#it was as big as me and it had sand in the paws so it would whack me when i turned to fast

[sntoot]

twin mimir (say goodniiiiight)

[twst-drabbles]

Jamil 16

Summary: You eating the food he makes is one step among many. Jamil will admit, it’s nice, very nice, to see you eating his food, with his spoon, in your mouth.

(Here’s creepy yandere Jamil! One of those seemingly sweet things that gets real weird real quick.)

Jamil had a dream last night. A nice and, quiet frankly, fluffy dream. He was in a house on a beautiful oasis, where the scents of sand and fresh water flow through on the crisp morning breeze. The plants were watered and all sorts of fresh fruits, vegetables, herbs and spices were delivered right on his doorstep by a humble servant.

The only tasks he had that day were to make the morning meal. A meal for himself and a meal for you to enjoy.

You were there, living with him, sitting up on a chair even though he’s already told you to put your feet down. You were reading a book, but it was too blurry to tell what the title was. Not that it was of any importance, you can do whatever you want here. It’s your house as well as his.

Your little slice of paradise, away from the troubles of being a student, and away from being a servant. You have abandoned your love for you home and have chosen him. There is no one to visit you, and no one to look for him. You two are well and truly alone, allowed to be only yourselves.

And so Jamil made a meal, curry made to your exact taste. The plate was hot, steaming actually, but his pride in his cooking was overtaken by that beautiful smile you gave and a ‘thank you’ that was too muted to hear.

It was frustrating when Jamil woke up from that dream that morning. You had that spoon in your hand and the food was almost in your mouth. Jamil wasn’t asleep long enough to see it.

So, of course he had to make that food. Had to make an extra meal because if he doesn’t, Jamil knows he’ll be awake for way too long, shifting around in him bed in frustration.

He even chose his favorite spoon to go with it, as meticulous as that is. He couldn’t help it, too big a spoon and it would warp the shape of your mouth oddly, and would make eating uncomfortable.

And finally, lunch time rolled around. Jamil couldn’t very well excuse himself from Kalim’s side, so he had to grit his teeth and let him follow as he made his way to you on the lunch table.

“Hey–” Kalim’s eyes caught yours first, and Jamil had to redirect that attention lest he drag it out and leave Jamil with a cold meal in his hands.

“Kalim, I think that cat over there needs help eating,” and that wasn’t a lie, Grim was trying to use a knife and fork but can’t on the account of having paws.

“Huh? Oh! Grim! Here, let me help you with that!” Kalim took the bait, because of course he would.

“What? No! I can do it myself!” But Grim had no choice, not when Kalim was focused on his goal.

Jamil approached you, finally with no obstacles in the way. Except…

“…you’re already eating.” Honestly, he should’ve expected it, but in that fantasy high he was caught up in, that basic outcome didn’t have room to enter his mind.

“Hmm? Oh yeah, why?” You blinked and took another bite.

“Well, I made too much food, so I was coming over here to give you the left overs,” He has to play it cool, calm himself down, and not let himself get angry at the fact you’re already eating something. It’s just food and you like what you like. Besides, you could always eat it later, right? “Though, I suppose I should just give it you later?”

“Oh that’s fine, give it here.”

Jamil almost felt himself break into a stupid little smile when you put everything down and reached out to him. That’s nice to know, that he’s more worthy of attention then the plate in front of you, that his food was worth it.

“Well, here you go then, it’s just curry, nothing too complicated.”

“Wow, it’s still hot,” you put the container down next to your plate. You opened it and whistled at the steam that escaped, “that’s a strong smell there.”

You picked at your spoon and a… petty part of Jamil had to point out, “There’s already a spoon in there, in that little space, wrapped in cloth. I don’t like the thought of cross-contamination.”

Ah, that was too strong a word wasn’t it? Did he mess up already, implying that the food of others was… tainted in some way?

You raised at eyebrow at him and Jamil gritted his molars.

“It’s just food, man,” you frowned–Jamil sucked in air–and you picked up his spoon anyway, “But alrighty, you picky fuck.”

The spoon wasn’t even anything that special, it was just one that Jamil uses often. The handle had curling grooves in it, fancier than the average spoon because anything that’s going to potentially touch Kalim must be anything but normal. But, what Jamil liked the most was the gentle head, not quiet oval, more round in shape. A simple silver spoon, subtly fancy, and has lasted Jamil longer then he would imagine it would.

It was a spoon he sneaked into the general silverware from his home, just a little thing that he did in a fit of rebellion that he couldn’t outright express to any listening ears and watching eyes.

