̴̡̲͎͇̻̟̀͛̊̃͂͂̒͊͆͗͋̚͝i̴̹̒͌̌̿̕̕͝ģ̴͓̥̞̫̭̱̩̥̺͕̥͂̆͜ṋ̶̨̛̝̞͓̐̄̊̈́̕͠i̸̩̤͆͊̈̈́̀̓̎̕̕̚͝n̴̨̧̼̣̱̱̳͈͇̠̹͈̆̀̃̇̔̿̏̔͒̿͛͆͘͜͠ȅ̴̢͈͇͔͚̠͉̝͓̬͂̏̅͒̑͌͌̌̓̀̎̚͝d̶̡͈͍̼̙̼̻͈͈̈̽̿̊͑̆ ̸̡̳̖̯͇̭̘̟̭̘̙̥̉͛͆̍͝t̷̝̘͖̑͑̈́̈̍̀̏̃͆͌̓̎͊o̵̡̡̺̳̩̬̤͉͑͗͌͑̿̃͊̀̏̍͊̉ ̴̛̜̩̥̍̏̆͗̑̋k̸͈̻̈́͝i̴̠̟̟͎̺͇̘̱̻͖̪̕ͅl̸̮̳̫̬̳͈͍̪̱̹̮͇̽́̊̎͜͜ļ̷̛̛̠͚͐͗̽̒͐̀̈́͋͐̏͝,̶̨̨̢̢̮͇͙̯̳̤̰̻̟̹̬̍̌̈̈́̾̑͆̓͘̕͘͠ ̴͖̗̞̟̙̝̐̂̓̄̇̈́͊͐̊̓͛̃̀̚͠s̴̨̘̣̜̻̣͕͚͔̮͍̝̻͔̈́́͋́͌̒̈́͒̌̿̐̂̓͘͜ȯ̸̢̞͎̻̻̣̖̙̹̘̲͐̇̕͜͜ ̶̮͓̰̖͔̍͋͠͝l̵̳̭̰̲̂͆̓̍͑̓̈̆͝͝ͅě̸̛͙͙̮̚t̶̫̝͚̗̺̯͇̞̉͗̂̈́̃̿̿̾̀̋͋̈́͝͠ş̸̘̤̮̫́͌̈́̊́̅̎͘͜͝͠ ̴̢̱͓̲̮̝̗̱̥͖̗͍͌d̴͚̪̲̮͇̟̼͍̉ȍ̸̩͕̤̳̞̯͎̥͚̣͈̈̄̔͑͌̿̏͗̆̕͝ͅ ̶͚̖͚͇̖̦̝̜͉̦̳̇̓̐j̴̨̧̛̞͔̦̥̿̓̀̋͑͌̔̈́͊̂͋͠ͅư̷̢̮̥͉̘̙̩̤͉͇͉̝͌̽̽́̄͊̾̍̈́̒́ͅş̷̧̟̯̯̙̭̙̼̖̦̪͎̌̓̐̈́́̅̂̅̍̈́̍̅̕͜͝ͅt̶̛̼̜͚̹͗̓̃ ̴̧̛̲̦̼̼̟̙̦̻̭͔̫̫͆̅̑͐̃͆͂͐͑̅ť̵̡̝͇̜̦͇͖̅̈́h̷̬̮̻͚̰̦̗̮͙̄̍̒̇͆̊̾̀̄̓̉͜ā̴͖̜̠̩͖̖̐͒͋̇t̵̡̫̭̙̜̣̜̥͓̝̬̰̃̇̾̇̀̋̽͐̀̊͘.̵̪̣̮̰̍̈̂̂̌̋̈͒̐̀͠͝ " (We were designined to kill, so lets do just that.)

With a new motivation, one not crafted by the goo, but by its own mind, the one it was given by the rough dream magic, it set out to kill. Anything that it saw.

" Ẹ̸̠̘̯͚̻̫͔̮͈̳͈̝͋s̵̛̯̰͎̟͕̟̫̩̩̬̻̤̟̀̎̽̑͂͊͐͠ͅp̵̡͎̹͉̖̭͕̟͍̝̳͆̿̈͘͜ě̷̙̟̥̤͐̓́͗̆̄̚͝ç̶̼͖̀͂́̈͋̚į̸̡͍̖̟̺̮̙̜̪̤̓̽̄̒̇͗̑̉͘͝ͅa̶͇̳͉͙͎̾̀̈͒l̷̨̨̢̠̠̲̬͔̤̥̎̍͐̾̃̌͝y̷̦̘̞̮̒̀̃͑̽͠ ̷̨̰̘͙̖̬͉̠̭̱̯͊̓̓̈́̑͆͋̉͂̐̊͌̂b̴̯̰̙̻͔̙̝̤̺͙͑̀̓̒̄̑̿̊͛̐̑́̍̚u̴̡̢̖̠̹̟̟̟̫̓̓͊n̸̲̲̪̦͉̥̙͒̑̋̓̔̄̾̒͘n̷̡̪͈̱̭̱̗̫̰̣̜̖͊̑͜͜i̸̹̣͚͙̙͛͆̓̔́̇̈́͑̓ȅ̶͓̊̔̀͌͂̄͑̉̎͘͘s̵͓̜͇̝̦͍̘̀̽̊̋̓͠,̵̖͚͂̃̓̒̀͑͒̈́̚ ̶̨̩͍̗͇͕͎̯̻̥̟̥͔̋̉̄̑͋̓͗̀̅́̄̚͝͝ͅv̷̧̝̟͍̮͉̦̩̬͉͂͗̋͌̈́͜ĭ̶̡̧̧̛̹̝̫̮̯̤̲̎̈̆̋̌̈́̾̅̕͜l̵̗̼͙̰̲̫̎̆̓̾̔̒͒̀̏̒̈́̕͘͘͝ȩ̶̣͙̹̯̘̹̤͇͇̟̺̜̈́̈͌̄̊̃̔̔̈͆̅͆͛͐ ̸̢̛͚̗̝̻͉͓̫͉̩̟̪̠͒̈́̎̔̔̑̋̚͜v̸̧̧̱̣̗͔̜̻̭̥̥̭͉̊͐̿͗̌͂̕̕̚ͅẽ̶̢̞̼̼̪̤̹͎̼͈̗̙̬r̶̢̜̦̥̙̓̀̎̕̕͝m̷̦̟̮͚̞̲̅̏̑̐̉̅͛͒͑͑̽͊̕͘͠i̶̢͓͚̫̠͇͎͌̌͑͂̏̈́̂́̈́͝͠ñ̴̛͙̹̥͉͙̩̳̟̮̫̜̹̂̃͐̏́͐̐͊͑͠ȩ̸̯̩̬̹̺̊̂̈͌̿̔͒̂̈́̒̑̈́͗ͅs̷̠͙̲̺̣̯̜͙̗̬͙̥̝̖̏͛̉̒̔͌̌̆̍͝!̸̟̤̩̜̝̒̀́̈́͋͐͗̀̋̓̀̀́͜͝͝ͅ " ( Especialy bunnies, vile vermines!) Part of it said, wierd, but ok?

