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niyafics · 3 months ago

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: •̩̩͙ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙙 ⋆｡° •̩̩͙ ໋:🦁

chap1 : sweet talk frat!rich!paige bueckers x reader AU

˳ ⋅ ⊹ wc: 5k (*cries*)

˚ ⋅ ⊹ cw: alcohol (barley), swearing, LOWKEY EMO/LONER READER(i love opposites srry), estranged relationship with parents, golden retriever x black cat dynamic, an au things r diff obviously, the frat is made up lolol and not an established relationship either , lotsa building. angst(?), daddy issues(?). only proofread by me lolllll

˳ ⋅ ⊹ abt: after a long night of serving snobs you try to get a drink and a cute, hyper, frat girl home from college bails you out. now she won’t leave you alone.

˚ ⋅ ⊹(a/n): ty if u waited to read this, n srry if it sucks as always lolol. feel free to still use this idea btw!

ANOTHER exhausting night catering to posh assholes, and their colleagues. Some were easier to service. They screwed their face when you walked up, like you’d been interrupting a conversation, before bluntly repeating their orders, barley slow enough for you to hurriedly jot down.

They don’t thank you when you bring the food, they seldom look at you, like eye contact or a smile costs, and leave a fat tip that was probably change in their pocket.

Other times, it’s almost exactly the same. But, in place of the silence that showed they’re ‘better’, men the age of your parents, slipped a disgusting comment about your figure or an aggressively sexual invitation.

This long in the food industry, you were used to it. A forced laugh usually wards them off, and yet, it makes the evening drag. The 10 hours feels like 20. Your social battery is completely fried by the time you make it to your studio. Usually.

Certain nights, the tips stack so good, you have to reward yourself. This night in particular, you made the rest of your rent, and had fifty dollars extra to spend. Why not get a drink? It had been so long since you had alcohol warming your insides and cheeks. Since you had someone decent looking flirt with you face to face.

Your feet are throbbing after your shift, the money in your pocket keeps you motivated to get at least buzzed.

The bar you choose seems new, at least that’s what it’s listed as, nearby your place. Still cheap, but with a pathetic effort at millennial decorating. You wouldn’t see any of the richies you had to deal with at your job here, sucking their teeth at your chipped nail polish and beaten Vans. Throwing your apron in the backseat, you spray perfume to fight the smell of kitchen on you, and shake your hair free of its tie.

A chimes goes off, as you step inside, the place is almost empty. A middle aged couple play pool in a dim corner, and a few other groups or people spread out, leaving plenty room. Outdated music plays that clashes with the theme, so you get a feeling the decoration is just an effort to keep up with the times. You plop down in a stool at the bar with a grunt, sighing in relief, looking at the menu above, even though you were going to order the last drink you remember.

The bartender is a cute ginger, with freckles dotted on her face and down her arms. She glances over a few times with an apologetic smile, while an inebriated old man talks her ear off. You lift your hand to let her know to take her time, fiddling with a jar of toothpicks in front of you.

The bell echos at the front from behind you, and a rush of obnoxious conversation follows.

It was a warm summer night, and the suburban kids of the wealthy were home from school, but they usually drove through, to the overpriced clubs that suited them. You huffed an annoyed breath, taking a glance behind you. Everyone else’s head swiveled with yours. The children of the wound up business men you’d spent hours tolerating.

“This place stinks, like, actually..” One girl whispered. Two guys beside her laugh like hyenas.

“Yeah, good pick, Bueckers..” Another seethed sarcastically in disgust, with a string of chuckles following.

“Not too bad..” A tall blonde with her hair in a neat low bun pushed through and interjected. That must’ve been Bueckers. She turns to the group and gestures towards the pool table the couple had been playing at. You stared her down in her khaki shorts and pressed, short sleeve polo. Her friends dressed in similar preppy fashion. “Pool table’s cool.”

The couple of boys in outfits similar to hers groaned, moving towards it. The older couple was long gone, seemingly taking the group as a cue to leave. You were taking it as the same, still, you lingered. Your fingers dug into the leather of the back of the chair, looking at the lanky, yet toned, woman established as leader. A shorter girl, with brown hair, in an almost blinding white tennis skirt and jacket set, trailed behind, hooking her arm with Bueckers, as they walked over.

You identified her as the one that commented on the smell, she was right, but you still didn’t like her. A feeling bit at you that you pushed off as irritation, swiveling back around with a closed mouth scowl. The fiery haired bartenders’ kind green eyes met you, raising a brow.

“See someone you know?” She asked while drying a shot glass and setting it back on the rack behind the bar.

“No, thank god,” You joked, another whip of air pushing from your lips, relieving tension. “I’ll take a vodka and sprite, please.” She tilts her head knowingly, and begins to concoct it, while you reach into your pocket to pull out a twenty. Her hair whips back around with the drink and you’ve forgotten about the group. As she sets it down, a frown comes on her face at the sight of the bill. You’re raising your brow now.

“I forgot to tell you, card only, sorry…” The bartender bites her lip nervously, pointing to a sign behind her to back her up. Your shoulders slump, already knowing what your bank account looks like. A pang of disappointment stings your chest but you swallow it, and reach for your card anyways. You don’t know why. You already know it’ll decline. The sprite and vodka bubbles infront of you tauntingly.

“Put it on my tab.” A warm voice speaks up, and you feel a figure take the seat beside you, her long legs not fitting under the bar. They bump your thigh ever so slightly, as she swivels in boredom, facing you. Bueckers from earlier had came up to buy the first round. She shoots you a rosy lipped smirk, her blue eyes searching to meet yours for approval. You look down, putting the money back in your pocket instead, not feeding in. Her bottom lip purses out, brows stitching together so slightly, she probably thought you didn’t see it out the corner of your eye.

She slips a luxury brand wallet out her shorts, still looking at you when her slim fingers drag the thick black AmEx card across the granite bar, thick and shiny. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. Bueckers, (Paige Bueckers, as the AmEx said) was trying to show off. Her icy orbs don’t leave you. You sip from the stirring straw as the bartender takes the card away. “Thank you.” You finally say after she leaves.

“No problem, doll face,” Her confident smirk is back as she scans over your work clothes. You’re not insecure, you fear that she’s sizing you up. That she can see the coffee stain at the bottom of your department store t-shirt, and feels oh-so sorry for you. You take a secretly angry sip. “What are you doing here all alone?”

You roll your eyes so hard they might fall out, finally lifting to meet her stare with a reserved expression. It doesn’t deter Paige, it makes her chuckle instead, and for a second you can hear a hint of nervousness.

“Okay, stupid question, sorry..” Her head turns back to the bar with a blush spreading into her round cheeks. For a second, you smile too, feeling something you can’t place, for a stranger making a corny move at you. Probably from the cocktail. You shake your head trying to pull yourself out of it.

“It’s fine, I’m just getting a drink after work..” You answer, although you usually wouldn’t. Something about the way she drank you in, her eyes pleading for approval with her metal rectangle of riches. It wasn’t hungry or cold, it was more like ‘please like me’. You exchange names, even though you already knew hers.

The server is back over, looking at Paige expectantly for her order. She gets a round of beers, turning back to you.

“Well, if you’re not too tired, you should come play me in pool,” Paige plucks up her card, and each Corona set infront of her. Two in each hand, between her fingers, then carefully swiveling around and standing. “I’ll buy you another.” She winks.

You hold her gaze and your breath until she walks away. Tipsy from the sips due to low tolerance, you slump back into the seat.

You had gone back to the pool table, even though her friends made your stomach twist. Their judgmental looks phased into the background as you and Paige played, the 3 watching, talking amongst one another. She had a talent of making it seem like you were alone.

Paige ordered another drink for you as promised, but you both barely drank again after your first, focused on the generic pool table. On the interesting stranger in-front of you.

Paige had politely demonstrated. Guiding your arms with her own, both lurched over the table, her hunched over you. She has to explain something an extra time, when her hips bump into you, and you space out. Once you get the hang of it, you’re ahead by two, determined to get the 8ball first.

Paige threw her head back once she misses a hole again for the same ball. You can’t help but explode in giggles, covering half your face with your palm. Catching you anyway, she grins at you, a twinkle in her eye as she squints.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, gorgeous.”

Her group watches you both banter, the short brunette coiling her face at you in the same way she did when the sticky stench of the bar hit her nose. You shoot an apologetic smile, awkwardly, even though you hadn’t done anything to her.

Paige ends up winning, with your head start, that you start to suspect was on purpose. Halfway expecting her to try to take you home, something heavy sets over you near the end of the night, asking if you wanted to leave with her. She was beautiful, seemed kind, and generous. Why not?

To your disappointment, and mostly curiosity, she gives the back of your hand a firm kiss instead, swapping numbers, wishing you a good night. You find yourselves turning to steal one more glance, walking to your cars, hers sleek and black with an engine the yelled as she veered away with her companions.

It started off with a simple ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’. You had full intentions of brushing her off after the bar. The two of you had shared a moment, that’s all, nothing would come from someone like that and someone like you.

Paige was persistent. She woke up around 2 when you’re enjoying your last hour of freedom before work, with offers to interrupt her precious rest and take you, pick you up, bring you lunch.

“I have to come in early.”

“I have to stay late.”

“I don’t have a lunch.”

You shot her down, only because you knew she wouldn’t be moved. Secretly, you didn’t want her to know where you worked. The mystery, and push of you was better than the reality, you figured. That you were taking an involuntary gap year from your dream school, you were paying out of pocket for. Refusing to take on too much debt, you saved to return. Friends suggested asking your parents, they weren’t offering, so why ask?

Paige was restless to meet again, you could tell from her invitations sprinkled in every conversation, the past few days. Never could you figure she’d show up to your job though.

You’d been thrilled to leave your shift. It wasn’t bad, it was slow, which is somewhat worse. The dark sports car from a few days ago would have been the farthest thing from your mind, if you didn’t see one so similar to it. Parked right next to your old Honda, in the nearly empty lot.

Your steps slowed and you stared, dumbfounded. The windows were tinted an illegal amount. It’s low rumbling is flicked off and exactly who you figure pops out from inside.

“My dad loves this restaurant.” Paige smiles, like you’re casually meeting here. You nod knowingly.

“Why do you know where I work?” A groan escapes you, trying to speak sternly, your small grin betraying you. The blondes smile stays put, tucking a few of loose curls behind her ear. She waits for you to step closer, to the open car door she’s leaning on with her elbows.

“Yeah, well, my friend said he’d seen you, when he was out to eat not too long ago,” She throws a shrug like the next part is the normal thing that anyone does. “You go to work at 3…they close at 11…I just kind of….” As she spoke it out loud, the pink from a few nights ago returned to her face, heavier now.

“That’s super creepy, you know?” You tease her. If she was anyone else. Heat spreads in your cheeks, shifting the weight on your feet, to distract from it. Still, her ego isn’t bruised.

“You don’t think that,” Said with a chuckle, like she knows it for certain. You’re about to shoot a rebuttal about how she’s basically a stalker. She doesn’t stop speaking. “On your next day off. Let me take you out.” Not said in the form of a question.

“Hm…” You hum, putting your finger to your chin. “I am off tomorrow, but I’m sure you knew that too.” Teasing her again.

“Maybe I do.” She throws her shoulder up with a sly expression. You raise a brow at her that she ignores. “We could go play tennis at the club, or I know a few restaurants. Way stricter dress codes than here, though…Do you have tennis skirts? How about heels? You don’t seem like you’d wear either of those. That’s fine, we can go shopping before we go..” Paige is rambling. Your arms slump in disbelief at how fast she’s talking, having a conversation with herself, almost.

“Or even better, we could make a whole day of the shopping. Then we go to dinner. Forget it, let’s just wait and I’ll get us floor seats to th-“

“Okay, wait!” You stop her before she makes up her mind to fly you out of the state. “This is super overwhelming. I will only go on one condition.”

Paige clings to your every word, finally quiet, her face flushed slightly with embarrassment for over talking.

“It has to be something normal. Something even I can afford.” Paige makes a face at you, like what she named off were tame settings for getting to know someone. You rub your tired face, and walk over to your car, the door creaks when you open it.

“Okay, okay!” She rushes over to you, closing it back, “Something normal. I’ll pick you up, and we can do that.” You tilt your head up at her, both of you soaking each other in for a moment.

“Unless, you’re only capable of lovebombing..” You narrow your eyes at her with a smirk. Paige bursts out laughing.

“It’s not lovebombing, if it doesn’t stop, though.” grinning so hard all her teeth are showing, you don’t realize you are too.

“Right.”

You find yourself dreading Paige seeing your unkept apartment building. At around the time she usually is just waking up, she’s parked outside. Paige doesn’t see you walking up, being too busy with texting you she’s outside for the third time in five minutes.

She has no witty line prepared when you slide into the passenger seat, finally not in your work clothes, or makeup hours old. Her mouth is just gaped open like an idiot, she shuts it, when you give her a weird look.

You smelled like a bakery, in shorts and a crop top to accommodate the weather, with no clue where you were going, only that it’s across town, presumably near where she grew up.

“You look really pretty,” the corner of her lip curls up. It feels awkward, you’re still flustered hearing it. Picking at your nails nervously, while your eyes wandered up her to meet her own pair. She was in denim shorts this time, with a plain T-shirt, white and blue Jordan’s. It looked different from how she dressed at the bar with her friends, you felt less underdressed than you thought you would. “Finally get to see you outside of work.” Paige head turns to you every so often, one hand on the wheel, her elbow leaning against the armrest.

“Thank you, you look good too..” You bite your lip, gazing out the window, as she breaks at a red light. Good was just putting it lightly. Two pieces of her hair braided in the front, the rest straightened past her shoulders. Mascara coated her long lashes, and silver jewelry accented her whole body.

It was real silver and diamonds, you guessed, from the way it glimmered against the light. You stare down her arm taking up most of the rest between you. It reaches down, grabbing your hand, locking fingers automatically. Her thumb rubs the back of your palm.

It’s a park that she pulls into the lot of. A ice cream truck is a few spaces down, with families and small children waiting in line. Paige holds her finger up to you, signaling you to wait there. You don’t question it, unbuckling your seatbelt, agreeing to stay put.