He stood there, watching, and Jamil nearly bit through his lips when you finally scooped his curry in your mouth.

“Mm!” A pleasant hum of a delicious dish landing on your tongue. “Hey, thanks Jamil! Tastes great.”

Alright, alright, maybe he can push this. Maybe he can… suggest something.

“Then, would you like some for tomorrow as well?” Okay, his voice almost stuttered from the pure euphoria flooding through his body, but he can handle this. He can make himself not look like a happy fool.

“Tomorrow? Well I do like free food, so yeah.” Jamil has never been so glad for that light selfish nature of yours.

Jamil can’t believe how happy just this one step makes him. You’ve tried his food and loved it! And, if things go right, perhaps you’ll end up missing his food, and, one day, maybe you’ll be unable to eat any other dish besides his own.

But Jamil’s getting ahead of himself. He needs to be patient. This is just one step and he has many others to go.

“Then, I’ll be sure to surprise you. I look forward to it.”

[lisenberry]

Ngl I feel like price has a size kink… he loves how big his hands look splayed across your waist. His hand completely encompassing the nape of your neck!!!! Don’t get me started on how tight you feel around his thick fingers….

I apologize. That sound you heard was my brain screeching to a halt and coherent thought leaving me for a few days as I pictured John's hand on your hip. 

Nsfw. Smutty smut smut. Bossy, handsy Price.

His fingers gripped you dead center, just above your pubic bone.  His thumb circled around to graze the opposite polarity.  Massaging deep circles where your ass met your spine.

You'd never thought of yourself as small.  No one ever called you 'little' or commented that you would fit so nicely over their knee.  Not until him.

Not until you watched from the mirror above the cold, stainless steel sink as his other massive paw circled your neck.  He made you feel like a doll.  A toy.  A mouse trapped in the jaws of a great beast.

"Just for me, aren't you?"  He raked teeth and stubble along your cheek.  "I need one more."

"No, I c--can't.  Not again."

You were boneless now, even more pliable under his strength.  The hand at your neck trailed lower, and your head rolled back against his shoulder without its support.

"Can't?  Of course, you can.  I've got you."

It didn't stop, only paused to cup your breast.  There was a primal hitch in his breath as he admired the way he could cover it all.  A stiff, darkened peak notched between his knuckles as he gave it a squeeze.

So small and yet he looked at it like it gave him purpose.

He was big enough to swallow the moon.  Eclipse the sun.  Envelope you into darkness.  Nothing but the stars bursting behind your eyelids as his palm slunk lower.

As stealthily as an avalanche of rocks and sand.  Abrading and disrupting everything in its path until it settled down to the core of you.

"Please."  You whispered, whimpered, on some foreign tongue that felt too big, to thick, to be yours. 

It's because he was in your mouth.  Lips against yours.  Skin on your skin.  Body against yours from behind.

You felt the root of him buldge on the other side of layers of fabric.  Yours and his.  You weren't even naked.  Military issued canvas and cotton stood between you.

But he still had his hands.  His fingers.  His tongue.

The grip you had on the sink felt strong enough to leave marks.  Dents.  Tiny little divots like prints in the snow.

"Open up, darling.  If you ever hope to fit the real thing, you still need some practice."

He found you wet, a small accommodation as you muttered a silent thanks to your nature.  Your heart desired him, and your body did its best to oblige.

"I want it.  Let me feel it." 

"Next time, love.  Show me how good you can be."

His long, thick fingers disappeared three at a time, to the gnarled and swollen knuckles before your hazy eyes in the mirror. 

The cry that slipped from your lips would wake up the others if you weren't careful.  The reverant moan from his could conjure magic.  Gods and monsters.  Things best let lie dormant.

He liked it like this.  Where you both could see in the stark, fluorescent reflection.  The dark hair of his hand reemerging from your depths silky and dripping with slick.

It was the barrier that left you both satisfied as he circled those same fingers and curled them inside, tormenting your most vulnerable weakness.  The heart of you.

He felt on top of the world.  And you were his puppet on a string.  Brought to life.

[folkwhoredoll]

golden retriever - rafe cameron x fem!reader

pairing: rafe cameron x fem!reader

synopsis: when your dog runs off to approach rafe

word count: 0.8k

warnings/tags: fluff (i used the name "finn" because that's the name of my dog irl but feel free to change it😊)

masterlist

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The waves lapped gently at the shore as you walked along the beach, the familiar sound of Finn's paws pattering beside you bringing a sense of peace. It was a beautiful evening, the sun beginning to set, casting a soft, golden hue across the water. The gentle breeze tugged at your hair, and you smiled as you looked down at Finn, your golden retriever, who seemed just as content as you.