"STOP" A voice echoed from above.

With a flash of purple, all that remained of the encounter was the vines on the wall, and a note that said.

"Corrupted or killed,

but gone nevertheless.

Say goodbye to your friends,

and the dream magic mess."

Along with the death message in chat:

Docm77 was slain by ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ using The Watchers Blade

~~~~~

The members of Hermitcraft learned not to mess with dream magic after the Buttercup Incident. For they had lost three friends to maddness, and one more to the maddness of the others. Memorials are set up for them each season after season 9, along with the memorial for TFC.

[vampsnape]

The First Taste

vampire severus snape's first taste of blood

tw: mentions of vampirism & drinking blood

The room was small and dim, its only light a single lantern hung on a rusted hook. The flickering flame threw uneven shadows across the cracked stone walls, making the space feel smaller, like a cell. Severus Snape stood in the center, his shoulders hunched, his hands hidden in the folds of his robes. He was still wearing the mask of a man, but inside, he was something else entirely, something he loathed.

The man sitting before him was thin, his skin pale and greasy, as though he had been leeched of vitality long before this night. He reeked of desperation. A wizard who had once known better days, but now lived in the gutters of Knockturn Alley, offering his blood to monsters for coin. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, his words trembling as he tried to sound brave.

“Just… just make it quick, yeah?” He laughed, a brittle, humorless sound. “I don’t need to know what it’s like.”

Snape didn’t answer. His throat was tight, and his stomach churned. He had tried to resist this moment, clinging to the tattered remnants of his humanity, but resistance had become impossible. The hunger was a living thing inside him, writhing and clawing at the edges of his mind, whispering that he could delay no longer.

He stepped forward, his boots scraping against the stone. The man flinched, shrinking back, but didn’t move to leave. There was nowhere to go. The deal had been struck, the galleons exchanged.

Snape’s hand trembled as he reached out, the pale skin of his fingers brushing against the man’s neck. The pulse beneath was weak, uneven, but it was there. It thrummed against his fingertips, a rhythm that made his teeth ache. His mouth felt dry and wet at the same time, his tongue heavy, his jaw tight.

“Do it,” the man said, his voice breaking. “Just get it over with.”

Snape’s lips curled back in a grimace, exposing teeth that no longer felt like his own. His fangs scraped against his lower lip, sharp enough to draw blood. The smell hit him first: a metallic tang that filled his nostrils, sharp and intoxicating. His body reacted before his mind could stop it, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he bent down.

The first bite was agony. For both of them.

The man gasped, his body jerking, but Snape held him firm, his hands gripping his shoulders with a strength that felt monstrous. The skin gave way too easily beneath his teeth, the flesh parting with a sickening wetness. And then the blood came.

It flooded his mouth in a hot, coppery rush, coating his tongue, his throat, his teeth. The taste was overwhelming, rich and complex, a thousand sensations at once. Sweet and bitter. Thick and hot. Alive. He swallowed reflexively, and the hunger surged forward, obliterating everything else.

For a moment, there was no room for thought, no room for shame. Only the blood, pouring into him, filling the void that had been gnawing at him for days. It was ecstasy and revulsion intertwined, a pleasure so sharp it felt like pain. His hands tightened on the man’s shoulders, claws digging into flesh as he drank deeper, his body trembling with the force of it.

The man whimpered, his strength fading, his head lolling to the side. Snape could hear his heartbeat slowing, each beat weaker than the last. And then the shame came crashing down, drowning him in its cold, suffocating weight. He wrenched himself away, blood dripping from his mouth, his chest heaving.

The man slumped forward, his breaths shallow, his skin ashen. Snape stared at him, horrified by what he had done, by what he had become. His hands were slick with blood, his mouth stained red. He wanted to scream, to claw at his own flesh, to rip the monster out of himself. But it was too late. The monster was him.

“Take your gold,” Snape said, his voice hollow, barely above a whisper. He tossed the pouch onto the floor, the coins spilling out, clinking against the stone. The man didn’t move, his eyes glassy, his body trembling.

Snape turned away, his robes swirling around him as he fled into the shadows, the taste of blood still thick in his mouth. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. It would stay with him, no matter how much he tried to forget.

It was his first taste, and it would not be his last.

[hiskillingjar]

Overstimulation (Ren/MC)

day 25: overstimulation second person

"Ah-ah-ah-!"

You gasped brokenly as your hips rutted up desperately against the wide, rumbling head of the hitachi, wielded like a weapon, something to be used against you and to cause you pain, as his other hand roughly groped your chest, his claws digging into your skin.