You watch her jog up to the back of the line through the rear view, in front of you the vast greenery, sprinkled with jungle gyms, walking trails, and benches. The park near your apartment had grass high up to your knees, this grass looked like it was trimmed daily.

You’re suddenly anxious to get out the car. Paige comes back, this time holding a coned ice cream and some in a Styrofoam cup with a spoon. She opens your door for you, then hands you the cone.

“Thanks.” You lick a side that was melting, and Paige sticks a spoonful in her mouth beaming, with a nod.

Both of you decide to sit down, and enjoy your frozen dairy in silence for a few minutes. Then you smile and speak.

“Not a fan of cones?” You ask her, taking a long lick. She watches your mouth for a second then gently comes back to reality.

“Too messy.” Paige replies, shaking her head like she’s trying to push a thought away.

“Of course, too messy.” A smile is etched into your face the whole time, barley faltering. Paige gets a feeling you’re teasing her.

“Yeah,” She turns towards you, leaning her elbow on the back of the bench. Another scoop is shoved into her mouth before she dramatically adds. “I only get cones when my butler is here to wipe my mouth, duh.” You shove her shoulder gently, both of you erupting into tiny chuckles.

Small talk drives you crazy, but as you do it with Paige, it warms you up. You even find yourself asking questions. She talks about playing basketball as a kid, all the way to high school. Paige mentions how her dad is essentially a business mogul for a marketing company, and expects her to follow suit. She had been doing well so far, amazing grades, joining the same fraternity, like he wanted her to. Omicron Tau Sigma.

Her apprenticeship at the company her father ran with his fraternity brothers started a week ago, and she didn’t seem worried. As she put it, their less than welcoming children that she was forced to acquaint with and host, was work enough. You figured those were the friends at the bar.

“Don’t get me wrong, they’re cool, and I have my moments where I’m worse.”

“Oh I’m sure..” You mumble between laps.

“Watch it.”

Before you know it, it’s your turn. You skip out on a lot of details, telling her a bit of your childhood, that you’re taking a gap year, and aren’t close to your parents. You didn’t have a pre planned multimillion dollar future, that didn’t have to be said.

“I don’t get you.” It’s so sudden, you don’t know how to respond., and you were used to being caught off guard.

“What’s there to get?” Paige nods, like she figured something out. You stare blankly until she further explains.

“You hate people. Or maybe you just seem that way. Either way, you’re closed off,” more vanilla into her mouth, as you’re starting to bite into the waffle cone. “You live alone, no mention of friends—“

“You’re very observant.” You nod thoughtfully.

“You’re very impossible.” Paige mumbles, finishing off her cup, and tossing it in the trash beside the seat.

“I just like being alone, what’s so special about it?” You look off at someone playing with their dog. “It’s the safest place to be. Depending on yourself, the only person who is reliable.” You cringe. It sounded edgy, yet, it was the truth, and you learned it the hard way.

Paige gives her full attention. Her hand crosses on-top of yours. For the first time, she looks sad for you.

“Safe doesn’t mean lonely. And all people aren’t the same.” A quick curl of her lip, lifts and falls from her face. You think about giving her a tough time. Shutting her down. Pushing those thoughts away, you quietly think about what she said, instead. She starts to talk again.

“You can, like…come over. Only if you want…. My place is right on the water.” Paige avoids your eyes, bracing your answer, a coolness to her voice that she seemingly flipped at will.

“Perfect place to throw my remains.” You roll your eyes at her, she wraps a arm around you suddenly, pulling you in.

“Good point.” She huffs, sarcastically, with a stupid grin, resting her chin on the top of your head. You jab her playfully.

You knew exactly the neighborhood she was talking about. With all the mini mansions, and huge pillars near the front doors, turned away from a private lakeshore. You passed it a few times. Your heart thumped thinking about being inside one. One where surely someone from her family would be.

Her rounded puppy eyes, and the look of willingness to follow you everywhere, had you agreeing before you truly scaled out the situation.

The driveway is so long you figured it burns gas just to drive up it. Big to match the massive house sitting beside it. Even her house stood out amongst others, there wasn’t anything traditional or welcoming about it. It was modern and cold, like a display home you didn’t want to mess up.

Paige snaps you out of your daze with the opening of your side. She takes your hand and guides you to the solid white doors. There’s a pin-pad above the silver knob that her fingers type so fast, you’re not sure exactly which number she’s pressing.

You’re staring wide eyed all around, anxiety making your heart drum in your ears. She hasn’t noticed the clamminess in your palm yet, thoughts of pulling it away before you faced whoever was inside stormed your mind. Walking in as friends already raises questions, you could only imagine the drilling questions reserved for Paiges’ partners.

Before you can make up your mind, she’s practically dragging you inside. Paige tosses her socks and shoes, you follow after her. The dark wood is warm under your feet. Heated floors. The interior design is just as minimalist as the outside. A few family portraits, and pictures of Paige at all ages, are blown up larger than you thought they could be, nestled on walls.

One wall, of the living room you get pulled through, to get outside, holds shelves of memorabilia. Framed jackets, paddles, shirts, brooches, several pictures of people in the same colors, trophies all consistent with a theme of gold and navy blue. A golden lion, with luscious mane, in the middle of every piece. You want to slow down and look, maybe even ask questions. You decide to ask when the time is right, considering how annoyed she’d been with explaining it earlier on the bench.

The glass slides open with a whoosh of air. Of course the backyard has been tended to, with lush grass, and intricate stone arrangements around the base of trees. Vibrant flowers are planted in rows around the balcony, between two trees, near the wooden stairs leading to the pier, there’s a hammock, chairs sprawled out nearby.

Walking briskly down the steps, Paige clasps your fingers with her own, guiding you down. She sits with a soft exhale making small waves with her feet in the water. You’re still mesmerized at seeing a lake so clear. You’d never leave this pier if you were her, you tell Paige. She responds with a dry, closed mouth laugh.

“You can have it. And everything that comes with it..” She looks down into the water, or her reflection, you can’t tell. Your eyes don’t leave her, when you sit down on the worn wood. Half your foot is in, and it’s warm, so you drop the other. Her thigh is flush with yours.

“Not having fun in the castle, princess?” You kick the water lightly, sucking in the fresh air deeply. She rests her head on your shoulder, suddenly, making you perk.

“Not really.”

A snarky remark is at the tip of your tongue, so you bite it. How could having everything handed to you, make you sulk in private? You thought, looking at a few fish swimming just below your toes.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“No you don’t.” You reply quickly, thinking about something else instead just in case.

“Yeah, I do,” Her head lifts up to look at you. There’s a slight hurt behind it.

“Shut up,” You sigh, gently pulling the weight of her head back onto you. “It must be…hard to keep up with.” That’s the only way you can put it, to try and soothe her.

“No, it’s not,” She admits, the sun beating down on the both of you through the leaves of trees overhead. “It’s not like working 40 hours a week, and still barely making it, I know.” Your arm wraps around her.

“Your dad graduated from my dream school,” It blurts out of you like vomit. It was drumming in your mind when you saw a diploma with the signature seal to it, framed alongside the other accomplishments. The words don’t stop. “I’m struggling because, yes the pay sucks, and because I’m saving to go back.” You’re almost gritting your teeth at the confessions. Paige pulls away and you let her.

“Damn. Dream school?….Really?” A silence sets over, you not replying. Paige gets up, standing beside you, wet feet dragging water next to you. She holds her hand out, you look up at her for a moment, her hair reflecting to look gold and white. You finally take it, her pulling you to your feet, and slowly up the steps this time around.

Once you reach the grassy yard, Paige stops dead in her tracks, like a deer, barley breathing out. Your feet start to dry in the blades of grass, by the time Paige speaks. Well, whispers.

“Shit, they’re here..” She’s mumbles under her breath. You’re about to ask who but the hearty laugh of a group of older men comes from the living room. “I forgot that was tonight..” Paige pulls the both of you to the side of the house, by the drive way, your legs barely keep up without a jog. Her fingers tap the pin to a room that’s used for coats, shoes, bags, all amounting to the cost of a small house. Theres three steps up to a black door that Paige opens so slowly, it looks like it pains her. You squeeze her wrist, stopping her.

“What?” She whispers.

“Who are we running from?” You whisper back.

Paige doesn’t respond, letting you hear the chatter of now voices young and old. Then she raises a brow at you, her only answer, twisting back towards the entrance.

“Because of me?” Your voice cracks as you ask. Paige turns around sharply, taking your face in her hands, brows furrowed in seriousness, foreheads nearly pressed together.

“Never. Because. Of you.” Her hushed, stern, tone makes a feeling you don’t recognize in your stomach, flip the desert inside it. “Okay?” This part is soft, and so is her expression. You nod slowly, as if in a trance, not wanting her mouth to move away from yours.

Having to fight back the urge to clash lips, Paige quietly steers you into the kitchen, the door closing behind you with a click.

Her slim shoulders drop, like you’re finally safe, bare sets of damp feet padding to the refrigerator. It’s roomy, and untouched, with the same dark flooring from the living room, where deep voices still laugh and discuss amongst each other loudly. The marble island sits in the middle, between the stove and fridge. A TV is installed outside of the door she digs two seltzers out of.

She gestures for you to follow her. You’re frozen still. Eyes bulging out your skull, social anxiety causing a tremble through you, at the sight of the small group crowding in. It was the other three, one guy shorter, with a mullet, the other taller, skinner than Paige, and of course, the brunette. An evil smirk stretches across her lip fillers, letting you know nothing good will come from this interaction.

It wasn’t them you’d been worried about though, it was the man towering behind Paige, his arms crossed, features scrunched in a frown, similar to Paige’s own. Mr. Bueckers, it has to be.

The way she jumps, when she swivels away from you, makes you think she’s going to drop the cans, instead, she squeezes them until they dent on the sides.

“So nice of you to join us, Paige. With company too?” He lets out a low, unimpressed, whistle.

🦁chapter 2

#paige bueckers fanfiction #DID I BLOW IT PEOPLE #let me know #cause i’ll quit rn #paige bueckers x reader #wlw fanfic #lesbian fanfic #paige bueckers au #paige x reader #paige bueckers x y/n #spoiled 🦁

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lovelivision · 1 year ago

Text

SLEEP OVER PT.1

pairing: fushiguro toji/reader

wc: 2.3k

summary: staying the night at your boyfriends place for the first time is nervewracking, especially when he seems to feel a certain way about you wearing his clothes

a/n; dilf dilf dilf dilf dilf dilf...uhm anyways...i lurv toji a lot and i needed to write something for him, i thought it would fix me but it may have made me worse :D also, i would like to write a part 2 for this maybe :3

warnings: 18+ only, smut, established relationship, tiny bit of possessiveness, (minor) size difference kink, heavy petting, dry humping, afab!reader, no use of pronouns or y/n, nicknames used; doll, ma'am (once in a joking way)

MDNI | SMUT UNDER CUT

Hovering in Toji’s kitchen, you try to make yourself seem more relaxed, you’ve been in his house plenty of times now but this time is different. This is the first time you’re staying the night, alone, in his house, with him.

Besides heavy petting, nothing more has ever happened between the two of you, to say you have expectations is an understatement. It doesn’t have to happen but you’ve been together for a little bit now and there’s only so long you can hold out, you mean, have you seen Toji?

He’s been patient, you were initially the one who said you didn’t want to rush things, you were scared of just being a lay and asked him to wait until you felt ready, which he has respected. He’s respected it…too well, barely making out before he’s parting from you. The sexual frustration you’ve been feeling has you wound so tight that you might literally implode as soon as he touches you.

From across the counter separating you, he teases, “You gonna help me over here? Or did you propose baking together just to watch me do it for you?”

“Well… I am enjoying the view,” you flirt back, playing off the stiffness in your joints.

He raises a brow at you, “How about you flirt with me while whisking that bowl right there,” he nods down to the bowl just off to his side.

“Yessir,” you stand at attention and throw a little salute his way.

When you round the bench to stand next to him, he bumps into your shoulder with his own, “You feeling okay, doll?”

You hum and look up at him, “Yeah, I’m good.”

It’s mostly quiet after that, aside from small talk and teasing remarks made while you finish prepping the ingredients. You told him that sleepovers needed brownies and he went out and bought stuff to make them, it was incredibly sweet and made you almost swoon on the spot when you showed up and he told you what he’d done.

Unluckily for you and your clumsy nature, his sink sprays a bunch of water down your front as you’re washing a dish. You let out an unceremonious squeaking sound at the sudden rush of cold running all the way down your pyjama shirt, to your pants.

The bowl Toji was holding clatters a bit as he drops it to be at your side, “What happened?” He asks before seeing your drenched clothes, an amused smile taking place where his concern was sitting, “You’re not much help in the kitchen, huh?”

“Hey!” you frown at him, “I am perfectly helpful, thank you very much. It’s not my fault your sink hates me.” You feel like a wet cat under his gaze, “What am I meant to do now? These are the only pyjamas I bought with me,” you pout slightly, looking down at your ruined clothes.

“Just wear something of mine,” he shrugs easily.

The idea of wearing his comfortable clothes makes your skin buzz, “Okay… thank you,” you mumble at him.

He scoffs at your sudden coyness, “You want me to pick something out for you or do you got it?”

“No, I got it,” you smile at him before turning to wander through the house to his room.

Shuffling through his drawers, you find a shirt and some sweatpants to wear. They’re large on you, the whole look incredibly baggy, having to pull the drawstrings on his sweats a bit tighter to make sure they stay up. You feel better though, warm, you hope he won’t mind but you had to borrow a pair of his boxers as well…

When you walk back into the kitchen, Toji does a double take on you, his eyes widening slightly, “You comfy?”

“Very,” you walk up to him, “You finish with the brownie mix?”

He stares at you for a moment before replying, “…Yeah, they’re in the oven.”

“Nice, putting the mix in the tray is my least favourite part, it’s always so sticky and messy and I end up getting frustrated because it won’t all go in and then I need another spoon to get the mix off the spatula and then I have to go back and forth…” You trail off, noticing he’s not really paying attention to what you’re saying, he is looking at you though, “Toji, Something wrong?”

He considers you for a moment, “You look cute,” is all he says.

You feel shy under his gaze now, not expecting him to compliment you so sincerely, “So do you?”