But that peace didn’t last long.

Out of nowhere, Finn’s ears perked up, and before you could react, he bolted. His leash slipped from your hand as his strong body charged forward, and you stumbled backward, momentarily stunned by the sudden burst of energy.

“Finn! No!” you called, panic rising in your chest as you sprinted after him. Your heart pounded in your ears as you struggled to keep up with his large frame darting down the beach.

Of course, Finn was fast—too fast. He wove through the sand, his fur shining like liquid gold under the dimming sun, clearly set on reaching something you couldn't see. Your legs burned from the effort, and your breath came in short gasps. He was heading straight toward a figure standing near a boat docked not far away.

You froze when you realized who it was.

Rafe Cameron.

Of all people, why him? You'd heard enough about his reputation to know that approaching him wasn't exactly on your to-do list.

Before you could even think of a way to stop the disaster unfolding, Finn was already upon him, tail wagging like crazy. But what surprised you even more was how Rafe reacted. He didn’t flinch or seem irritated as Finn skidded to a stop, practically bumping into him. Instead, he crouched down and gave your dog a firm pat on the head, his expression surprisingly calm.

"Easy there, big guy," Rafe muttered, scratching behind Finn’s ears.

You finally caught up, your breath ragged as you stopped in front of them, panting and wide-eyed. "Finn! Oh my God, I'm so sorry—he's usually not like this, I swear."

Your heart was still pounding, not just from the run but from the sight in front of you: Rafe Cameron, notorious for his cold demeanor, standing casually with your runaway golden retriever as if they were old pals. Finn was calm now, his big, goofy grin aimed up at Rafe, tongue hanging out in utter contentment.

Rafe’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for a split second, something softened in his gaze. His lips curled into the faintest of smirks, though he kept his voice even. "It’s fine. Looks like he likes me."

You were caught off guard by how casual he sounded, like it wasn’t the first time he’d had a giant, excitable dog run full-speed at him. "Yeah, he… he doesn’t usually do that," you managed, still trying to catch your breath. You knelt down beside Finn, gripping his leash as if that could somehow ground you in this strange moment.

You couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. Rafe’s reputation wasn’t exactly pristine, and while you didn’t know him personally, you had heard enough to make your stomach flip with a mix of caution and curiosity. But standing here now, watching him scratch Finn behind the ears with that half-smirk on his face, he didn’t seem dangerous. Just… quiet.

"Well, he’s got good taste," Rafe said, his voice low but teasing. His blue eyes lingered on you for a second longer than you expected, sending a strange flutter through your chest.

You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks. Was that a compliment? "Uh, thanks," you stammered, feeling oddly out of place. You tugged at Finn’s leash, trying to focus. "I should, um, I should probably go. Sorry again for, you know, the…dog situation."

Rafe straightened up, brushing some sand off his hands. His expression was neutral now, but there was something unreadable in his eyes. "No problem," he replied simply, though the corners of his mouth twitched, like he was holding back another smirk. "Try to keep him on a tighter leash next time."

You bit your lip, unsure whether to laugh or be embarrassed, but you nodded. "Yeah, I’ll do that." You gave Finn’s leash a gentle tug, urging him to follow you away from the beach and away from Rafe Cameron, who now stood watching you with that same unreadable look.

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but glance back over your shoulder, half-expecting him to be gone. But Rafe was still there, his hands now in his pockets, gazing out at the horizon. Something about that moment—the golden sunset, the quiet between you—stuck with you as you made your way down the beach, Finn trotting obediently beside you.

You weren’t sure why your heart was still racing.

[its-not-a-pen]

-ttou illustration 2 wip- lmao im missing big chunks of video because i keep forgetting to press record XD. i like to test concepts in real time, so i'll draw multiple versions of something and change it/keep it if it looks good. you can see me redrawing aspen's arm four times in the video. i like the sponanious quality, the only downside is all this playing around eats up a TON of storage (i had to offload my ENTIRE sketchbook just to download this vid lol).

references:

the anatomical drawings of nunzio paci, flayed bodies sprout leaves and flowers in a way that's both serene and macarbre

various pictures of spaceshuttles and the ISS. the wires and tightly packed cubicles remind me of cells and arteries.

Aspen's head caving in is inspired by the Sandman's rebirth from Rami Spiderman 3. there's something incredibly primorial about the way he rises from the sands, collapsing and reforming, the way his hands grow from stubby paws into fully formed fingers, it's like watching evolution in real time. i thought it would be pretty fitting thing to include, what with the whole humanity fighting for surival thing.