"Oh, those sounds are way too cuuute~" Ren cooed condescendingly, rolling your nipple (pert and pink and oh-so-sensitive from all his teasing) between his thumb and pointer finger, pressing the vibrator even harder against your cunt as he brought his face closer to yours, sharp teeth smiling as he watched you hungrily, like you were a squirming animal in his trap. "Is that what I do to you, baby? Do I make you sound all porny and desperate, hmmm?~"

"Mmph..." You squeezed your eyes shut, tugging hard at the zip-tie that kept you bound and secured the basement's support beam and biting your lip, hard enough that you might have been concerned about drawing blood (if you could even think). When he tilted the vibrator a little, rubbing the ridged side against your clit, you took in a broken gasp, your eyes shooting wide again, staring up at the swinging lightbulb behind his head like it was the only thing you had left. "Nghhh, stoooop, I can't-!"

Ren giggled a little, running his tongue over his shining, wet jaws before leaning in close, pressing his nose against your neck, taking in your scent. 

"Not yet, not just yet," He whispered as he pressed the vibrator down a little harder, listening to your hitched breaths as he dragged it up and down your weeping slit, stimulating every sensitive area you had. "You can take it, I know you can take it. Don't you want just a little more, anyway? Don't you want to make me proud? I can make you feel so much better..." He nuzzled his face against your neck then, his own breath growing ragged and his tail wagging erratically as he kept pawing at your chest. "I'm the only one who can make you feel this good, after all."

"R-Ren, please, I really can't take it," You whimpered desperately, your voice quivering as much as your body was, trying to plead to him as he stared intently at your sweaty face. "It hurts, please..."

"Oh, you poor thing..." Ren said with a pleased sigh, a condescending click of his tongue. "You should believe in yourself more. You just need the right kind of encouragement, I think..."

He stopped groping your chest for a moment to caress your cheek and push your hair away from your hot face, an intimate and gentle gesture reserved for lovers (that feels mocking when he does it), and then leaned in, planting a firm and deep-tongued kiss to your lips, sharp fangs nipping your lips and making you bleed.

Unable to fight back, you groaned helplessly, your eyelids fluttering and your body tensing up as he kissed you, the hand on your cheek pushing your head back against the support beam, pinning you still so he could take you exactly as he wanted you. 

"I just love the sound of your moans, you know," He whispered against your lips, parted and panting, a thin string of spittle connecting them and threatening to break. "And your reactions, god, they're getting me so hot... and I'm not even halfway done with you."

Not even halfway done. How on earth were you going to survive this?

Ren chuckled quietly, almost innocently, biting his lip to suppress a smile as he pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes on yours as he gradually turned the vibrator up a few more notches, the buzzing getting louder and so much more intense.

"God-!"

You gritted your teeth with a desperate whine, your toes curling against the cold cement floor and your legs trembling underneath him, where he was straddling you and gradually rutting his own hips down against you. 

"Please, please stop, I can't, I can't-!"

"Oh no. I don't think I'm ready to stop just yet." Ren replied with another little chuckle, his playful smile broadening further into a sharp grin, his smile lines dimpling. "After all, you are so very pretty when you're all turned on like this. When you're drooling as much as your cunt is." He giggled again, his pale cheeks flushed pink, like he was saying something especially naughty. "So many cute sounds just waiting to be made, like you're my very own personal hentai..." 

A lecherous look came to his golden eyes as he turned up the vibrator another notch.

"Let's see if we can make just a few more, shall we?"

"AHHHN!" You cried out, your back arching and your eyes squeezing shut tight, your lips trembling as he pressed even closer to you, his chest practically pressed against yours, tilting the hitachi again and rubbing the bumped ridge of it against your hard clit, stimulating where you were most sensitive and relishing in just how much it was torturing you. "MPH!"

"Ohhh, oh, baby, that's it. You're doing oh-so-well, doing such a good job for me." He whispered hotly, kissing up your neck, his tongue occasionally darting out to lick over already existing bruises. "Why don't you be a good girl for me and just let yourself feel every single little thing I can give you, hm?" He tilted his head, his ears twitching. "It's easier than resisting it, right? Easier to be honest than to keep lying to yourself that you don't adore this feeling~"

"Pleaseeee," You drawled, a viscous string of spittle trickling from your lips and down your chin, tears beading in your eyes, your forehead sweating from the effort of keeping yourself from breaking apart completely under him. "Please, please, fill me up then, make me cum, I can't take it-!"

Ren laughed out loud upon hearing your request, digging his knee into your spread thigh, painful and heavy. 

"Are you begging now? Really?" He chuckled. "I'm not sure if you're in the position to be doing that, sweetie. But, yeah, maybe I will fill you...or maybe I'll do something else." 

The vibe went up another notch. Your eyes rolled back in your skull and you were beginning to lose the ability to even make words anymore.

"And I can do so much more than this too..." He whispered, pressing his cheek against yours and staring at your face, watching as your expression gave away just how much you were getting lost in the pleasure, eyes going hazy and your mind fuzzing into fog behind it. "I can make you feel so many things... so many things you haven't felt before. I can make this last forever, if I really wanted to." He giggled softly and gave you a light peck on your trembling lips. "That's an idea, isn't it? Keeping you tied up in this basement, rutting against a vibrator, cumming your brains out day after day. Maybe I'll be kind enough to fuck you sometimes too, if you ask for it super nicely. Sometimes."

Another notch. You felt your body jerk and spasm, a puppet with cut strings, a toy moments from breaking.

You wondered how many other toys he had broken. Then wondered how you still even had enough of a brain to think about that.

"I can do a lot of things to you, and I intend to do each and every one. Just as I please."

[unfinishedstorys]

Beneath Her Teeth

warning : 🐌 - suggestive

vampire x human reader

pt 1 ; pt 2 ; pt 3 ; pt 4 ; pt 5

🦇🩸🦇🩸🦇🩸🦇🩸🦇🩸🦇🩸🦇🩸🦇🩸🦇

She didn't stop after those words - you're mine now- but you felt them sink under your skin, into your bones, like a second pulse.