He barks a laugh at your clumsy compliment, “Alright, wanna watch something while we wait?” He changes the topic.

“Sure!”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is, his hand rests on your thigh, rubbing his thumb in circles but just because he’s not subtle doesn’t mean it’s not working. The tv plays some movie in front of the pair of you but you can’t pay attention, you’ve not retained a single plot point, his warm hand on your thigh is all you can feel, all you can register.

You have a feeling you’re going to have to be the one to break this, the weird limbo you’re both in. Turning your head to the side and looking up, you aren’t ready for how he’s already looking down at you, his hand on your thigh reaches for the side of your face, cradling you gently. He moves in slowly, giving you the chance to pull back in protest if you don’t want him to kiss you.

You want it though and lean up the rest of the way, kissing him deeply, wanting to put your lips on him for nearly the whole time you’ve been here. He meets your eagerness, his hand holding you more firmly, his tongue licking into your mouth, wanting to taste you. His body moves into yours more, his other hand grabbing at your hip.

His kisses grow rushed and he ends up trailing them to your neck, kissing and licking along the exposed skin there. The hand on your face angles you to his will, manoeuvring you every which way so he can get his lips on whatever part of you he desires.

Huffed out whine leave you at the way he nips at your skin, he has enough of the odd angle and pulls you onto his lap completely, sitting back as his hands roam your body over his clothes.

“Toji,” you whine out his name.

His eyes look into yours, “Do you need me to stop?”

Shaking your head at him, you say, “No, I need more…”

“You really do look cute in my clothes,” he murmurs, leaning in again and pressing a full kiss to your lips, “You look comfortable… all wrapped up in my clothes.” He reiterates that they are in fact his clothes you’re wearing.

His hands move under the large shirt, groping at your bare skin, delighting in the warmth and plushness of you. Your body breaks out in goose bumps as a noticeable shiver runs down your spine, his touch electrifying to you.

“My, how sensitive you are,” he teases you, a self-satisfied grin making its way onto his face.

“Shut up,” you snark back, “Just… kiss me again?”

His smile grows, “Yes ma’am,” he jokes before kissing you again.

You’re getting lost in it, in the feel of his lips on yours, it’s making you dizzy and needy. Your hips grind down into his on their own accord and Toji moans against you, surprised by the sudden friction. Recovering quickly, his hands grab your hips and encourage you to keep going, your clothed cunt dragging up and down his covered cock has spots in your vision.

Your hands grip the fabric of his shirt tight, your lips disconnecting from his every time you moan, only for him to press them back together. His dick twitches in his pants, painfully erect and sensitive, he has a feeling he could cum like this.

This is the furthest the two of you have gone so far and he’s not wasting this opportunity, he needs to see you cum, he needs to hear it. The grip he has on you is harsh, his hips rut up into yours which results in the most pathetic sound he’s ever heard coming from you… he needs more.

Pulling back, you whinge, “Toji~ I wan– t more… I want more.”

“Well… I want you to cum while wearing my clothes,” he counters.

You gasp at his blunt words, “I–”

You don’t get the chance to finish your thought, his hips thrusting up, the shock delicious. His dick is leaking profusely in his pants, he’s way too sensitive right now, for his grown age. You’d asked to go slow and he complied but that didn’t mean he didn’t have to furiously jerk himself off after your visits.

Toji’s boxers are uncomfortably wet against your core, slick and stuck to your pussy with how worked up he’s gotten you. All the layers are upsetting you; you just want one less layer, his pants, your pants, you don’t care, you just need more.

“Toji, lemme take off the sweats, please, please, please,” you all but beg at him.

“No. Told you,” he scolds, “I want you cumming in my clothes.”

“Mmm but…” You hesitate.

You’ve caught his interest, quirking a brow at you, he asks, “But what?”

You decide to tell him even though you’re a little embarrassed, “I’m also wearing your boxers.”

He holds you still against him, a sound of objection coming from you at the lack of friction, “You’re wearing my boxers?”

You nod quickly, hoping for this line of questioning to be done soon, “I am.”

“Why?”

You look down, to where you’re sat on top of him, his large cock strained against his pants, you falter slightly in your answer, distracted. Toji’s hand tapping against your thigh brings you back, “Mine were wet from the sink…”

He tugs at the sweats, “Take these off, right now.”

Standing on wobbly legs, you undo the drawstring on his pants and slip them down.

Toji groans at the sight of your bare legs, “Lift up my shirt,” he directs.

Which you do, biting your lip, trying to fight off the urge to run away in embarrassment. Your hands hold his shirt up slightly, exposing to him how you’re wearing his boxers.

His eyes scan your lower half carefully, his heart stuttering in is chest. His light grey boxers dark where your arousal has pooled, “Fuck, come here,” he pats his lap, grabbing you when you’re close enough. “You’re so fucking wet, doll, shit.”

When you’re back on his lap, he wastes no time, his cock rubs between your folds, parting them from under his boxers, the friction different and consuming. This feels so much better than before, it feels almost intense after getting minimal sensation.

“Toji~ I don’t think I’ll last long like this,” you admit, feeling shame from how pathetic you must seem.

“Good,” he groans, his hips thrusting up into yours while his hands drag you back and forth on his cock, “I won’t either.”

To hear he’s just as effected by this as you are makes your cunt pulse around nothing, a whimper leaving you from how pathetically empty you feel, “I still want more,” you pout.

“Later,” he promises.

Your skin buzzes and your stomach clenches, your fingers dig into his shoulders, feeling impossibly close to finishing. Your eyes grow dazed, hot, huffed breaths leaving your parted lips. The sight has Toji’s cock twitching profusely, barely fighting off his orgasm, wanting to see you cum first.

“Come on, doll, I need to see it,” he tugs you quicker, your slick cunt sliding easily against his pants, the wetness seeping through the boxers onto them, “I need to see you cum for me.”

You shudder at his words, “I’m gonna–”

One of his hands leave your hip and slides to your face, his thumb pressing past your lips, you take it and suck on it, tongue licking the pad of it gently. A moan from deep in his chest rumbles under your hands, it’s all too much. Your cunt flutters against him and your eyes roll back, moans muffled around his thumb as your cum gushes from your pussy, coating his boxers even more.

Toji can’t help but watch, he’s watching you so closely, his cock cumming very suddenly. Your orgasm, the dumb look in your eyes, the flutter of your lashes, the shake in your body as you cum in his clothes undoes him. His own cum seeps into his pants, a large, wet stain growing on his sweats as his dick jerks with his orgasm.

He pulls his thumb from your mouth, dragging your lower lip down with it, “Fuck,” he bites out.

He rides out both your highs, lightly grinding his hips up into you as you both come down. Your form collapses into him, curling yourself around him. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as you jolt every now and again, it’s cute, he thinks.

You lay peacefully like this for a moment before you remember, “The brownies,” you try to pull yourself away from him.

“They’re fine, oven went off only a moment ago,” he hums.

“I’ll go grab them then,” you say.

“Alright, shaky, off you go,” he mocks you and your jelly legs.

Pulling back, you frown at him, “I will.”

He just smiles knowingly at you.

Crawling off him carefully, you stand on your shaky legs momentarily before sitting back down on the couch next to him, “Maybe you should go get them.”

“Mhm,” he answers, leaning over he presses a kiss to your cheek, “That’s what I thought.”

You cross your arms over your chest and scowl at him, pretending to be more upset than you actually are.

Toji goes into the kitchen and pulls the brownies out, he calls over to you, “So… I hope you like the corners of your brownies a little crispy.”

You can’t help but laugh at that.

PLAGIARISM NOT CONDONED | REPOSTS NOT AUTHORISED

#visionwrites #toji x reader #toji x reader smut #toji fushigro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro smut #fushiguro toji x reader #toji smut #toji fushiguro x reader smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader smut

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astracora · 1 month ago

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Aching Bones

Characters: Sylus x gn!mc x Caleb

Warnings: Chronic Illness, Flare up, Autistic Overload, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2183

Written: 2nd April 2025

Notes: Established-relationship with gn!MC with Poly!LADs (Sylus and Caleb centric), with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. Based on a true story, right now... Chronic illness loves compounding my autism so I just have a really bad time. Oh to have Poly!LADs comfort... Time to see if I can sleep yet...

Masterlist

Everything hurts.

Sore and aching and twisting under your skin. Skin on fire, and yet the shivering and cold won't leave you. No matter how strong the spray of the hot shower water is down your back.

You haven't felt this bad in such a long time, heart thrumming uneven under your ribs, desperate to escape the body that can't sustain it properly.

You imagine the core is just as disappointed as you are, everytime your physical form shuts itself down in favour of uselessness.

Prosthetic abandoned somewhere outside of the shower, you'd barely managed to remove clothing before falling and sprawling under the spray. Your stool stares at you from the side, reminding you it's there just for this, but there's no strength in your body. It attempts to move, only to ache so deep you think your past lives must feel it.

If such a thing is real, you hope they were not weighed down by a body that does not work. That betrays you in every moment. That ignites your feeling of worthlessness. Of shame.

The floor is uncomfortable, digging tiles into your shoulder blade, where your residual limb burns, knives digging into it as all your joints twist and bend against the pain. Years of scar tissue agitated by your body forcing you into a fever as your heart stumbles.

You want to vomit, the nausea in your stomach, and you think if you move just enough you will, spilling emptiness all over the floor and choking on nothing. You cannot stop shivering, and it hurts.

It hurts.

You just want it to stop hurting.

A knock hits the bathroom door, hurried and agitated, and the voice that comes through, normally calm, is harried.

"Kitten, you've been in there for over an hour, are you alright?"

You want to speak, but your voice fails you, absent when you need it every time you are overwhelmed, and you're not sure what to do, fingers trembling. The lack of response is a worry to him, familiar with the moments you have no voice.

When the handle turns, and you see his shoes step across the tile, wading through steam, you hear the crack in his voice again. The ache in his heart, as he moves quick to crouch next to you. His suit soaking through with the stream.

You make a noise of discontent in the back of your throat, small and weak like a wounded animal, but he ignores you. Checking you over for injuries. There is none, nothing outward, nothing physical.

Internally… well it's another matter.

You rarely see Sylus break his countenance. When you're injured right in front of him, in a way he's scared is fatal. When your heart failed you that morning you were cursed. When you fell off a stool trying to lure out that little cat. Always vulnerable with you.

If only the comfort of that assurance was a healing balm, yet you still feel shattered across the ground.

White hair falling over his eyes and red gleaming gaze dulling, he hovers hands over you, before taking an inhale and grounding himself.

"May I pick you up?" You shiver at the voice, solid, stable and secure. It's a voice he uses when he knows you're fraying, and you wish you didn't have to appear so weak in front of him.

He deserves so much better.

You cannot speak, the words lodge in your throat and your voice is nowhere to be found, so you tap once. Finger slow, shaking, but he follows it. Without hesitation then, he lifts you carefully into strong arms, the heat of him more intense than that of the water, and you almost melt against the chest and heartbeat under your cheek.

He moves the stool against the wall, and places you against it, securing you there and with his EVOL for good measure. You slump back without falling. Inhaling a breath that hurts your chest so much to take, and shiver. Vaguely watching through closing eyes as Sylus busies himself. Collecting the shampoo you use, the body wash, filling a basin so he can work easier.

You want to fight him, he's busy and he should be doing something better than this, but he ignores the look you give him. Ignores the way you try to grasp at the hem of his soaked shirt, and begins to help you clean.

Washing away the grime, easing the ache somewhat with hands that are only ever gentle for you.

He is careful around your limb, easing careful hands over your cheeks, running long fingers through your hair. A kiss pressed to your cheekbone, quick and fleeting so the sensation does not become painful. He keeps a hand on yours, paying attention to the taps.

One, yes that's fine.

Two, it hurts.

Avoiding areas where your skin burns too much. Where you feel like a raw nerve.

It takes far longer than it should, and when he is done, he kneels at your feet, free hand on your cheek.

"Can you eat?"

You're not sure, you should. You know that, but the idea is exhausting to think about. You could barely stand, moving your arm proves even harder on you.

He watches you try to move it, attempting to flex your hand rather than weakly twitch your finger, and he chuckles low and soft, "Are you hungry?"

One tap.

You are, even if you're not sure if you can keep it down. Even if you're not able to make anything for yourself. You're hungry.

You cannot take medication on your empty stomach either.

He places his hands on you again, one arm slipping behind your back, and the other releasing your hand to cradle you under your knees. His chest is warm, comfortable, and safe. There are very few places you would rather be. Trusting him not to drop you, even if you still aren't sure how he puts up with you as you are.

Fragile pieces stuffed under flesh that does not fit.

He wraps one of his bathrobes around you, it's thin but the fabric doesn't bite your skin, and brings you into the kitchen. Where Caleb moves around, his uniform half on. Coat, tie and hat discarded, shirt loosened.

The noise that escapes you is akin to a squeak, and it draws his attention to you in Sylus' arms. From the three different pots he is stirring.

"I've got three different types of soup for you Pipsqueak, so you can have whichever you prefer."

He doesn't comment any further on why he's there, or why there's a splash of tomato up his sleeve.

When Sylus puts you down in a chair, beginning to dry you off with a towel, he places your tablet in front of you.

Weak fingers press at the screen, and while you misspell some words, you're glad the text to speech your partners developed works around it, "Don't you two have work?"

"Not at all."

"I have the day off."

You manage a glare but it's more twitchy than you'd like, and neither of them are looking at you. Too focused on their tasks.

"Really?" You try again, tapping your finger on the table to point at Caleb.

They're smiling to themselves, you can feel the quirk of Sylus' lips from where he presses a kiss to the back of your neck, "Now, I'm sure I said I didn't Kitten. Didn't I, Tin-man?"

"I heard you. Did you hear me, Crow?" Caleb grins, his twinkling eyes turning to you for a moment with affection.

"My old age hasn't affected my hearing yet, so of course."

You could argue with them but it's hard enough to type without fighting against two of the most stubborn men you know. Walking through fire would be easier, than swaying them when it came to you.

When you're dry, unable to wear your normal clothes while your skin is so sensitive, you sit with Sylus' arm around you, drawing patterns into your hip to ground you to that pinpoint. Your eyes droop while you watch Caleb cook, and it's not long that three bowls are placed on the table and he joins you.