[gunthermunch]

[Transcript under the cut]

WG: hi Gunther: hi uh- sorry if i woke you up or something. i felt like calling. i don't know. WG: nah i was just… hanging. what's up? Gunther: ah uh- well. we're cutting our honeymoon short. Lilith had one of those really bad nightmares yesterday and she insists on going back with the kids. WG: seriously? it's not even been a whole week yet Gunther: it's that bad. i've never seen her this alarmed before Gunther: so uh- yeah. make sure to get Garrett from Caleb's before tomorrow night? please? she really needs the kids around. WG: yeah yeah. ahah. Bluma's gonna hate that Gunther: speaking of, i'm standing in the shore in my underwear because i want a starfish or something colorful and or shiny for said little lady. the sand feels horrible in my feet, i have to add. Gunther: how is she? WG: oh yeah. it's disgusting. WG: and she's doing excellent. Everything's excellent in fact; Bluma made a friend and Garry's first steps were right in front of me Gunther: …i'd need you to be more specific before i yell WG: i'm half joking. The house you and grandpa got includes a big freaking haunted maze, you geniuses. Gunther: what. WG: okay. I'll make a sum up. Gunther: i'd prefer all the details

WG: so are these forever or…? Caleb: oh no, nonono. well. not unless he learns or wants to control his mind controlling powers. Morgyn: if you ask me it' be fantastic to just glue those sunglasses on him WG: are you kidding? Garry's sick little powers could make us RICH Morgyn: and how exactly you plan on doing that? WG: dunno. infant robbery? i'm sure he'd love that Morgyn: my godness.

Bluma: the world has gone insane! all crazy! why'd they bring Garry back?! Bluma: not fair… and you! Jojo! Jojo why won't you sleep in the bed i made for your little body! Jojo: meow Bluma: i even gave you your own light because you've been on that basement for so long you must be scared of the dark! Jojo: mrow… Bluma: your- did your last owner let you sleep on his bed? is that why you don't like yours? Bluma: …what happened to them anyways? i saw the picture. Bluma: wish your kitty paws knew how to write… but i can't even read well either Gunther: hello my little flower Bluma: papa!!! Bluma: dad i missed you so much! so many things happened i really wanted you to see! Gunther: i know darling your uncle told me everything Bluma: all of it? Gunther: in big detail, yes. Even about your Jojo Gunther: how's he not dead? Bluma: dunno! Gunther: we need to get him checked in every way possible. The basement too, good lord. Garlic down there? Bluma: and ghosts! my kitty radio the Goth lady made spirit-y played a lot of music on it's own! Gunther: oh god Bluma: yes!! Gunther: now what are YOU so excited about Bluma: daaad!!! Gunther: …Bluma darling, there's something we need to talk about.

[specialagentlokitty]

Paul Lahote x reader - Princess if the seas

Hello! Could I request a Paul Lahote x daughter of Poseidon!reader where she's Paul's imprint but he doesn't know she's a demigod until the pack is attacked by gorgons or smth? (Yes I know that they are cliches but my heart loves pjo crossovers😭) i don't know if i said it before but i was the one who requested the pjoxmarvel crossover before and you absolutely just delivered 💕💕💕💕 - Anon 💜

You had told your boyfriend you had to his way from family business, and you weren’t lying to him, this was family business.

A request from your father in fact, to clear the creature out.

You stood tall and proud, swinging the sword in your hand as you wiped some blood with the back of your hand as you looked at the creature in front of you.

“You’re a long way from home my friend, let me send you back down.” You growled.

The Minotaur growled, digging it’s feet into the sand at you drew a small breath, holding your sword horizontally in front of you.

You didn’t know the werewolves that were stood on the cliff above, going to go some scouting when they heard the commotion.

The creature charged at you and you ran, jumping into the air, you jumped on to a small wave of water, throwing yourself in the air as you dodged the attack.

Being big, the creature stumbled and fell over, and you landed on the sand.

You went to attack, but a howl stopped you and you looked up.

“PAUL NO!” You screamed.

In your distracted state, the Minotaur used this as its chance and it charged, throwing you back with the back of its hand.

You slammed into the cliff base, wind leaving your lungs as you chocked, and you fell to your knees.

You gasped for air, hand over your chest as you heaved, and the monster charged again and you barely managed to dodge it.

Behind it you saw the pack of the wolves you held up your hand.

“Get out of here!” You yelled.

Paul looked at you and looked to Sam who was warning him to stay back, and he did, but seeing you in pain he couldn’t bare it.