Her mouth left your throat only to return lower, her tongue tracing the marks she left as if to soothe what her teeth had claimed. Each touch was sharp, possessive, but there was a strange kind of reverence in the way her hands roamed your body, like she was discovering something sacred and dangerous all at once.

You should have been scared. Maybe you were. But the fear tangled so tightly with need that you couldn't separate them anymore.

Her claws dragged down your sides, a slow, deliberate scrape, leaving faint trails of heat in their wake. When her hands settled on your waist, her grip tightened, her breath ragged against your skin.

"You feel too warm," she muttered, almost to herself, like your heat was something she couldn't fully understand. "Too alive."

You didn't know what to say, so you reached for her instead - your hands sliding up her arms, across her shoulders, over skin that wasn't quite smooth, wasn't quite rough. It was cold, but not unpleasant, her body made of something both solid and shifting, like the forest itself had wrapped itself around her bones.

She leaned into your touch.

The hunger in her eyes hadn't disappeared, but it softened at the edges. There was something else there now, layered beneath the desire - something almost fragile, though you knew better than to call a creature like her fragile.

"Are you going to keep teasing me," you asked, voice low, "or are you going to take what you want?"

Her smile returned, all teeth and promise. "I already am."

Her hands slid lower, fingers curling beneath your clothes, tugging them aside with a patience you hadn't expected. The claws that could've torn fabric apart with ease were careful - almost hesitant - as though some part of her wanted to savor this, to draw it out until there was no air left between you.

You kissed her again, this time slower, your fingers tangling in her hair - too soft for a monster, too cold for anything human. She tasted like the forest after rain, sharp and earthy, and when she kissed you back, her mouth was all hunger and heat and longing too big to name.

Your clothes pooled at your feet, the cold air biting at your skin, but she was there to chase the chill away - her mouth on your throat, your chest, your stomach, leaving a trail of teeth and tongue, a map she was making for herself.

Every time you gasped, every time your fingers clenched around her, you felt her tremble - just slightly, just enough to know that this was hunger, yes, but it was also something else.

Something she hadn't let herself want for a very, very long time.

Her mouth returned to yours, her body pressing you into the earth, her thigh sliding between yours until every shift and grind made you shudder. Her fangs scraped your lip, not enough to draw blood - not yet - but enough to remind you what she was.

"What are you waiting for?" you whispered, breathless.

Her eyes burned. "Permission."

Your heart stuttered. You pulled her closer.

"You already have it."

Whatever restraint she'd been holding onto snapped.

The forest swallowed the sounds you made after that - gasps and moans and broken words - but the silence didn't feel empty. It felt full, filled with her hands, her mouth, her body moving against yours like you were something she'd dreamed of and never dared to touch until now.

And when her teeth finally sank into you again - lower, this time, sharp and unrelenting - you arched into her and gave her everything.

Because monsters deserve to be fed.

And you had always belonged to her.

[myers-meadow]

Okay, but have you considered how hot it would be for Raphael to use his claws to "undress" Tav? Or him dragging those claws all over Tav's body?

🥴🥵 aughghg that's so hot ;;;

Here is just a small little something <3 Thank you for this delicious prompt!

cw dub-con/non-con, contracts, power imbalance, v quickly written drabble, danger, non-con undressing, not actual smut, fade to black.

"That's what the contract states, dear," Raphael says, and with the snap of his fingers, the smell of sulphur rises, and his form changes. Now he looks like the fiend he truly is.

"You vile demon," you spit, drawing a weapon, but finding your hand stilled just before you hit him.

He tsk's at you, enjoying your powerlessness. "We wouldn't have this situation if you'd just behaved yourself. After all the effort you went through, you've only got yourself to blame for this."

You try spells, your frantic mind trying to think of the words but finding none, as he closes in, circling you like a vulture.

"I wouldn't even try," he seizes you by the back of your neck like a pathetic little kitten, "just go along, and perhaps you'll even enjoy yourself."

You grit your teeth, flinching away from his thought. However charming he was before, fear making it hard to think, hard to feel anything but panic. You're not ready to die, not ready to become some poor sod serving him at the House of Hope, or to be soul fodder for those pillars that give him his power - no, it shouldn't be possible.

"You're just as deceitful as they said, there was nothing in the contract about my soul."

"Soul? Who said anything about your soul?" With a surprisingly gentle hand, he caresses your cheek. "It's your body I'm after."

The relief is immediately followed with realisation, like a bucket of ice cold water dumped over your head. You freeze in his hold, can only dig your nails in his wrist, to try and stop his hand from it's tender touching. "No," you say weakly.

"No? Truly, that is all you have to say?" the sinister smile that tugs at his lips would be the most attractive thing in any other context. "No matter."

His hand that is not holding you in place, travels to your throat, feeling as you swallow heavily. For a moment, he presses a finger to your pulse, just to feel it. Just to show you how easy it would be to snuff you out. Then, it moves down. You don't need to see his hands to know that they've landed on the laces of your blouse.

That gentleness from before - how you miss it now! - is gone entirely as he rips the laces from the fabric, the garment falling away from your chest. It stuns you into silence. Another tug and it lies discarded on the floorboards. The sharp nail of his finger trails down your breastbone, to your belly button, to the laces of your trousers. Your breath comes in short gasps, as his touches leaves an uncomfortable heat in its wake. How could you still desire him, even now?

"With how flushed you look, I'd almost say you're enjoying this." The purr of his voice is delightful, but before you can be lulled to more pleasant visions, his claws tear through the cotton. His evil eyes glint as he pulls you closer. The tug at your underwear leaves a sting against the skin of your hips, and the scent of sulphur and cherries is the only thing that reminds you that you're still breathing. Then, unexpectedly, he kisses you, sadistically nipping at your lips with fanged teeth. "Even if you aren't, I am very much looking forward to this."