"Tomato." You type out, eyeing up the thing he's made for you since you were young. Since that first flare up clashed with your overloads and sent you spiraling into overwhelm and sensory agony. Shaking on the floor, as your heart screeched.

Caleb is practiced in taking care of you in so many ways, all the times you hid from him when you were unwell, all the times you tried to fight through it alone. He learned how to dig under layers, and fit himself into the slot that could support your foundations before they crumbled. Refusing to let you be alone.

What your other partners had not learned on their own in his absence, slowly figuring out limits and when to accept you were fine versus when you were not and simply forcing yourself, he has helped fill in in his presence.

It is a dangerous situation, when five people know you so well, that they can catch where you fall. That they know you so well, they know where you hide, and pull you back out of the shadows into the light.

You have felt like a burden for so very much of your life.

It is such a hard thing to shake.

As Caleb carefully feeds you, Sylus watches, "Tara informed Zayne you were sick."

It's not an accusation, you think, but you flinch anyway, almost getting soup down your front. On expensive silk, though you doubt Sylus would care. He has eased your fear over clumsiness before now.

Caleb pauses so you can type away, "Text Jenna for the day off. Dropped phone, no energy to find it."

It feels like an excuse, you'd promised them you'd tell them when you were sick going forwards. After that night when the four of them found you broken and bleeding. After the cat curse stole your power and your confidence.

You promised you'd tell them. You'd promised. The guilt hurts and aches and twists but the man smiles at you. Warm red crinkling at the edges, as he smooths his thumb over your cheek, "You took time off. I'm proud of you, Kitten."

It spears through your chest, and you busy yourself with the food Caleb offers you, relieved for the intense fever that means you do not show how embarrassed the very feeling of being commended touches you.

Every time you have taken sick, you had been forced. The moment you had messaged Captain Jenna requesting the time off. The haze of self hatred, of disgust, of fear. Feelings muddled and twisted like serpents. Snapping and hissing. Telling you over and over that you had to be stronger. Fight through it. Be better.

If you weren't you were worthless.

It felt like fighting forwards while dragging the weight of the world behind you. Just to say you needed help. Needed time.

You promised to try harder, to reach out. Every time is hard, every time it aches. Feels like you're betraying everyone who trusts you. Every time you fight through just a little bit more.

The pride in warm eyes tells you that you have taken a worthy step. Small, and nervous, and stumbling to the ground, but a step.

You let yourself believe that it's worth the pride.

You are only able to eat half of the soup before you begin to feel the nausea rising, and your body fighting through chokes and coughs. Shivering starting up as medication is offered and water eased down a tight throat. As you are lifted, exhausted and drifting, into familiar arms. A galaxy gazing back at you as you stare up at messy hair and comfort.

Caleb brings you to the freshly made bed, sweat soaked sheets removed and ice packs placed on the side. Your prosthetic is back on its stand, cleaned and wiped down from your reckless treatment of it. You cling to the tablet as he eases you under the covers, helps you remove the bathrobe so you can feel soft sheets against bare skin that burns otherwise.

"Thank you."

He shakes his head like there's no need, like helping you is just second nature. Like it's the only thing he finds worthy in life, and it pulls at your chest for several reasons. Hand twitching out for him.

Shedding layers, he joins you. Arm extended so you can lay against his skin, his shiver as he feels the inferno of your touch, bringing a flush to his cheeks. "I'm always here for you, Pipsqueak. You know that, partners in crime right?"

Always. Through the haze of sleep finally pulling you under so your agonised body can begin its recovery, you feel the other side of the bed dip. A hand on your hip and a kiss to your shoulder.

A reminder that you are allowed to be fragile, weak, and hurt, because someone will be there to put the pieces back together.

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girlsdads · 5 months ago

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tagged by @annebd for WIP wednesday friday... instead of a WIP snippet have something that i don't really know what else to do with but i didn't hate so :-)

Max’s phone lights up with Daniel’s name while he’s sitting in hospitality the morning of race day. It’s face-up on the arm of the sofa—Max watches as it catches the eye of Lawson next to him. Possessiveness rises like bile in his throat. He snatches the phone as quickly as he can, cradles it to his chest like that would erase the letters of Daniel’s name from Lawson’s memory.

“Whatever, mate,” Lawson quips, rolling his eyes. Like anyone was talking to him, anyway. Like Max gives a fuck if he’s here or not. Like they’re mates, and he’s not someone Max is contractually obligated to be cordial to.

“Clean up your crumbs, when you are finished,” Max says as he stands, sweeping his gaze pointedly over the spray of chocolate chip muffin debris covering Lawson’s lap and the sofa cushion beside him. He doesn’t wait for Lawson’s response before stalking from the room. He thinks about the stacks of keto-friendly protein bars going stale back in his motorhome and hates Lawson that much more.

Max waits until he’s closed the motorhome door behind him to open Daniel’s text.

It’s stupid, he knows, to want to do this in private. Everyone knows he talks to Daniel still, probably no one would think it strange or pathetic for Max to be texting him now. Daniel had said—Max had known he wouldn’t be here, this weekend, or any weekend. Max understands, in his own way, despite how bereft he always feels, during.

But. It is a race day and Daniel is texting him. Daniel hasn’t texted on a race weekend since, well—since. He had facetimed the day after Brazil, relaxed and happy and congratulating Max from New York. They keep a running conversation during off weeks, Daniel sending picture after picture of himself with arms around his friends, some Max knows, some he doesn’t. Max saves the photos to a hidden folder on his phone, crops them all so it’s only Daniel. Sometimes it leaves him missing an arm, or two, but he can’t stand to see Daniel with all these people who aren’t Max. In turn, Max sends him videos of the cats, memes he hopes will make Daniel laugh, updates on the funny-looking bird that has been building a nest on Max’s balcony.

(That’s my—what’s the little animal friend that witches have—my familiar, Maximus! I sent him to watch over you, obviously. Be nice to him.) That message had gone into the secret folder, too.

Race weekends are radio silence. Max has come to terms with that, knows it isn’t personal, that it’s an open wound Daniel is nursing. So for Daniel to reach out, today of all days, Max can’t help the stab of yearning in his belly. It could be an important day, for Max, maybe Daniel decided—maybe he’s said he’s hopped a plane, he’s driving out from LA, he’ll be here before the chequered flag—

Max couldn’t bear it if anyone else were around, if that’s not what Daniel’s message says. Even alone, he feels like a hermit crab that’s outgrown its shell, hope leaving him soft-bellied and vulnerable.

He swipes open his and Daniel’s message chain.

Daniel’s not coming to Vegas. At least, that’s not what he’s texted.

The text is a picture. Max’s eyes are drawn immediately to Daniel, though he’s only in about one quarter of the frame. If he was trying to take a selfie, he did not do such a good job--it's mostly a shot of the dusty-red ground, Daniel's beautiful face peeking in from the top corner. He’s wearing his dirt biking clothes, sweat darkening the pits of his long sleeves where his arm is lifted to make a thumbs-up. His pinky still doesn't quite fold in next to the rest of his fingers. Max wants to kiss the careful bend of his knuckle.

It's a few long moments before Max even registers what's etched into the earth behind Daniel. It is very obvious, then, why Daniel is sending this now. There in the California dirt, Daniel has used a stick or maybe even one of his long, lovely fingers to write 3 + 1 = 4. A wobbly heart is drawn around the whole thing.

Max is infinitely grateful for the lack of prying eyes as he sinks slowly to the floor. He draws his knees up to his chest and cradles the phone in cupped hands, as if the message will be sucked back into the ether if he grips too tightly. He lightly taps to full-screen the image, zooms in on Daniel's face. The soft, almost awkward smile is the same one Max has only ever seen directed at him. He knows this, because he's spent years cataloguing Daniel's interactions with others, longing and longing. Daniel never makes that face at anyone else.

Max's phone buzzes as another text comes through. Daniel's hands reaching through the wire to squeeze Max's heart until it leaks out between his fingers.

Always cheering for you, Max. Give 'em hell for me.

#my fic #maxiel fic #i'm too high to think of anyone to tag rn but know i'm always down to read wip snippets tag game or not!!#i also didn't read this back so hope it's not literal garbage

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dilatorywriting · 2 years ago

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Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 2]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Fish are friends (?). You are not food.

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

The Siren wasn’t leaving.

Which a part of you had been expecting. Because surely if there had been a snowball’s chance in Hell of him making it out into the open ocean alive before you’d cut through the ropes, he would have taken it and left you stranded without a second thought. And his odds weren’t that much better now—his fins were still a mangled mess and the wounds all along his scales and dainty featherings were still raw and oozing. It only made sense that he’d take at least a few days to try and recover.

But… But still.

Did he have to make it so obvious that he was sticking around?

The glint of the light off his tail was a constant distraction—always bright and eye-catching even at the cloudiest points of the day. Always flashing just out of the corner of your eye as a perpetual reminder that there was something in the water that would very happily gobble you up if you bothered making a swim for safety.

He’d also taken to sunning himself. Like some kind of overgrown mer-cat. Stretched out languidly on a flat rock with the tips of his violet fins hanging over the edge—just enough for the gauzy edges to play along the surf and avoid drying out entirely. His pale hair splayed out in a halo around him as he snoozed softly in the heat of the afternoon.

Which! No fair! This wasn’t a vacation! This was a stranding! An SOS! A Rose Queen Procedural Rule Four-Hundred-and-Four! And him taking up the whole of the cove to, I don’t know, tan, felt like another intentional slap in the face. The sun rose over the bay, which meant this stretch of shore was facing East. Which was the direction your vessel had been coming from. Which meant that this was the place on the little islet where you needed to be. Subsection Three of Procedural Four-O’-Four. ‘In the case of Crew Overboard, we will always travel the same route as planned. In order to give the Strandee a chance to map out a reconnection point.’ Riddle always had been so smart about these kinds of things.

‘It’s just until he’s better,’ you reassured yourself for the umpteenth time that morning. ‘Then he’ll leave and I can get rescued or die here alone and in peace.’

A fin flicked up from the shallows to spray you with saltwater splatters and you spluttered indignantly when it ran down into your eyes. You glared at the Siren’s retreating back, musing bitterly about how you’d never thought it was possible for someone to make the tuck of their shoulders look smug.

‘Alone and in peace,’ you repeated hopefully. And it sounded like such far off dream.

On the second day post-rope-removal, the Siren waved you down with a sharp flick of his wrist.

You approached the waterline hesitantly, still mostly waiting for him to turn on you and make toothpicks out of your bones. But instead of murdering you and getting crafty with your corpse, he just pointed to some scribbles in the sand. You squinted at the loop-de-loops suspiciously. It almost looked like an illustration of dancing bubbles—the lot of them curling and popping along the ground in a line like a limerick.

“Uhm, very nice,” you tried, and the fins flattened pissilly all along the side of his head.

He jabbed his claw towards the mess again. Then firmly at your eyes (hopefully not as a threat that he’d be happy to take them right out of your head if you continued to be obtuse). And then back again. He made a point to move the tip of his sharp nail from one swirl to the next in a little hop-hop-hop. It reminded you a bit deliriously of Riddle trying to teach some of the more socially bereft members of the crew their letters, and—

“You want me to read that?” you gaped, staring at the elegant curls of nonsense in the sand.

The Siren crossed his arms across his lean chest with a scoff that puffed past his lips hard enough to fluff out some of the paler, purple-tipped, hair hanging by his chin. He rolled his eyes at you and muttered something thin and spicy under his breath that you just knew had to be some sort of insult.

“I can read!” you defended, because it felt like it needed defending.

He leveled you with an entirely unimpressed ‘Oh, I’m sure you can’ sneer and you dropped to your knees, incensed. You dug your fingers into the sand and started sculpting out your own very cheery message into the muck.

When you were done, you waved a hand towards your proclamation and watched his brows pull together at the center into a teeny, pinched sort of expression. He let himself roll forward with the seafoam to lay more fully on the shore, and stared down at the mess you’d made like it was some strange code. Even reaching out to poke softly at the straight edge of a ‘T’ with one of his knife-sharp talons.

After a long moment of contemplation, he looked back up at you with an arched brow that was so unintentionally poised and not full of spite that it almost took your breath away. Who knew how pretty an already stunning face could become when it wasn’t twisted up in absolute vitriol? You shook away that absolutely damning thought in horror. That’s exactly what he’d want you to think. Siren, and all. Using his hotness to lure people onto his dinner table. Not you, baby. Because you were smart. And so gross from being stranded under island sunshine for a week that surely you’d taste like some absolutely rancid jerky at this point.

“Oh no,” you droned, and immediately that subtle curiosity of his ticked right back into irritation. “Two creatures from entirely different species and ecosystems have somehow managed to develop unique alphabets. What a completely unpredictable complication.”

The Siren puffed up like an angry lionfish and turned with a snarl to dive back into the shallows—making sure to whip his tail in your face and slam into the water with a huge splash as he went. The salt spray pelted down like rain and you snickered as it sloughed off your cheeks in rivulets, content to sit merrily in the wet sand beside your hastily scribbled: ‘Mermen Are Vicious Bitches. Hit Me if You Agree :)’

The next morning, there were more fish on the shoreline. Though these ones looked a bit less like they’d been dragged up by their souls and left to writhe in the wake of Siren-Screaming-Agony and more just like the unfortunate victims of a pair of too sharp claws.

You frowned down at a brown, sad-looking flounder that had clearly found itself at the very wrong end of a certain merman still swanning about in the bay not fifty feet away. It was mostly intact, and pleasantly plump for a flat, pancake-looking blob of muck. Your stomach gurgled and the thought of a nice, coal-charred, fillet really seemed quite nice. You chanced another peek at your resident Asshole, debating if it was worth swiping his snack. Another ominous rumble from your abdomen and you reached down to steal your prize and scuttle off deeper inland like a troll returning to its layer.

It didn’t take very long to get a small fire going, and within the hour you’d been fed and were more than ready for a cozy, full-bellied nap in the soft sand.

By the time you began to make your way back to the cove, the sun was high in the sky and you were already dreading sitting beneath its weighted rays for another afternoon. So you slowed your pace to a near snail crawl, dragging your feet as you went.

