It’s important to be able to communicate with your partner. How else are they going to know to microwave the blood bag for 35 seconds first?
I love working with backward-legged shapeshifters, because now nothing I do is anatomically incorrect.
Also yes, she actually does need those gloves to touch him. She can survive the shock, but you’re not… always in the mood for that, y’know?

Need a jump-start, darling?
She gets all showy when she’s excited. This isn’t even the worst of it.

So the patient says to the surgeon: “Y’know, it’s bad manners to lick the knife.”

Okay, so sometimes experiments go awry. This is to be expected. Being a god, Stormcatcher doesn’t personally take all the safety precautions available. Sometimes he stands directly in front of very powerful rays just because it’s warmer there. Incidentally, that’s how he learned he’s immune to radiation.

He is, however, apparently quite vulnerable to chemical developments in fertility. After just a week of trial experiments that involved applying a special balm to low-fecundity subjects without wearing gloves, something in him started to stir.

None of the assistants noticed his legs trembling until his knees buckled beneath him. It was quite a sight for the usually-reserved dry-lab, where just minutes earlier he’d been lecturing on conducive metals, and was currently viciously unfastening and tearing off his pants, intent on releasing the thing gurgling and growling from his lower half.

Thankfully what came out was actually fairly aesthetically pleasing. One bright blue, glowing egg, slick and round and perfect. Then two. Then three. Stormcatcher trembled and clenched his fists as the firm, unfertilized spheres popped out, one right after the other, forming a nest between his legs.

He laid eighteen eggs in all before the last soft plop. He sighed, exhausted. An assistant offered him the tail of her labcoat to dab his brow.

“Ach, I may have made something of an oversight. Es macht nichts. Auch ein gescheites Huhn legt sein Ei neben das Nest.”

You’re a freshly-exalted intern who takes a wrong turn on your way to the bathroom and finds yourself in Stormcatcher’s office. It’s dark and lush and completely still, except for over by the wall where ol’ Boss is sitting buck-naked on his desk and huffing away in front of a full-body mirror, locked in a staring contest with his own reflection. You divert your eyes to allow your liege his modesty, but the sound of liquid spattering makes you crane your neck further into the room.

Hanging from his mouth is a sliver of… Magenta Basic… Is that… is that the Fae you saw him verbally reaming on the work floor an hour ago? Its economically-worthless essence is splattered across his face, running down his chest… over his… pumping fist.

“Ngh, gutaussehender Teufel…” he hisses between clenched teeth, red spray hitting the mirror. “Du bist… so… nnh… so mächtig… so stattlich…” Sometimes he swoons forward like a punch-drunk boxer, like he’d kiss himself if he could.

A part of you wants to scream for help, but who would believe you? You barely believe you. It’d be his word against yours, and there’s no dragon alive who could outrank the god of Lightning.

So you just make a mental note to never, ever cross this dude. You ease the door closed with shaking claws, centimeter by aching, horrible centimeter.

“Halt mal, Intern.” He’s stopped, turned his head to look at you.

Oh, ssshit. How long has he known you were there? Are you next? You’re too young to die!… At less than a week old, you are literally too young to die. Is it too late to force yourself to cry? And if you did, would he even care? Is a deity who jacks himself off with the viscera of his peons the sort of guy who’d respond to tears? You decide it probably doesn’t matter, because you’ve started to cry for real.

“There’s a sanitation closet at the end of the hall. When I leave this room, I expect to find you waiting outside that door with a mop, a bucket, and a little more than a handful of Wet-Naps. Am I understood?”

Your neck creaks up and down in a stiff nod.

“Excellent. Do good work, and you may be granted a permanent position. Make me proud. Synergy.”

You close the door and try to regain your composure, wiping away tears. Right before you go sprinting down the hall, you hear him start again:

“…Niemand… übertrifft Sie, Herr Blitzdrachen…”

Oh God oh God oh blood-lubricated God.

Oh, the things we have to lick for science.

I will not use the dragon game to express my gross fetishes I WILL NOT USE THE DRA-GOD DAMMIT.

Headcanon: Stormcatcher, like all the FR deities, does not reproduce sexually or need to eat. But when He leaves the Tempest Spire on His “lunch break”, He is under no circumstances to be disturbed.

Dear god, this is inscrutable. KEEP ME AWAY FROM COMPLEX DESIGNS.