[sir-subpar]

Reimagined Banban x Reader- Hungry Bird Chase (2)

Finally here! Sorry about the wait everyone! Under the cut.

TW: Swearing, blood and injury, violence, etc.

Hurt Comfort.

PREV.

The large monster emerged from the darkness, Jumbo Josh.

The large green reptilian beast stalked towards you and Banban, a deep growl rumbled from him.

As if on instinct, Opila bolted up the stairs, you watched from a high altitude as Josh and Banban began to fight.

Banban leapt onto Josh's face, latching onto him, and clawing at it madly.

You saw him draw what you assumed to be blood.

Josh stumbled back, distracted by the assault on his face.

It didn't distract him long however, as he found his footing, and forcibly gripped Banban.

You watched, your heart clenched as you witnessed Banban being thrown to the ground.

You audibly gasped as Josh's giant fist came crashing down into Banban's body.

You swore you heard something crack or break.

You decided you needed to take action, but how?

You fumbled with your bag, there had to be something you could use, right?

Water Bottle? Probably not. Bandages? The hell would bandages do against a Dinosaur?? 

A lunch bag?

Actually, that could work.

You remembered the murals you saw of Jumbo Josh encouraging kids to eat vegetables- like he did.

You pulled out a large zip lock bag of carrots from your lunch.

You steered Opila down the steps. Though she was obviously hesitant, you managed to coerce her into doing it.

The two of you reached the bottom of the staircase. 

You whistled loudly to grab Josh's attention. Once his eyes locked with yours, you tossed a carrot in front of him.

He slowly pulls his gaze away from you looking at the vegetable with what you assumed to be some level of suspicion.

But whatever equation he had ping ponging in his head, he eventually came to the conclusion that yes, it was a carrot. He let go of Banban, no longer crushing the red monster and ate the carrot off the floor. 

His demeanor changed entirely after that. He approached you and sat merely feet away.

You gulped at the behemoth towering before you.

He looked at you expectantly.

You pulled out another carrot, but this time, instead of throwing it, you held it out above your head. His good eye widened in what you could only guess was excitement. 

He leaned forward, eating it from your hand.

His massive teeth crunched the vegetable loudly.

You offered another one, and once again, he ate it.

You had an idea.

"Hey buddy, can you hold out your palm for me?" 

You demonstrated with your own hand, facing it flat and palm up.

He stared at his own hand, confused, but did as you asked.

You poured the remaining carrots into his open hand, he ecstatically devoured them in front of you. 

He seemed far less threatening now, just excited for vegetables.

He laid down in front of you, you extended your hand out to him, gently petting his head, avoiding the deep gashes that were still oozing red.

His poor half melted face, his jagged, cavity-riddled teeth… it made you soak in the appearances of all the monsters around you.

Opila, once the beautiful bird who kept a gentle watch over the young children in the kindergarten. Now, she was gaunt, and her feathers had either faded in color, or fallen out.

Banbaleena looked haggard as well, covered in colorful stains and splotches. 

And Banban, he- wait.

Oh shit! You forgot about Banban for a second, was he okay?

You hopped off of Opila, approaching the red monster on the floor.

You approached with caution, unsure if he was still… like "that". 

But upon closer inspection, he seemed to be unconscious, laying on his back. With the amount of times he'd been thrown around, you'd be more surprised if he actually did stay awake.

Through his slightly parted lips, who's sharp fangs were once again nowhere to be found. It was like when you first met him.

His face was more bruised than before, and when you checked the back of his head, it too, was purple with bruises.

Your bandaids couldn't fix that much.

You heard a strained chirp behind you. You turned to see Opila towering over you.

She too, was not as aggressive as before, instead sitting next to you.

You pulled something else out of your lunch bag, you dissected your sandwich, offering her the bread.

She scarfed it down. 

You took note of the scrapes around her leg. She noticed your stare, and pecked at your bag.

"Do you… want me to wrap up your leg?" She replied with more vigorous pecking. You assumed that was a yes.

So, you did as you were "asked", you used some alcohol wipes to clean the wounds, and wrapped them in gauze. At this rate, you were going to run out by the end of the day.

Josh approached the three of you, and laid down next to you again. Looking up at you pleadingly. 

Right, the claw marks.

You did your best to clean them, but you couldn't properly bandage him due to his size.

At least you were able to dab the blood off of him.

Your peaceful moment was short lived, as the giant orange creature emerged from the darkness once more.

You were really starting to hate Stinger Flynn.

It seemed you weren't the only one, as Jumbo Josh let out a ferocious roar, interrupting Stinger Flynn from speaking.

It did not take long for another flight to break out. This time between Jumbo Josh and Stinger Flynn.

Before you could even think about grabbing Banban, Opila's beak bit down on the back of your shirt, practically throwing you on to her back before she ran up the stairs again, where she dumped you quickly before charging into action.

The fast uneven movement of it all made you nauseous, and being thrown on the floor at the top of the stairs did not help with your disorientation.

Tarta, who had been waiting at the top of the stairs with their baby bird, lept from the ledge to join Opila.

You took the bird and ran.

From one parent to another, the least you could do was help Opila keep her hatchling safe.

Though you ran with a heavy heart, having to leave Banban behind.

What if that was the last time you saw him?

(To be continued?)

[bakageta]

Here, have a fic I've been working on and teasing you guys with since 2021!

----

It happens so slowly that neither of them notice. 

Things gradually become strained, Venom's teasing insults grow sharp and start cutting while Eddie snaps, lashes out, and grows resentful. Tension builds between them, coiling in Eddie's back and drawing Venom in taut webs across his skin. Each knuckle of each finger on each of Eddie's hands aches with the need to do something—to tear and rip and rend. 