The little octopus from earlier was still swaying contentedly around the tide pool you’d shoved it into. It probably needed to be carried back out to the bay at some point so that it could swim back into the depths of the ocean, but the poor thing was just so small and round. Surely it’d get devoured by the first sharp-toothed thing that caught sight of it. Especially with your merman apparently being out for the blood of whatever other scaly things were swimming about in his temporary home. So for now you slipped it some small bits of leftover fish instead. You sat, crouched at the pool’s edge, and watched raptly as it grabbed the shredded bits of pale meat with its chubby tentacles to shove towards an eager beak.

“You’re the only friend I have left in the whole world,” you told the octopus miserably, wiping the greasy remnants of your lunch off your chin with a sigh.

The traitor hurriedly moved to snatch up the treat you’d offered it and hide itself away between some rocky crevices. You sighed louder. Rejected. What a time to be alive.

The next morning, the Siren was singing again.

That familiar prickle danced its way up your arms, leaving pinpricks of goosebumps in its wake. Some pirates told tales of storms leaving their mark in such a way—that seasoned sailors could feel the tickle of thunder against their skin long before they could spot dark clouds on the horizon. You’d have to amend that little legend whenever you found your way back to The Rose Queen. Siren Sense was a lot cooler, anyways. Any idiot with arthritis could tell you when rain was due.

But either way, Mister Merman was back to idly circling the bay and calling into the distance. At least it wasn’t as miserable as it had been the other day—more of a leisurely pacing than the frantic, near-feral caterwauling that had soured your gut so terribly.

There was another fat fish on the shore. A bright, red snapper so brilliantly crimson that it was almost impossible to make out the garish wounds in its side. Almost. And even if it hadn’t been, the drooping, rust colored, rivulets dug into the sand would have been enough of a clue.

Why the Siren was bothering to leave his clawed-up kills at your feet like some overgrown cat dragging in mice, you had no idea. Maybe he was poisoning them, and subsequently you. Maybe he was bored and it was some sort of fishy enrichment. Maybe he just didn’t want to bother leaving dead things around to contaminate his favorite sunning spots, and tossing his leftovers in your vicinity was as close to a reliable dumpster as he could find on a remote island. Who’s to say.

Either way, you dutifully ignored the magical tingles racing up your shoulders and brought the newest fish back to your makeshift firepit. You grilled the snapper in silence, debating. Then you fed your octopus friend and returned to the beach, cooked fillets in tow.

You waited in awkward silence for a few moments, fish burning your palms, before raising your fingers to your lips and whistling loud enough to make your teeth ache. The mystical static faded from the air and you watched in pleasant (?) surprise as the Siren made his way back to where you’d set up camp. He rolled in with the tide, cresting on a gentle bit of surf and coming to rest neatly in the shallows—fins splayed out beneath him like a lord lying amidst his many silken robes. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at you with an arched brow and slanted frown.

You awkwardly extended a hand—roasted snapper still resting in your open palm and burning the absolute fuck out of your fingers.

“Uhm,” you said, feeling a bit too much like the local idiot trying to feed one of the rabid, wandering, strays around town. “Food?”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes at you.

“Do you want food?” you tried.

The other brow joined the first, nearly rising all the way into his hairline. It wasn’t a pleasant sort of surprise.

“It’s better cooked?” you coaxed in the face of his outright constipated scowl. Be fed and full, you thought hopefully. Maybe then you won’t fucking look at me like I’m a boxed lunch.

He jabbed a sharpened, black talon in your direction, and then pointedly again angled up towards your mouth. Then back to the fish still roasting your poor cuticles straight off your fingers.

You blinked, a bit thrown.

“What? It’s supposed to be for me?”

He nodded, throwing in another one of those bombastically snarky eyerolls for good measure. ‘Obviously,’ that sneer said.

“Well,” you huffed, plopping down to sit cross-legged in the sand and offering up one of the fillets. “There’s plenty for both of us.” When he stared at you like you were attempting to serve him up a choice pile of literal dog shit, you wiggled your hand and entreated, “Please just take it before my skin melts off.”

The Siren huffed and reached out, plucking up the fish with the tips of his claws. He observed your meager meal as one might a particularly unappealing cockroach, and after a long moment, his nose scrunched (cute, you thought absently before immediately suffocating every wayward braincell that would dare call your murderous shore-neighbor anything of the sort) and he leaned forward to nip at a crisped, pink corner with the barest edge of one canine.

When your culinary creation didn’t immediately strike him dead on the spot, he took another, equally dainty bite. And then another. The tight pucker of his mouth eased as he chewed, and you watched as the harsh cut of his purple irises warmed with that same intrigue as they had when you’d first scribbled your foreign letters into the sand.

He readjusted his grip on the fish between his claws to get a better angle and took a proper bite, chewing thoughtfully. Before you knew it, you were watching him nip at the pads of his fingers, his gaze going a bit round and shocked when he realized that he’d devoured the entirety of it.

“See?” you hummed, tucking into your own portion with gusto. “Not all things humans come up with are terrible.” He harumphed and turned to glare back out over the bay, slouching into the surf with an expression that was most certainly not a pout. “But maybe you’d know that if you bothered to do anything other than murder and devour us on sight,” you chirped.

To which you were immediately doused with an armful of water for your troubles. The Siren glowered petulantly from where he’d just wave-bombed you, and then dove back into the deeper waters of the sandbar. He immediately started up his stupid singing all over again—pointedly keeping his chin high above the surface and splashing brine into your face anytime he looped close enough to shore.

“I don’t know why I bother,” you huffed, and ate your sopping snapper in grumpy silence.

There was a ship wrecked off the coast.

Nothing overly cool, and definitely only a small chunk of what had probably at one point been a rather impressive vessel. But it was something. The first change in pace you’d had in days and oozing with possibilities.

The only problem was that the great, rotting, hull of the thing was dug up into a jagged skerry about a hundred yards off the shore—wedged into the pointed rocks with no chance of any wave or breeze sending it adrift. You could swim perfectly well. I mean, living your life on a ship surrounded by tumultuous, depthless, ocean would have been a hugely stupid career move otherwise. The issue, naturally, was the thing currently making its home in these waters. Sharks and barracudas, blablabla. They were just animals, no matter how many teeth they had. The Siren had a grudge. And just as many teeth.

Right now, said spiky pain in your ass was lounging in the shallows like the froth was an elegant daybed made just for him—shredded fins swaying in the soft tides and his hair floating about him that same, white-gold halo that made him look far too peaceful for anyone’s good sense. He wasn’t singing today, which was great for the local wildlife population but terrible for your Siren Sense. Once you waded into the waves, you’d have no real way to keep track of him. Hope, maybe, that he didn’t think fucking with you was worth messing up whatever tan-line he had going on. But nothing concrete that you’d be willing to bet the safety of your limbs on.

You wiggled your toes in the sand and stared longingly out at the stupid, wrecked ship that was so stupidly close. If you swam your fastest you could probably make it there in under two minutes—less than that, even. But that was still more than enough time for the Siren to rake those dark claws of his across your throat and drag you down into the depths to drown.

Riddle’s angry, red face swam through your thoughts, and you could practically see him shoving that beloved law tome of his under your nose for the umpteenth time.

‘Rule 32, never make dangerous bets that you’re certain you won’t win, particularly if you are betting against a Blue Nosed Beetle.’

‘Rule 15, do not needlessly sacrifice your life in the name of curiosity, excluding—of course—if you hail from Cheshire or are a Cat.’

‘It’s only a dumb shipwreck,’ you thought miserably, if rationally. ‘It’s probably not even that cool.’

Your captain would be so proud.

The next morning you were rolling up the cuffs on your pants and wading into the cool shallows, silently lighting a candle in your heart for your beloved, steam-faced leader and promising that you would at the very least cover the costs of your own funeral so as not to inconvenience him further.

The waves lapped against your ankles and the waters themselves were shockingly clear and blue. You could practically see each grain of sand beneath your heels—make out each pointy rock and the little, red crabs that scuttled away from your tromping like civilians fleeing from the shadow of a leviathan. The Siren was back to singing today. Perhaps his poor, overworked throat simply needed a break every now and again. But either way, your Merman Magic Missive was working in full force. The hairs on your arms stood at full attention and you liked to imagine you could see them twitching in circles to follow his long, looping arcs through the bay.

You made it up to your knees and waited, eyes scanning the open water and nose twitching like maybe you could smell the fucker. There was nothing but a familiar prickle along your shoulders and that deep sense of ‘tug tug tug’ with no answer, so you took a deep breath and pushed further, the water sloshing up to your hips, your chest, and finally you were floating—paddling slow and cautious towards the wreckage.

It really was insanely close. Even moving at your most cautious, sneakiest crawl, you’d made it nearly three-quarters of the way there within perhaps five minutes. And no signs of a vengeful, hungry Siren circling the waters beneath you either. More rules that perhaps that you’d have to tell Riddle might need some amending once you finally made it back home to your crew. ‘Dangerous bets,’ who? ‘Needless sacrifice,’ what? You might as well have outsmarted the whole ocean.

As you moved closer, you could make out a strange coat of arms on the side of the hull that you didn’t recognize. Twining, silver songbirds soaring against the sparkly backdrop of an otherwise plain faced crest, which honestly looked far too delicate to be heading the broken remains of what was no doubt at one point an absolute monster of a vessel. You reached out to brush your fingers against the shining plaque and then you were underwater.

You fought the immediate impulse to gasp in surprise, because expediting the process of your inevitable drowning just seemed stupid even by your standards. There was a clawed hand wrapped around your calf yanking you down, and you squinted through a stream of panicked bubbles to see your terrible, horrible, completely thankless co-strandee snarling up at you with sharp teeth and a sharper flail of his delicate gills. Thankfully the water wasn’t all that deep, so by the time you’d been dragged to the bottom you were maybe only ten feet under. But still. It was the goddamn principle! And besides, you’d heard about enough drunks drowning in puddles to know that this was more than enough Liquid Death to put you in an early grave.

The Siren looped around you in tight circles, and you could feel the brush of his tattered fins against your skin like the ghostly fingers of a reaper trailing down your spine. You’d known he was big—giant, even. Long, and impressive, and built to rule the very depths he’d dragged you into. Large enough to wrestle with sharks and capsize lifeboats. Big enough, no doubt, to eat you whole and still be hungry enough for seconds.

The salt stung your eyes and you blinked hard to keep his vibrant, amethyst tail in focus. Would he strike from the back, where you couldn’t see? Or would he go right for your throat—a direct, full frontal, ‘fuck you, human’ if there ever was one. And honestly, what were you expecting? That a good deed and a few pieces of cooked fish would sway him from devouring you whole? Maybe the island sun had fried whatever remained of your rattled brain.

He stopped in front of you and hissed—a stream of tight, tiny, bubbles jetting past his canines. You glared in petulant confusion, absolutely refusing to give your would-be murderer whatever reaction he was hoping for. His brow pinched into a tight, angry, v and he snarled again. You snarled back, and with that, the last breath in your lungs swooped out of you in a tight squeak. You choked, and struggled, and kicked at the claws holding you down. The Siren reared back, eyes widening in something that looked insultingly like genuine surprise, and you used his moment of hesitation to propel yourself off the sandbar and back to the choppy surface.

You gasped in a hasty breath, expecting to immediately be dragged back under. But when you weren’t pulled back down to your watery grave, you took in another and another. Gasping, and hacking, and spitting up seafoam. The Siren’s head crested the surface beside you and you flailed away, nearly pushing yourself under all over again. You paddled frantically, trying to keep your nose above the tide, and then suddenly there was something under you. You squawked and kicked it on instinct. The Siren snapped his pointy teeth in your face and you realized with a start that oh. That was him, wasn’t it? The long, winding, scaled muscles of his tail curled beneath your toes in what almost seemed like an attempt to keep you upright.

He stared at you with those unnervingly bright eyes of his—blonde hair curling softly at the edges where it plastered elegantly along his finned ears, and those too-long lashes dripping with small, sparkly, drops of salt water.

“What the hell is this bullshit?” you choked, coughing up more bubbly froth. “You don’t get to look so—so put together after trying to murder me!”

The Siren huffed out something that the delusional, still half-drowned, part of you wanted to classify as a laugh. And then he organized that bemused expression back into its usual, haughty, iciness and began to carefully make his way back towards the shore—towing you along like a poor, little, lost buoy with nowhere else to go.

You let him drag you up into the sand and only flopped around a little. He flicked his tail at you and your dramatics and you turned on him with a fierce, waterlogged scowl—a bit more confident now that he didn’t have the home field advantage.

“What was that for! I just wanted to look at the ship! I wasn’t even doing anything to you!” you wailed. “I haven’t done anything to you at all! Ever! Why do you keep—" you collapsed back into the sand with a miserable whine that rattled all the teeth in your head, and ground the heels of your palms into your eyes until you saw stars.

After a long moment of nothing, you felt a gentle tap at your shoulder.

You looked back up with a start to see Mister Merman looking nearly sheepish.Or as much of an equivalent that his aloof mask of a face was capable of pulling off. The clawed finger resting at your collarbone dropped to the sand by your hip, and he carefully began to draw more of those squiggles. No, scratch that. Not the dancing, popping, ones from the other day. These actually looked sort of like the silver songbirds from that shipwreck. More jagged, certainly. But similar enough that you felt something a bit too coldly cautious to be confusion seep through your guts.

Once he was finished, he looked up and met your gaze—sharp, pointed. And then he reached back out and smeared the birds into nothing and shook his head, firm. His red lips moved slowly, exaggerated, again and again. And you could make out the vague shape of words you’d had shouted at you a hundred times over.

‘Not safe.’

That same, shivery, nervous feeling bit at your limbs.

“…okay,” you said after a moment. And then leaned forward to dig your own fingers into the sand, dutifully ignoring how your elbows knocked against his own.

‘Not safe,’ you wrote, and watched his eyes trace each letter like a treasure map.

There was another tap at your shoulder. And then he pointed to the words in the muck, then to himself.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, yes. You’re not safe either.”

He sighed dramatically enough to ruffle the ends of your still soaked hair. And then pointed to the words again, tapping at the ‘N’ with the curved tip of a claw.

“Nnnn?” you mouthed, confused.