They're in the kitchen, fingers arched into night-black claws that neither of them had meant to make, when Eddie finally acknowledges that something is wrong.

"No shit," Venom's voice grates through Eddie's larynx, bits of them forming the words within his throat before the air could pass his vocal cords.

"Ah-asshole," Eddie coughs, one clawed hand reflexively at his throat and the other gripping puncture marks into the counter. Venom is acting out for attention, he thinks, as if either of them could keep ignoring what was happening. "You're not helping."

Neither are you.

"Yeah, but I've never done anything like this before!" Eddie's anger is bringing their teeth out of his gums. He knows it's him doing it just as much as he knows he can't stop doing it.

And what makes you think that I have!?

"You expect me to belie—"

"Never," Venom interrupts this time with Eddie's whole mouth, their lashing tongue joining the pointed fangs as Eddie's human jaw shifts and accommodates alien flesh. "I have never done anything like this before. Never given up food. Never hidden myself away. Never limited myself because if I had I would have been killed."

"Fuck," Eddie pants as Venom's tongue and teeth recede. There's a moment where they both realize how ready they are to cut into each other, and they stop. Venom settles in sharp, restless patterns just below his skin while Eddie catches his breath leaning against the countertop.

[house-afire]

Knives in His Feet (Ed/Frenchie)

Prompt: 100 words of cats

“You’re the one who made the cat flag, aren’t you?”

Frenchie did his best not to jump out of his skin. It was sort of Blackbeard’s deal, especially these days, to suddenly be right behind you, so the startle reaction was just something you had to train out of yourself, wasn’t it, like needing sleep or flinching at the sight of blood. He always had blood on him now, drying around his fingernails and in the weave of his clothes.

“Thought it’d be fierce,” Frenchie said. He hastily added, “Skeleton with the heart, though, that’s better. Some of my best work, really.”

Blackbeard leaned close to him, his voice a hot whisper in Frenchie’s ear. “Want to see something weird?”

No, he actually didn’t. A guy asked you that kind of question, it wasn’t ever the good kind of weird, like a funny-colored parrot or a biscuit that sort of looked like you.

But he liked all his fingers and toes right where they were, thanks, so he wasn’t going to make trouble.

“’Course,” he said, following Blackbeard to the captain’s cabin.

It’d been a pretty place, in Stede’s day. Bit of a pit now, if Frenchie were honest. Very obviously the home of a man going through a real shitstorm of a break-up: damp hankies everywhere, slashed-up paintings, ashes from the ritual burning of the ex’s possessions, all that jazz. Sort of smelled funny.

“You hate cats,” Blackbeard told him.

“Hate’s a bit strong. Healthy terror of them, I’d say.”

Blackbeard’s kohl was streaked with tear-tracks, but picking up on that didn’t really make his bared-teeth smile any better. “Would you kill one?”

Frenchie had heard about Fang’s dog by now. Did Blackbeard have a cat in here, waiting for an appointment with Frenchie-the-executioner?

“D’you want me to get Iz?” Frenchie offered. “Think the whole, ah, death thing is more his speed.” Not that Izzy didn’t look as ashen and out-to-lunch as the rest of them, lately.

“Oh, Izzy won’t kill this kitty,” Blackbeard said, with something dark curling in his voice: satisfaction and anguish and bitterness all mixed together. “One of the few things he won’t do, even when he’s ordered, the little fucker.”

“Guess we all draw the line somewhere,” Frenchie said.

“But you’re smarter. You wouldn’t stick your head in the lion’s mouth, would you? Fucking terrible idea, right? Something shows you it’s a monster, and you know it’s a monster, you’ve got to put it down, not trust it, not let it go on gnawing at you.”

Did lions gnaw? He’d have thought they could just bite straight through. But then, he’d lost the plot here, he was pretty sure.

“Yeah,” Blackbeard breathed. “Yeah, you’re a smart man. ‘Healthy terror,’ love that. Gotta be healthy.”

He started peeling off his leathers.

So they were doing that, then? Frenchie could work with that. He couldn’t say he was much in the mood, what with the exhaustion and the mind-numbing fear and all, but he also couldn’t say he hadn’t thought about it. Never imagined there’d be this much preamble about cats, though. Well, nobody could accuse Blackbeard of being predictable.

“Right,” Frenchie said, undoing the clasps on his jacket. “Bit of fun’s healthy too, yeah? Good thinking.”

He was a touch behind on the undressing, so he hadn’t gotten more than his jacket off before Blackbeard went and turned into a cat.

Frenchie decided to fit in that jumping-out-of-the-skin bit after all, and he recoiled to the point where he banged his back against the door. It wasn’t every day that you saw a man you were ready to bed turn into a … small-ish panther? Crazily enormous house cat? There were silver strands of fur mixed in with all the black.

Blackwhiskers, Frenchie decided, and then he had to bite down on his lip until it bled, because there were certain laughs that could come out of you that you could never get back in. He didn’t want to find out how far gone he was just from that.

Blackwhiskers was even more terrifying than most cats. Wicked sharp claws, and a hiss that made every hair on Frenchie’s body stand on end. But, well—its tail wasn’t all bushy, was it? And cats did that, when they were pissed off at you: made themselves into bottle-brushes to scrub the soul clean out of your body. It wasn’t slinking into a hunting pose either.

Frenchie wanted to jump ship to get away from it, but that wasn’t the same as wanting it dead, least of all dead by his own hand. He was more of a lover than a fighter, really.

And Blackbeard had it all wrong if he’d thought Frenchie would kill him while he was like this. Cats were a holy terror, but Frenchie had never gone around picking them off one by one. He’d armored himself in them, flown them on his flag, tucked their claws between his fingers. There was no point in wasting what scared you. Blackbeard was fucking terrifying, too, but sometimes that had kept them safe.