He moved to the ‘o’ next and it clicked.

“You want me to teach you how to read my letters?” you asked, flabbergasted. Another sigh, like you’d dropped the weight of all the world on his pale shoulders. Or perhaps that your idiocy was enough to put that hearty mass to shame. You decided that you were still feeling a bit too much like you’d only just barely escaped a brush with death, dismemberment, and dinner plans to push your luck with sassing him back too harshly, and just blinked owlishly in dazed surprise. “But why?”

His purple eyes trailed in the direction of the shipwreck and something cutting and poisonous clouded his expression. He pointed to the words again.

‘Not safe.’

“Alright,” you said, looking out over the water with a strange sort of sinking feeling in your gut. You leaned forward and began to draw the alphabet at your feet. His tail twitched by your fingers and you ignored the soft brush of his still-healing fins. “This one’s an ‘A’, like in ‘Asshole’—"

Whomp went the tail as he cracked it across your knuckles like a school matron with a ruler. And you couldn’t help the startled burst of genuine, tinkling laughter that bubbled past your lips for the first time since you’d been dragged overboard.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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@novaloptr, @imlost-sendhelp, @matcha-berry @preciosayorgullosa @whoretaglia, @kookygirlwholikescookiesandcoke, @nanauedorian, @trixeraptops, @voxnipop, @starkling25, @thedum1, @horcrux-alchemist, @sleepykitty21, @apathicace, @instantregret101, @nekanecorvus, @looney-mori, @re-ducing, @my2phetaliaheadcanons, @naughtybodypillow, @rendy-a, @carmen-404, @candy284, @thealiennamedterry, @their-name-is-fake, @huetolog, @glacticrose, @seraphinariddle, @rabioa, @sn00zl4x, @dreasimping, @jeidoreech, @ai-dev, @galaxyshine24-7, @fatally-incorrect, @juulranch, @camrastuff, @nocteetdie, @stargaryengirl, @warmsmilesandhugs, @01paige01

#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Vil Schoenheit x Reader #Vil x Reader #vil schoenheit #Mermay #Monster Mayhem #My Writing #vil shoenheit #Siren!Vil #Mermaid!Vil #Fantasy AU #Monster Mayhem Vil Part 2

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nimbusclan · 3 months ago

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Moon 5 Part 4

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Fogfreckle’s body hits the ground hard, rolling halfway down the slope as Moonstar slides down after him, pebbles skidding out from under her paws as she rushes to his side.

“Fogfreckle?” Moonstar’s voice wavers as she reaches him in a spray of stones, hovering a scraped paw gently over his bleeding body as she hesitates. He’s just lying there, chest rising and falling shallowly, as blood oozes from thick punctures along his back that stains his pale fur red. Should she roll him over? What if his bones are broken? He’s not dead, by the grace of StarClan, but she’s no medicine cat – she has no idea how close he is to death or how much worse she’ll make it if she tries to move him.

The circling shadow of the eagle drifts over them with another ear-splitting, screeching cry, and Moonstar’s fear makes the decision for her. She grabs Fogfreckle by the scruff of the neck and begins to haul him farther down the slope. She doesn’t want to injure him more than he already is, but she knows it’ll be worse if they’re caught out here on the open mountainside once the larger predators in the area catch scent of his blood and come to investigate.

Fogfreckle doesn’t make a single nose of pain as she pulls him through the dirt. She drags him as far as a tumbled collection of boulders and stones, squeezing into a space between the rocks that is just big enough for Moonstar to fit her body through and drag Fogfreckle in after her. The space is tight, without a lot of room to move, and Moonstar has to swallow panic and bile as the walls seem to press in around them.

“This is best,” she says aloud to herself, “foxes or fishers can’t reach us in here. It has to be here.” The self-soothing doesn’t do much to abate her claustrophobia, but Fogfreckle makes a pained noise in response to her voice and all thoughts of herself vacate her mind.

Fogfreckle whimpers as Moonstar licks his wounds clean, flinching as she clears dirt from the punctures with her rough tongue. She doesn’t say anything while she works, but she nearly sags in relief with every flinch and whimper from her brother. He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s alive and he’s okay.

“Stay here,” she says at last when she’s cleaned most of the blood and debris from his fur. It’s still oozing sluggishly from his wounds, bright and wet. “I need to find cobwebs. Do you think you broke anything?”

“I don’t think so,” Fogfreckle murmurs, voice weak and faint with exhaustion.

“Reckless,” Moonstar murmurs back, licking his forehead once. “Alright. Okay. Stay safe. Please, please, stay safe. I’ll get us help, okay? I’ll find someone to help.”

Moonstar scrambles out from under the claustrophobic press of rocks and pelts back up the mountain, swerving trees and boulders and leaping roots as she climbs higher and higher. Panic and grief strangles her thundering heart, pushing her to run faster and faster until her legs are burning. She reaches a break in the pines, a ledge buffeted by the wind, and yowls at the top of her lungs until her voice runs ragged.

“HELP! SOMEBODY, HELP! PLEASE! HELP!”

Her voice echoes back to her across the mountain, mimicking her fear. When it fades, there is only the sound of the mountain. Wind in her ears, the rustle of leaves in the trees, insects that hum in the sun. A sob escapes her, then a full blown wail, and her body collapses beneath her as the lack of response presses against her.

They are alone. At sunrise, she awoke as the leader of this clan, and at sundown she is so terribly, horribly, awfully alone.

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#he's not dead :)#thank you all for 300 followers! i meant to say that last update but forgot #fun fact moonstar actually met a traveling loner here in game but he refused to join the clan and then died like a month later #so he wasn't worth writing into the comic #can't blame him for not wanting to join either tbh these cats are in shambles #MOON 5 IS FINALLY OVERRRR #clangen #nimbusmoon #moon 5 #moonstar #fogfreckle #wc #waca #warrior cats #wc oc #tw blood #tw injury #cw blood #cw injury

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dark-corner-cunning · 5 months ago

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Summoning the Fetch: A Mirror Magick Enchantment

Welcome back, Seekers! In my local coven, we’ve just completed a journey through the mysteries of Spirit, diving into the magick of the Fetch Spirit. Since many of you enjoyed the Spirit House post, I thought it only fitting to share a glimpse into the Fetch Spirit here. This practice was inspired by the wisdom found in "The Crooked Path" book a few years ago. As always, take what resonates with your soul, weave it into your craft, and make it uniquely your own. 🌙✨

What Is The Fetch Spirit?

In the craft of Spirit Work and Traditional Witchery, the fetch spirit is a vital thread in the tapestry of a Witch’s soul. Many paths teach that the soul is a trinity, woven from the higher self, the mid-self, and the lower self. The fetch spirit dwells in the depths of the lower self, tethered to the Underworld and the shadowy realms of the unconscious. It is the raw, instinctual force within us, rooted in primal needs like safety and comfort.

The fetch can be seen as the ID of our being—a wild, emotional current that stirs intuition through gut feelings and instinctual nudges, often acting as our unseen protector. By forging a relationship with the fetch, a Witch may delve into the hidden chambers of emotion, amplify intuitive knowing, and tap the deep well of the unconscious mind.

Skilled Witches often call upon their fetch to walk between worlds or perform workings on their behalf, leaving the Witch present in one realm while their fetch accomplishes tasks in another. This spirit companion may mirror the Witch’s form or manifest as an animal—its connection to our instinctual nature shaping it into the guise of a hare, cat, bird, or other creature. Such shapeshifting recalls the old tales of witches transforming into beasts, yet it is not the Witch’s body that changes but their fetch slipping into an animal guise to carry out the work.

Still, the lore carries warnings: the fetch and the Witch are bound as one. Any harm that befalls the fetch could ripple back to the Witch. Tales of fetches wounded in the Otherworld, with their Witches bearing matching scars, remind us of the sacred balance in working with this primal part of ourselves. Though physical harm may be rare today, the stories caution us to approach this work with reverence, care, and the wisdom of those who have walked the crooked path before us.

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Summoning the Fetch: A Mirror Magick Enchantment

Purpose: Enlist the power of the Fetch Spirit with this enchanted mirror working, creating a portal between realms. Once the mirror is enchanted it can be placed on or above your altar, allowing the Fetch to reflect your magickal workings across the seen and unseen worlds. Let its gaze weave your intentions through the threads of all realms, amplifying your craft with otherworldly connection and power.

Timing: Dark Moon

Ingredients:

A Mirror - I personally favor antique silver-backed mirrors for this work, as they hold a conductive energy, but truly, any mirror will do. It is the intent and the magick you weave that brings the mirror to life.

Candles: Tealights or Pillars

Crossroads Smoke Blend or Spray

Offering

To begin, create your ritual space by arranging the candles in a circle upon the ground, with the mirror placed at the center—acting as a portal to the unseen, where you can see your reflection. Cleanse the mirror thoroughly before use, using either sacred smoke or a spritz of a Crossroads blend to clear and consecrate its surface. For this, I favor a simple but potent, crafted blend:

✨ Mugwort: For consecration, astral travel, and cleansing magickal mirrors. ✨ Wormwood: To summon and open the veil. ✨ Fumitory: To conjure, commune with chthonic spirits, and weave connection with the shadowed realms.

To craft a crossroads spray, steep your herbs in alcohol (60 to 100 proof works best for potent extraction) for at least one full moon cycle before your ritual work.

Once your sacred space is prepared, pause to ground yourself and step into the magickal circle. Take the crossroads smoke and begin circling your ritual space clockwise, letting the smoke weave its power around the candles. Walk the space as many times as feels right—allow the rhythm to guide you deeper into a trance-like state, where the veil between worlds begins to thin.

Now, light your candles and summon the crossroads, quarters, corners, or whatever energies resonate with your craft. I have my own way of calling these forces, but follow your instincts, trust your practice, and call forth what speaks to your spirit. Let the magick unfold as it will.

Once the Crossroads has been summoned, step up to the mirror and let your gaze fall upon the mirror. Lock eyes with your reflection, peering into the depths of your soul. Hold your focus unwaveringly, let your thoughts fade and your vision soften. Through your eyes, reach into the mirror, descending into the shadowy realms of the Underworld where your true essence lies hidden. When the connection stirs, speak words of power, such as:

"I summon my fetch on this dark moon night,

My astral twin, shadowed self, and tethered light.

I call you forth from the depths below,

Rise through this mirror, let your presence show."

Feel the energy shift as the boundaries thin, and your fetch begins to stir within the liminal space. Whisper words of kindness and praise to your fetch spirit, calling it forth from the shadows, until it you feel that it has stepped into the mirror’s gaze. Let your words weave a bridge, a thread of connection, until the spirit answers your call.

Once you've forged a connection with your fetch, it’s time to lay down your intentions, terms, and conditions for your pact. In spirit work, clarity is everything—be precise about its purpose, your expectations, and how you’ll nourish and honor this relationship through offerings. Spirit dealings can be unpredictable, so taking care to establish firm boundaries ensures a smoother partnership.

Consider crafting a unique signal or calling method, such as a specific whistle, gesture, or phrase, to summon your fetch when its aid is required. By setting these foundations, you not only honor the fetch spirit but also weave a bond of trust and power into your craft. Also, consider writing your pact in your own hand, sealing it with your name, and offering it to the flames. As the smoke rises, it carries your intentions into the other realms, weaving them into the unseen. Again, do what calls to you.

When you feel your Fetch working has reached its conclusion and the connection has been made, step even closer to the mirror and bind the connection by kissing your reflection in the mirror, pressing your hand against its surface, or breathing a sacred breath of life toward your Fetch. Then, speak this incantation, or craft your own words of power, to seal the enchantment:

I am you, and you are me, Bound together, tethered free. Two as one, spirit and form, In sacred union, magick born.

Together we weave, together we bind, Power awakened, paths aligned. By will and craft, let it be, My Fetch and I, in harmony.

When the energy feels settled and the rite is complete, extinguish your candles, place the mirror in its sacred resting place, give thanks, and leave an offering in gratitude.

______________________________________________________________

May your magick flow with unwavering strength, ever potent and true. As you work with the Fetch Mirror, may the veil between worlds grow thin, and may the power of your spirit and its reflection guide your path with clarity and purpose. Blessed be. ✨

#witchcraft #traditional witchcraft #witch #witchblr #magick #spellcasting #folk witchcraft #folk magic #witches #witchery #spirit work #fetch #hedgecraft #mirror magic #enchantment

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lvmimis · 1 year ago

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cw: angst. character death. you and izuku are married and have a young son. godparent!katsuki. katsuki has an unnamed wife.

Your son always starts a fuss when you bring him to his grandmother’s house, but for some reason, as you slowly trudge up the steps to your mother-in-law’s modest home (she’d refused to let her son move her out into your large shared home or even a much larger, more roomy domicile of her own), you find that your son is eerily quiet, as though he can sense the turmoil inside of you and is choosing to give you a much needed break.

By the time he makes it into Inko’s arms, he’s always less fussy, but today he’s quietly looking at you, curiously, as if he’s waiting for you to break down and cry. He’s unnerving that way, gifted with practically the same emotional intuition as your sweet husband, and it doesn’t help that he has practically the same face. Inko is quick to take your behaving not-yet-toddler from you, and gives you a sympathetic look. She is not going to the funeral yet because she plans to watch your son, but she’s spent practically every night this week at Mitsuki’s house, preparing food and helping her through her tears. You’ve helped your best friend, Katsuki’s wife, grieve similarly, but now that the final moment has come to lay him to rest, you feel dread rising in the pit of your stomach.

You should not show your face. After all, you killed Katsuki Bakugou.

After you repeat this statement again out loud to your mother-in-law, shaky hands folded in your lap as she hands you a glass of water and tries to steady your nerves, she reminds you, as all good mothers would, that it wasn’t your fault.

He’d meant to save you. You hadn’t been the one to force an unclosable hole through his chest, and if it hadn’t been you standing and vulnerable in that particular spot, it would have been someone else he’d have aimed to save.

Perhaps that last part is true. Or perhaps, because you are one of his closest friends' treasures, he fought a little bit harder, moved a little bit quicker and a little bit more recklessly to ensure that you made it out, that you’d be the one to explain to your best friend why her husband is not coming home to dinner, rather than he have to explain to Izuku why the mother of his child is no longer of this world. It’s a moment that plays in your mind constantly ever since you first heard the sickening crunch of bone and sinew give way, the spray of your child’s godfather’s blood soaking your clean clothes.