Mostly kept them safe from dangers Blackbeard himself had led them to, true, but safe all the same.

He knew his fear wasn’t all Blackbeard had counted on for this, though. He never looked at a thing from just one angle: it was like he had eyes like a fly’s, everything broken up into all these shards of possibilities. He’d known that Frenchie would have to think about the others, too.

It was hard to imagine any of them would ever get close enough to Blackbeard to do a proper mutiny, with a quick in-and-out, sorry-about-that knife plunge or a proper heave-ho with an anchor. Blackbeard had them all outclassed, even Jim. Izzy … there was a chance Izzy could do it, skills-wise, but he was three toes down and still loyal, so there wasn’t much hope there.

Cat was … manageable, maybe. And Wee John and Roach and Olu and the rest had all died parched and starved somewhere, and the rest of the crew was coming apart at the seams, and the box in Frenchie’s head was beginning to look a bit battered. And if Blackbeard died, they could all breathe for a change. Sail to Nassau, maybe. Regroup.

And if Blackbeard died, Blackbeard would be dead. And he hadn’t always been … this. It wasn’t so long ago that he would’ve been the cat on the flag, not the cat on your chest in the middle of the night.

And it was awful, wasn’t it, that Blackbeard had called him in here for this? It was so sad it made something twist around inside Frenchie’s chest.

“Can you still understand me?” Frenchie said softly.

Blackwhiskers gave him another hiss. Bit hard to translate.

“I know it might backfire on me and all,” Frenchie said, sliding down the door to sit on the floor, “or on the rest of us, but I don’t particularly want to kill you, if that’s all right.”

The cat’s ears flattened against its head. Very cursed skull shape, that. He ought to keep it in mind for their next flag, if he lived long enough to stitch one.

“But,” Frenchie continued, “I’m still not clear on whether you’ve got, like, a human brain in there or not. Far as I know, you’re just working with cat instincts. So if you wanted petting, or anything like that … I mean, I’d think it was just the cat asking for it.”

The cat’s eyes were luminous, like those eerie bits of the sea. It stalked towards him, and Frenchie held his breath, waiting to see if it would claw his face off or sink its teeth into his throat and toss him side-to-side.

It dug its claws deep into Frenchie’s legs, instead. It felt like being sliced open by a bunch of white-hot razors. Having his clothes bloodied from the inside-out made for a bit of a change, at least. If he didn't die in here, he'd need to dump some rum over the scratches so they wouldn’t infect. (To be fair, if he did die here, infection would be the least of his worries, wouldn’t it?)

Blackwhiskers settled down on Frenchie’s lap, its claws still rhythmically flexing in and out of his thighs. It glared up at him.

“On it,” Frenchie said. He stroked a hand down the cat’s back: once, twice, three times.

Blackwhiskers didn’t purr for it, but it put its knives away, and Frenchie was of a mind to count that as a win. He might have to grab that bottle of surgical spirits after all.

The cat’s fur was soft and fine as silk, the way he used to imagine Edward Teach’s hair would be. He had always marked those fantasies down as pleasant but unlikely, since Ed had only had eyes for Stede, but here he was, living proof that dreams did come true, in a fashion. Granted, he wasn’t having a nice nooner with his boss’s boyfriend so much as he was petting a suicidal cat-man who’d ordered most of his friends marooned, but if you looked at it a certain way, those were just details. Life never worked out how you thought it would.

“I’d like to hold on to what I’ve still got, you know?” Frenchie said, tentatively scratching the cat’s ears. “You included, I think? So, just one man’s recommendation and all, but you could stop trying to get people to kill you.”

Blackwhiskers let out a noise that was like a strangled creak, still less like a purr than the opening a door maybe better left closed. Kindness was always chancy that way.

Frenchie decided to be hopeful about it. It was nice, being hopeful. Nice and dangerous, like an enormous warm cat napping on some of your blood, but still the best he’d felt in weeks. No sense in ignoring a silver lining.

[critcast]

Draxen “Drax” Maelthar

Name: Draxen "Drax" Maelthar

Age: 112 years old

Race: Cambion (Half-Human, Half-Incubus)

Class/Occupation: Warlock / Soul Harvester

Alignment: Chaotic Evil

Forms.

Ability: Infernal Metamorphosis

Draxen possesses the ability to switch between his human form and his true devil form at will. This transformation allows him to blend in with mortals when needed or to unleash his full infernal power during combat or when exerting dominance. The transformation is accompanied by a brief surge of dark energy, and each form has its own advantages and disadvantages.

Human Form.

Appearance:

Height: 6'4"

Build: Lean and athletic, with a subtly muscular physique.

Skin Tone: Pale, almost alabaster, with no visible scars or blemishes.

Hair: Midnight black, styled in a loose, flowing manner that cascades down his back. His hair has a slight natural wave, giving him a mysterious, almost ethereal appearance.

Eyes: Piercing golden irises with slit-like pupils, resembling those of a cat or serpent.

Facial Features: Sharp, chiseled features that give him an aristocratic and dangerous allure. His face is unmarred, appearing almost too perfect, a testament to his devilish charm.

Clothing: In his human form, Draxen often dresses in elegant, dark-colored attire that hints at nobility or wealth, with a preference for long coats, high collars, and gloves. His clothing is always immaculate, designed to draw attention while allowing for easy movement.

Personality:

In this form, Draxen is charming and manipulative, easily passing as a mysterious noble or a powerful sorcerer. He uses his looks and charisma to blend in with human society, often charming his way into positions of influence or power. However, his eyes and aura always carry a subtle hint of something dark and dangerous beneath the surface.

Abilities in Human Form:

Charm & Persuasion: Draxen’s human form enhances his incubus charm, making him incredibly persuasive and alluring to others.