You’d just been at the grocery store and run into each other by chance. It’s been over a decade long gag now to pretend you hate each other more than everything while acknowledging that you’ve both intertwined your lives with a person the other holds terribly dear. When you saw Katsuki you crinkled your nose, a joke akin to ‘look what the cat dragged in’ muttered in some variation by you both, before walking side by side and catching up. The four of you had dinner plans that weekend anyway and Katsuki takes the idea of godparent far too seriously for being an only child, and thus was far too interested in what you were putting in your cart.

“I read kids develop their tastes early in life and I don’t think this” - he picks up a six-pack carton of juice that was admittedly laden in sugar from your cart - “is particularly conducive to healthy development.”

“Katsuki, I didn’t ask you,” you hiss, snatching it out of his hands, then sheepishly add, “in fact, that was mine.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“Figures for all that chaotic energy you have,” he jokes.

You had more to say to him, and then merely ten minutes later, in a flurry of explosions and debris, screams and scattered people, you were staring straight through his chest to the other side.

“Fuck.”

Fuck? You thought. Katsuki looking at you, then looking at the gaping wound in his chest, then looking at the incapacitated villain and the destroyed supermarket, then looking back at your hands deep in his wound, pressing down at his chest desperately to stop the bleeding as best you can, tears running down your cheeks. You who so often were joined at the hip with the one he loves, who’s grown to merge their natural smile with Izuku’s over time, whose face is distorted in fear and shock and desperation to keep him alive so you don’t have to tell your best friend that you are the reason he’s no longer here to protect her.

Because he was protecting you. For his friend. For his wife. For the kid you’ve entrusted to him in case something happens to your or Izuku's child, who better not get that goddamn juice box.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

You want to scream, no it’s not, it will never be, how am I supposed to tell her-

“I forgive you. I’m not mad. Just take care of her, okay?”

Katsuki’s voice was the quietest, calmest you had ever heard it be since you’ve met him and you hate that he smiled, and you hate hate hate that Izuku would have done it for him, too.

The shaking turns into sobs again and Inko holds your hands tightly. Your son is upstairs, too occupied with toys, again far too polite and considerate, and you wonder if he’ll remember how hard you are crying right now. If he’ll remember his father crying and holding you that terrible evening. You wonder what he’ll do when he’s old enough to know why his auntie doesn’t have a husband and why there are four people smiling in that wedding photo that hangs in your home instead of the three he knows, and who bought him nearly half of his books and toys.

“I can’t go there,” you whisper again.

Inko tilts her head.

“But she needs you,” Inko murmurs. You wipe your tears with the back of your hands. Your husband, who isn’t the coward you are, is already at the funeral, working through funeral arrangements. Your throat dries up at how much he must be apologizing again, or perhaps he’s not apologizing at all, keeping his head up high and reminding everyone that Dynamight died saving someone important to him and what he did was not a mistake.

“Kacchan is a true hero.” Izuku repeated softly into your ear, then to himself, then to you again, then to the world, then to his wife. His wife who should hate you but is too mournful to bother.

“I can’t go there,” you repeat. “I cannot look her in the eyes.”

But your best friend needs you and cried in your arms that very first night.

Inko nods.

“But she’d do it for you,” she says, softly.

She would do it for you, the same way Izuku would have done it for Katsuki.

…

Moments later, you’re squeezing Dynamight’s widow’s hand as Izuku praises him, and you wish it hadn’t turned out this way but you’re at least fulfilling your promise.

Just take care of her, okay?

You will, for the rest of your life.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #daydreams: bnha #mimi's notes #cw death #cw children

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captain-reno · 6 months ago

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I watched Castlevania. And I REALLY laugh at how much the local Dracula looks like a CAT. Our Alucard-Dracula from Hellsing is absolutely mad. He allows himself to be riddled with bullets, and then happily bites everyone involved. And okay Alucard, Alucard likes to play with his prey, but I believe that even if Vlad was wounded (Of course, Anderson would do it, who else?), he would be rather pleased. (By the way, I believe that Dracula-Alucard Hellsing has several personalities, although at the core, well. Himself, of course.)

While the Dracula of Castlevania, of course, also does not immediately fight at full strength, but gets very angry when he is wounded and in general attacked and forced to fight. He is like a cat that does not want to be poked. And because of this he hisses, bares his teeth and gets mad. The scene where Sypha conjures a stream of fire right into his face looks more like a cat being sprayed with a spray bottle!

Do not touch the poor cat, he just wanted to destroy humanity, nothing more! And give him back his wife. Then there won't even be a need to destroy people.

In general, I love him too. But in a completely different way than Alucard-Dracula Hellsing.

#hellsing #hellsing ultimate #castlevania netflix #alucard hellsing #hellsing alucard #castlevania dracula #dracula castlevania

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sanguineterrain · 2 years ago

Note

Hi! I saw your post on Halloween prompts and if your still taking them may I request

Jason was born a werewolf and they're used to their transformations and abilities. They're out on a walk when they find Reader, a human-just-turned-werewolf. Jason decides it's their job to take care of Reader until they're able to use all their powers efficiently, etc. Both didn't expect to catch feelings along the way.

Werewolves are actively hunted down and humans even carry specific silver items and spray to ward them off if they suspect someone of being one. Reader finds Jason, an injured werewolf, hiding in their backyard. They don't have the heart to chase them away, instead opting to heal and hide them away from the hunters after them.

Fem!reader if possible?

Prompts from @promptspa

hi there! thanks for the prompt. i decided to go with the 2nd one, but i tweaked it a little. reader is gender neutral simply because there wasn't any moment to identify gender, but you are free to picture them as female! hope you like :)

werewolf!jason todd x gn!reader | injured jason, tending to wounds, wolf form, reader and jason knew each other when he was robin.

****

"...In other news, reports of animal attacks have skyrocketed, leaving Gotham citizens paranoid. The mayor is enforcing a six o'clock curfew, urging citizens to lock their doors and keep pets inside. Now we have Dan with the weather—"

You mute the TV, stand, and stretch. The wind howls outside, rattling the roof slats. Dan, the weatherman, soundlessly describes how it's only going to get colder this week. That reminds you of Lucy, your Ragdoll. She's been outside for most of the evening.

"Lucy," you call, opening the bag of cat food. Usually, the sound causes her to race into the kitchen, claws clicking on the floor.

But there's no sound. You stop what you're doing and move to the stairs.

"Lucy?"

Nothing.

Animal attacks. Your stomach churns at the thought.

Gotham News often exaggerates that stuff since they're so anti-lycan. Werewolves don't attack animals and haven't done so for centuries unless they're desperate for food. But most citizens don't know that and will happily buy into the scare tactics. You can't afford to, living miles outside of the city.

You head outside when Lucy still doesn't appear. Logically, you know werewolves wouldn't attack your seven pound cat that's seventy percent fur. You know that. But something still feels wrong.

You search around the house first, using your phone as a flashlight. Then you walk toward the shed. That's when you hear meowing.

"Lucy!" you yell. "It's alright, Lucy, come on!"

Lucy makes no motion to move. She meows incessantly, urgent, yowling meows that make you rush over and check her for injuries. She continues to meow, even when you don't find an injury.

"What's wrong, Lucy? What's happened?"

You stroke her back, but nothing calms her. One time, she ran into a skunk, and that had spooked her. It also resulted in three baths to get the smell out.

But the skunk had attacked her then. Here, Lucy is unharmed, but whatever she's seen, it's scared her beyond comforting.

She continues to meow, eyes fixed on the shed. You take a deep breath and go to the shed. Lucy's meows get louder.

"It's alright, Lucy," you say, but now your heart is thumping. The wind rattles the padlock, which is odd, so you shine the light on it.

The lock is broken. You pull open the door, ready to run.

A soft whine comes from inside the shed. You shine your light, and the creature shies away, except it's too big to avoid the light completely. Too big to be a regular animal...

You make out black fur, large ears, and a tail. You gasp. The wolf whines again, curling into the corner like it's trying to make itself small.

There's a trail of blood on the ground. Without getting closer, you can't tell where the blood is from. But if it's enough to make the creature whine, it must be a deep wound.

"I'm not a hunter," you say slowly, and its ears twitch at that. "I'm not here to hurt you. No silver, see?"

You pull out your pockets, unzip your coat, and show your hands. The wolf watches you silently. Its head comes into view, and now you can see that the wolf is male.

And his eyes. His eyes are what confirm your suspicions; they are too intelligent to not be supernatural, glowing an eerie green.

He's an adult wolf, from what you can tell, but still young, his fur dark and thick. His youth doesn't make him any less intimidating, though. He looks much like the pictures of werewolves the antis use to scare people: huge, long body, glowing eyes, claws. He must be double your size, at least.

Lucy has stopped meowing. Now she just stares alongside you, keeping her distance. No wonder she was so distressed.

The wolf suddenly stands, and you take several steps back, heart racing. You hate being scared, hate letting the news report get into your head.

The wolf lies on his back with jerky, uncoordinated movements. He makes a desperate noise and shows his belly.

Knife wounds. Big ones. If he wasn't a wolf, he'd be dead.

"Holy shit," you say. "Oh my God."

This is as vulnerable as any creature can be. But you're just as much a stranger to him as he is to you. Why is he trusting you like this?

You've only known one werewolf in your life. And he's never coming back.

The wolf whimpers again. You nod quickly.

"Okay," you whisper. "It's okay. I'll patch you up."

The wolf sags against the ground, and you run out of the shed, your stomach turning at the thought of another wolf dying.

Lucy follows you, clinging to your ankles, and you try not to trip over her as you gather supplies from the house. She doesn't follow you back outside.

You return to the shed and thread a needle. Then you take a step forward and wait. When he makes no move to attack, you close the distance slowly and crouch by his belly.

His fur is matted and torn in odd places. Carefully, you place a hand on his belly. He doesn't move.

"I'm going to pour the antiseptic now," you say.

The wolf watches as you do. He tenses but doesn't make any more sounds as you clean his wound. Almost like he's used to the feeling.

You feel up his fur for other wounds. That's when you feel a scar that runs from his chest to where his bellybutton would be. It's Y-shaped.

"What—" you say in horror. "What did they do to you?"

The wolf whines again.

"Right, right. Sorry. I'm going to sew you up."

He lets you tend to his wounds without a hitch. He's unusually comfortable with your touch; he doesn't howl or flinch when you touch him, and any warning sounds are gentle.

You finish the stitches and top it with a bandage. He waits patiently, not moving an inch. You haven't done this in years; you never thought your medic training would come in handy again.

Nightingale. That's what the Bats called you. That's who you might've become eons ago, until...

"I won't turn you in," you say when you finish.

The wolf blinks at you.

"But you know that, don't you?"

He protests when you pull a blanket over him. He whines and nudges you away with his nose.

"It's cold here, and I can't carry you inside," you say.

He drags the blanket off with his teeth and throws it onto your lap. You smile and put it back on him.

"I'll be fine. I have blankets inside. Get some sleep."

You start to stand, and his whines become barks. He tries to stand with you, pawing at your knee.

"Whoa, hey! Don't, you'll pull your stitches. What's wrong?"

He barks again, and nods at the forest line outside in the distance. Then he licks at his bandage.

"You're afraid the people who hurt you will get you?" you ask.

He chuffs and licks your hand.

"You're afraid they'll get... me?"

He nudges your shoulder. You touch his head and make a soft noise.

"Okay. I'll stay and keep watch. If I hear anything, I'll wake you, alright?"

The wolf grunts, then finally lays down. He shuffles closer to you, so his body is practically on your legs. He runs hot, and with him so near, you hardly feel the cold.

The wolf falls asleep before you.

****

It has been a long time since you trained with a Bat, and your nocturnal practices have faded since then.

So you wake up in the shed with a backache.

Black fur tickles your hand, and you open your eyes.

But it's not a wolf at your feet; it's a man.

A man wearing a dead boy's face.

He awakens as you do, bare and bandaged beneath the blanket. Those odd green eyes stare at you. They're wrong; all of him is wrong, but his face... you know that face.

"Jason?" you whisper, chest tight.

His sigh is full of grief.

"Hey, Nightingale."

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x yn #jason todd fanfiction #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood imagine #red hood fanfiction #werewolf jason todd #dc fanfic #batman fanfiction #inbox #blurb

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safrona-shadowsun · 24 days ago

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A stray manasaber kit has somehow wandered into the Elysian Sojourn. It mews loudly, clearly lost. Maybe someone brought it with them here?

{TW for the horrors. This is not the most wholesome story, sorry if you were expecting that. }

Many seemed to vaguely ignore or casually 'aww' at the manasaber kit, thinking it to be some new mascot of the Sojourn that disappeared of its own will. A sweet little stray with just enough strangeness to make its home in such a place.

But none had claimed the little thing, left it to its own devices.

Some only heard the plaintive little mews at strange times on the dining floor, or outside a rented room or private bath, only to look and find nothing but little ephemeral prints of shimmering dust, leading into shadowed, safer spaces. Some delegated the little lost, sad meows to be a sort of trick or joke, the more they were heard. A tiny stray had been claimed by no one, and the Sojourn was too large, too much for such a tiny thing.

But one entity was by design on the little kitten's trail, keeping it overly aware, keeping it in hiding. And it was smart to hide, to climb, for it was being hunted. Hungry, leathery tentacles followed its shimmering pawprints day by day, swerved beneath the legs of dining tables in the evening to search out where the little snack had been, investigating where it had gone. And the poor kitten, terrified and alone, was never given respite, driven to climb up to the highest places and stare down in horror. For its hunter was excited by the lure of magical prey, and uniquely equipped to track its signature. And this little feline had yet to develop its defenses. A horrible hunt for such a little kitten, to be hungry and all alone, in unknown places.

And the tiny magic feline, of course, was a welcome exercise for a demon.