Subtle Magic: He can still access his magic in this form, though it appears less flashy—small flames, whispers of shadows, and minor illusions are his preferred tools.

Enhanced Stealth: In this form, Draxen is particularly adept at moving unseen and unheard, perfect for infiltrating or escaping situations unnoticed.

Devil Form.

Appearance:

Height: 7'2" (grows taller and more imposing)

Build: Muscular, with broad shoulders and a powerful physique.

Skin Tone: Dark ashen grey with a faint red glow beneath, as if embers lie just under the surface of his skin.

Hair: His hair remains black but becomes wilder, flowing as if caught in an ethereal wind. It appears almost smoke-like, shifting and moving with a life of its own.

Eyes: Glowing golden with flames flickering within them, his pupils become more slit-like and demonic.

Facial Features: His face becomes more angular and demonic, with sharper features and a wider, more sinister grin. His teeth sharpen into fangs, and he grows horns, curving menacingly back along his skull.

Wings: Large, bat-like wings unfurl from his back, leathery and black, allowing him to fly and hover with ease.

Claws and Tail: His fingers elongate into sharp claws, and a long, spiked tail emerges, which he can use to attack or ensnare enemies.

Personality:

When in his devil form, Draxen’s personality becomes more primal and aggressive. He revels in his power and delights in causing pain and destruction. His need to dominate and destroy is heightened, and he loses any pretense of humanity, fully embracing his infernal nature.

Abilities in Devil Form:

Hellfire Manipulation: In this form, Draxen can summon and control hellfire with devastating power, casting large fireballs, creating infernos, or wielding flames as weapons.

Soul Drain: His ability to drain the souls of mortals is significantly enhanced, allowing him to absorb energy rapidly (usually through sexual contact) and heal from wounds almost instantly. it also helps him maintain his human form for longer.

Flight: With his wings, Draxen can fly at great speeds, making him an aerial threat and allowing him to escape or pursue with ease.

Increased Physical Power: His strength, speed, and durability are greatly amplified, making him a fearsome opponent in physical combat.

Transformation Notes:

The transformation between forms is not instantaneous and takes a few seconds, during which Draxen is vulnerable. However, once the transformation is complete, he gains the full benefits of the form he’s in.

While in human form, Draxen must be cautious, as maintaining this appearance can be draining over extended periods, especially if he’s wounded or hasn’t fed on souls recently.

In devil form, Draxen’s powers are at their peak, but he also draws more attention from both mortal and infernal entities, making stealth more difficult.

Draxen uses his ability to switch forms strategically, relying on his human form to manipulate and deceive, while unleashing his devil form when he wishes to assert his dominance or when he faces a powerful foe.

Backstory.

Draxen’s birth was the result of a dark and twisted union between a virtuous human woman named Elara and a malevolent incubus named Azhkarion. His mother, a healer and a kind soul, was seduced by the incubus during a moment of vulnerability. She never forgave herself for the encounter and bore the shame of her pregnancy in silence. When Draxen was born, Elara tried to love him, but the child’s inherent darkness frightened her. She could sense the evil in him even as an infant.

Growing up, Draxen was shunned by the people of his village, who whispered of his demonic origins. His mother’s attempts to shield him only deepened his resentment towards her and the rest of humanity. The more she tried to guide him toward the light, the more he gravitated towards darkness, drawn by the whispers of his father that echoed in his mind.

When he was just 15 years old, Draxen’s latent powers began to manifest, and he accidentally unleashed a devastating infernal fire that consumed his entire village, killing his mother along with everyone else. Instead of grief, Draxen felt a twisted sense of liberation. It was then that he embraced his darker nature fully, abandoning any pretense of humanity.

Over the years, Draxen wandered the world, honing his powers and feeding off the souls of the damned to grow stronger. He became a warlock, forming pacts with even darker entities to further his abilities. His father, Azhkarion, occasionally contacts him in dreams, offering guidance and temptations, though Draxen despises the incubus. Yet, ironically, Draxen finds himself walking the very path his father once did, relishing in the same evil that destroyed his life. He has ambitions to become more powerful than his father, who rules a sect of the Nine Hells, seeking to kill him and claim his throne.

Personality.

Draxen is cunning, manipulative, and driven by a deep-seated resentment toward both humanity and his infernal heritage. His charm is his most dangerous weapon, capable of luring victims into a false sense of security before he strikes. While he revels in chaos and destruction, his actions are often calculated, driven by a desire for power and control.

Beneath his cold, arrogant exterior lies a core of bitterness and pain, remnants of a past that fuels his hatred for a world that has always hated him. He harbors a deep contempt for weakness, including the lingering compassion he sometimes feels, a trait he views as an inherited flaw from his human mother.

Draxen finds joy in tormenting others, both mentally and physically. He’s prone to sudden outbursts of violence, especially when he feels his authority or power is threatened. However, he is also highly intelligent and enjoys playing elaborate mind games, making him as dangerous psychologically as he is physically. He has a habit of making light of serious situations.

Goals & Motivations.

Power: Draxen seeks to amass enough power to rival even the greatest of devils, and to one day challenge his father and take his place as a ruler of the infernal realms.

Mastery Over His Fate: Draxen is driven by a need to prove that he is not a mere puppet of his infernal heritage but a master of his own destiny, even if that destiny is one of destruction.

Drax’s Relationship with His Mother.

Despite her fear of his infernal nature, Elara had moments of genuine affection and love for her son. These moments were fleeting but powerful, creating a confusing mix of emotions in Draxen. For example, after Draxen displays his first signs of infernal power as a child, instead of reacting with pure horror, Elara had a moment where she saw the innocent child beneath the darkness, cradling him and whispering a lullaby that she used to sing before she fully understood what he was. This memory haunts Draxen, particularly in moments of extreme violence or when he’s alone, serving as a faint echo of the love he once knew but now rejects.