It was only a matter of time that the kitten would tire, let out its tiny, lonesome, hungry little call, and the leathery tentacles would strike out and find its mark. Acidic drool pooled from its maw on the lush rug, tasting the sweet vibrations of the mana infused hide as it wound the wriggling bundle into a demented cat's cradle of its own design. How satisfying was the sound of its panicked mewling, the fear inducing a spray of yet arcane dust to snuffle and drink in for an exceptional high. And how delightful it would be to feel it crunched between its many-daggered maw, supping the magic weave from its blood and bone. A satisfying reward for the ever hungry---

"MOM!" came the panicked scream to interrupt its feast, seconds before the tiny, comatose body could find the finality of its maw. A pause fortified by the halting thought of its binder, the demon snarled its disappointment, but did not bite down on its much deserved kill.

"Oh Light, it's just a kitten!" The frantic girl slid in dangerously close to the wrapped up kitten and tried to pry one of the tightened tentacles from its body with little but her own fingers. "I knew I heard it around here! I knew it was real! Bad Wraa! Put it down!"

"Serenas...!" it's mistress warned, and it felt the frustration sharp, flooding its own primal instinct. Wraafenn snapped its jaws at the girl, and she bleated in horror as it expected, darting away from it's intended feast. The felhunter had claimed the kitten, reacting with a hungry dog's fervor amidst the feast dialed to eleven.

The demonic command that fell from its warlock's lips was then sharp, and painfully suffocating, a Fel language it knew well and was chained to obey. The girl snuck in again to take its meal, and it understood that its master would not tolerate a retaliation, no matter how it may have been earned. With a gutteral snarl vibrating between its salivating teeth, the felhunter let the kitten slip from its tentacles and onto the rug, and stalked away.

Wraafenn tuned out the quiet disagreement between its mistress and her spawn, casually searching for a better opportunity. Perhaps the Shadow Man would have better treats to rectify the stolen hunt?

#safwriting #IC #About Safrona #Leaving a kitten in a place where demons roam is not so kind #Wraafenn

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phantomphangphucker · 19 days ago

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Phic Phight - Corpse Snatching Is A Violation Of Bird Law

For: @murphy-kitt @tourettesdog @kinglazrus @camels-pen

Wes steals a corpse, someone pisses off a goose, Danny breaks the law; everyone suffers.

A lone person hacks at the earth like a lunatic, shovel hitting splintered wood, then flesh and bone. Puffing out ragged breaths, chest heaving like they were about to burst apart. Dirt flying everywhere as they tore the last pieces away with their bare hands, laughing, high and shrill and wrong.

“There you are, you ugly bastard”. Hands grabbing at the limp arms and yanking them free, free from soil and worms and cheap ply wood.

It looked fresh.

It was perfect.

Truth can no longer be denied!

Danny had been having a good day, so long as he ignored the mildly fresh stab wound in his leg, and the probably moldy sandwich in his stomach giving him a stomachache, and the fact that his eyes are still watering from whatever new spray thing his folks made, his folks also thought that making and installing some kind of catapult trebuchet thing outside of the mall was a good idea, and that Mr. Campbell had assigned even more tedious bug-related homework… you know what? no. Danny hadn’t actually been having a good day. Screw today actually.

At least he hasn’t had to fight a god today?

“HEY FENTON!”.

Oh Ancients, what the zone does Wes want? Normally he’d be all for verbally berating the wannabe sleuth bu-

“YEET!”.

Danny gets absolutely bodied straight in the head by something large, floppy, and moderately heavy; him getting knocked to the floor. “What the Hell Wes!”. Flailing his arms to bat off whatever Wes just fucking threw at him, and sitting up to snarl at the kid, “I’m going to pay someone to eat all your left socks and bleach your shoes”.

Then Danny actually looks at the thing that had crashed into his skull… it’s his own dead body what the actual FUCK and how?!???!?!??!?! Snapping his head back towards the very smug looking Wes, “dude, did you rob a corpse out of some poor fuckers grave and mess with it to look like me? What is wrong with you!”.

Wes screws up his face in multiple ways, “I didn’t steal anyone’s corpse other than yours!”.

“Living people don’t have corpses!”.

“You’re not alive!”.

“Do I need to walk around with a pulse monitor again!”.

“The head stone even had your name on it!”.

“Do you think my name is completely unique or something!?!”.

“It looks JUST LIKE YOU and was in a grave MARKED WITH YOUR NAME literally inside of AMITY PARK’S PARK WOODS! That is NOT A GODDAMN COINCIDENCE!”.

“Says you and that mouth full!”.

“SAYS LOGIC!”.

Danny grabs up his literal fucking corpse, and starts puppeting its mouth open and closed mockingly, “oh look at me! I’m a silly funny corpse boy some crazy man dug up! Aren’t I so totally proof that Schrödinger cat is actually Schrödinger boy! Look at my mouth move! Look how totally real and alive I am!”.

“How can you do that TO YOUR OWN DEAD BODY!”.

“MAYBE ITS NOT MY DEAD BODY! DID YOU EVER THINK OF THAT!”.

“THERE IS NO OTHER POSSIBILITY!”.

“ANOTHER POSSIBILITY IS THAT IT’S NOT A CORPSE! IT’S A SOCK PUPPET!”.

“NO IT IS NOT! PUT YOURSELF DOWN!”.

Danny lifts up his corpse up over his head and then just starts wiping it around like a flag by one of its arms, “WOOOO! LOOK AT THE GIANT OBVIOUS DEAD FLAG OF PROOF! FEAR ME AND MY CORPSE FLAG!”.

“YOU NEED THERAPY!”.

“I TRIED! THE THERAPIST CHANGED HER NAME AND FLED THE COUNTRY IN FEAR!”.

“THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR BEING DEAD!”.

“DEAD IN THE HEAD ONLY!”.

“THEN EXPLAIN AWAY YOUR OWN BLOODY CORPSE!”.

“I DON’T SEE ANY BLOOD LEAKING FROM IT DO YOU!?! AND WHAT KIND OF ASSHAT WOULD EVEN DIG UP SOMEBODY‘S FUCKING CORPSE YOU WHACKO!”.

“You! YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE WITH YOUR CORPSE! I’M FIXING THAT!”.

“YOU’RE FIXING SWEET DICK ALL!”.

“IT’S NOT EVEN ROTTED! IT WANTS YOU BACK!”.

“I BITE MY THUMB AT THEE! VILE POTATO!”.

“The truth MUST BE KNOWN!”.

“KNOW THIS DICK! WES!”.

Wes launches himself at Danny, knocking Danny back into the ground and making him lose his grip on his corpse. Danny’s corpse sailing through the air and smashing into a stop sign, while Danny and Wes roll around on the ground kicking and punching the shit out of each other.

You know, like any other totally normal day in Amity Park.

Emilie sips her drink, looking to the side, the corpse was lying next to the stop sign now… next to her… it kinda looked like it was giving a thumbs-up. Or maybe rigor mortis just kind of looked like that? Oh whatever, Emilie high-fives it anyway, she loves this towns completely unhinged tomfuckery. Going wide eyed, standing up quickly, and chugging the rest of her frothy drink. Tossing the drink at the garbage can and grabbing the corpses hair, “you’re coming with me”.

There was a weird sorta catapult not even ten minutes away from here. She can make the corpse sail through the sky like all its dead spooky buddies!

Wes and Danny stop, looking up, with Danny’s hand in Wes’s mouth, Wes attempting to stuff grave dirt in Danny’s ear, and Danny with a fist full of Wes’s hair in his non-bitten hand. There was a bizarre whipping sound, and it was getting closer. The two watching, and heads following, as Danny’s corpse flips through the air end over end before smashing into a Canadian goose. The goose honks full of Canadian pride as it falls to the ground.

Wes spitting out Danny’s hand, “congrats, you started a war with Canada”.

“I don’t know, it was your property, you’re the one who dug it up”.

“It’s YOUR CORPSE!”.

“I got RID OF IT! IT WAS AND IS MINE NO MORE! YOU TOOK IT! IT’S YOUR CORPSE!”.

A goose honks angrily, the two stopping and turning, there’s a goose. The goose is very angry. Apparently, It did not appreciate having a flesh bag catapulted into Its flight path; who would have thought. It starts flying at them filled with pure aggression and a lust for blood. Both boys going wide-eyed, scrambling up, and fleeing.

The only way this could get worse is if some Ancient started shouting about them killing their favourite goose, even if It didn't seem to actually be dead.

Wes fucking bodily picks him up, Danny yelping, “what the ZONE ARE YOU DOING! HOW DOES THIS HELP!?!”.

“Your face is the one that hit It! If It thinks you’re dead and gone It’ll LEAVE!”.

“What are you even TALKING ABOUT!”.

Danny starts swinging down at Wes once they get into the park, this fucker was so totally just going to throw him into his own grave. What an ass. Wes holding Danny up with rod straight arms and scrunching his head/neck down means all Danny gets is goddamn clumps of hair; as they pass by trees. Damnit he hated be short! And way too many people are staring from their homes, the street, and the park itself for him to phase away.

At least the sleuth is outrunning the goose.

… actually that’s just infuriating the goose more. Enough that other geese have joined in and there’s just a fucking whole gaggle of geese now.

Wes slipping a bit away from Danny’s grave, effectively tossing Danny at the hole, before scrambling over and starting to throw fist fulls of dirt at a still flailing Danny. “You want to haunt this town! Then you can ROT PROPERLY!”.

Danny shoving his hands out and grabbing the jerks wrist, yanking the kid into the grave with him, “HA! THOU ART VANQUISHED! WRETCHED CORPSE SNATCHER! FOUL DIGGER OF BONES!”.

The two stilling as the geese surround the hole in the ground, both promptly pointing at the other, “he did it!”. While all the geese’s eyes glare red down at them like tiny, pissed off demons; murderous ducks on meth.

“Hey!”.

“Fuck you!”.

The geese honk angrily down at them, the boys both start screaming angrily right back and mock honking at them. One of the geese picks up a shovel and just starts swinging it around in its mouth like a nunchuck.

Then the ground tingles, or Danny can feel it tingle. Him looking down slowly while Wes keeps honking, fuck him entirely. Guess corpse of a halfa plus a grave plus an actual halfa plus Amity Park’s high level of free floating ectoplasm equaled ghost portal.

Weeeeee.

FUN.

Danny shouting, “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”, as the two boys fall down through the portal. Geese honking pure violence and diving in after. They had been actively safer huddling in a grave. Both boys just screaming incoherently while Danny transforms, holding onto Wes’s wrists, and flying off to flee the geese gaggle.

There are many things Danny chooses not to question. His own biology. Vlad’s weird thing for the Packers. What UnderGrowth sees in Sam. Tucker’s opinion of anything to do with furries. Nocturne’s current interest in making drugs. His folks deciding giving the town public access to a trebuchet, which is a choice he’s officially rating H for HONK. Another thing he’s choosing not to question is way multiple boarder-line incomprehensible ghosts that look to be amalgamations of foxes, coyotes, eagles, owls, and humans, start trying to assault the geese.

Fox claws are throttling goose necks. Geese are tearing out eyes. An owl beak flings a goose around by the leg while its tongue flails around wildly. A goose smacks another goose with its head accidentally and gets nearly pecked to death. A human hand is on fire and seemingly trying to make deep fried geese. A goose smashes the shovel on a coyote nose. One amalgamation is spinning in circles with multiple geese bitting onto It, like a fucked up beyblade.

Danny shouting, “apparently when you catapult a CORPSE at a goose and drag it to the zone! It sends a COSMIC RSVP to EVERY ELDRITCH ABOMINATION in a FIFTY-MILE RADIUS!”.

“GET US BACK HOME! YOU SPOOKY BASTARD!”.

“YOU OWE ME ONE CORPSE AS PAYMENT!”.

“I’M NOT GIVING YOU BACK YOUR CORPSE! I NEED THAT AS PROOF! IT’S MINE!”.

“OH SO NOW ITS YOUR CORPSE! I SEE HOW IT IS! YOU ONLY WANT ME FOR MY BODY!”.

“SO YOU ADMIT IT!”.

“I ADMIT NOTHING!”.

Both of them shrieking, Danny flying faster, when Walker is just suddenly there and looming over them, “HOW DID YOU BREAK GEESE LAW! MULTIPLE MIGRATORY BIRD ACTS! THOSE FEATHERED FIENDS ARE BARRED FROM THESE LANDS!”.

Danny shouting at Wes, “DO YOU KNOW BIRD LAW LOOPHOLES!?!”.

“WHY WOULD I KNOW THAT!”.

“YOU KNOW LOTS OF DUMB SHIT! BIRD LAW IS DUMB SHIT!”.

Waller snarling, “I HEARD THAT! DO NOT INSULT THE LAW! PUNKS!”.

Danny dives for the first portal he can see, desperately hoping and willing it to just goddamn take him back to goddamn Amity goddamn Park!

… and it does? Weird?

The two boys slamming onto the ground, Danny making a point to change back, him groaning, “you still owe me a corpse”.

Wes wheezing, “it ain’t gonna be yours”.

They still as a foreboding honk sounds, the two lifting their heads slowly.

There’s a goose. One lone goose.

It has Danny’s corpse’s neck in Its mouth and rage in Its eyes.

It cranes Its head back, flopping the corpse backwards slapping on the ground behind the goose, then snaps Its neck forwards, proceeding to smash the two boys with the corpse. Over and over again. Danny and Wes just cover their heads and cry.

A plaque gets added to the Fenton Trebuchet within the day, asking everyone to please refrain from using it to launch corpses through the skies of Amity Park. That, of course, resulted in on particular corpse getting launched through the air repeatedly. The corpse acquired tapped on sunglasses and a goose-themed Hawaiian shirt, it was now named Denny.

Wes was pissed.

And Danny? Danny had decided that that day was, in fact, a really fucking good day.

End.

Prompts: Wes has always been trying to prove Danny Fenton is their town hero, and now he finally has the proof. A burial site in the park. Danny didn't think his parents' inventions could possibly get more dangerous... But that was before they introduced the Fenton Trebuchet. There's a shallow grave in the woods. The only marker is a stone with the name "Danny" scratched into it. It's empty, but it hasn't been empty for long. There is a goose LOOSE in the Ghost Zone.

#phandom #danny phantom #fanfic #phic phight #danny fenton #phantomphangphucker #have a fic suck my dick #my writing #wes #poor wes #geese #crack #chaos #gothmoth #things you should not do with corpses

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