He growled, digging his paws into the ground.

He had to listen to his alpha, he had no choice in the matter, no matter how he wanted to charge to you, help you, there was no refusing the order from his leader.

The Minotaur turned to the wolves, seeing them as new targets to attack and it pulled itself up, stumbling a few steps as it got ready to charge at them.

You stared at them in pure horror.

Your boyfriend, your friends.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, the monster charged and you gripped your sword tightly in your hand, raising your arm, you threw it with all your might.

It lodged itself into the monsters back, and it roared, shaking the very ground as it turned to you.

You ignored the blinding pain and pushed yourself to your feet.

Paul watched you carefully, watching as you pulled yourself to your feet, his ears flattened as he whined, hearing your pained cry.

You stood up and started to limp forward, holding your hand, the waves of the ocean creeping closer towards you.

They surged under your feet, slowly making their way around your body, and slowly healed the wounds your body held.

“Leave me and my friends alone.” You snarled.

Paul had never seen this side of you.

He’d always seen you so loving, gentle, caring.

Never had he seen such rage, pure untamed anger flowing through somebody.

You put your hand into your pocket, pulling your a coin you flipped it into the air, and you caught the sword by its hilt.

The water built up under your feet, raising you in the air.

“Heed my warning, you and all the monsters in Tartarus I will be sure to kill each and every one of you!” You roared.

Bringing your sword down, you stabbed the monster in the neck and you let go of your sword, watching as it’s body fell to the floor.

You panted heavily, the pain getting to you, but you looked to the werewolves.

Paul started back as your eyes met his, and he looked to Sam who gave a small nod of his head.

Paul crept forward, cautiously going around the dead monster as he transformed back and walked over to where you were now standing on the sand.

“What.. I don’t…”

You looked at him, hand on your chest and you turned to the ocean, slowly making your way back but you fell to your knees, coughing up so blood.

“(Y/N)!”

Paul rushed over, picking you up and he looked confused.

“The.. the water…” you coughed out.

He nodded, running to the ocean, once he was waist deep he gently laid you in the water, his arms holding you up.

He watched as the water crawled up your skin, surrounding the cuts and bruising.

You started up at Paul, your hand lightly touching his cheek, brushing against his skin as you smiled softly up at him.

“What are you…?” He asked.

Sure, when he imprinted on you he saw the future, he saw glimpses of his life with you, he saw things he wasn’t able to explain.

But nothing about him was normal either.

You moved from his arms, standing on your feet, the water coming up to your shoulders and you reached up, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Do you trust me…?”

He nodded his head.

Of course he trusted you.

You nodded and took his hand, leading him back to the shore and you looked at him before turning to the water.

Taking a deep breath, you looked at you hand.

“I’m a demigod Paul, princess of the oceans, ruler of the underwater world.” You said.

He furrowed his brows and you looked to him.

“Just watch.”

You started to explain everything to him and he watched as you put your hands together and slowly moved them apart.

The water at your feet started to part, and slowly the whole ocean began to part, large waves rising up.

Paul started in pure shock and looked to you in amazement.

You lowered your hand and the water came crashing down.

You turned to look at him.

“I never thought I’d even live this far if I’m being honest, it’s a dangerous life.”

“No more dangerous than fighting vampires.” He said.

You smiled and shook your head.

“I suppose not.”

Paul leant down, kissing you softly and you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him back with a smile on your face.

You didn’t know the ins and outs of the werewolves or the pack so now he knew about you, maybe it would make it easier for you both to explain your situations to one another

[kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay]

Best Friends on paper 📮

Summary: You've been matched up with a pen pal through a website, but what is merely an outlet for you and a confidant to tell your secrets to, is something completely different for him.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!Reader (hinted at short!Reader too)

(No use of descriptive words for Reader's appearance. If you do stumble across one, please let me know and I'll immediately find a more inclusive alternative)

Warnings: 18+, non-con (touching, fingering), kidnapping of sorts, deranged Steve Rogers, manipulation, forced relationship, obsession and obsessive baheviour

Word count: 2k

Author's note: My second entry for @the-slumberparty's BINGO challenge! The squares I filled this time are "Pen pals", "Campfire", "Beach day" and "Brainwashing"

We love us some deranged, obsessed Steve Rogers and when I read the Pen Pal square, I knew we needed Mister Old-fashioned to make an appearance! Have fun reading this one ;D

...

“You said you loved me. You did. Stop struggling,” Steve grunts into you ear, his hand firmly planted over your mouth as he drags your flailing form further away from your group of friends.

Your kicking and muffled protests don't deter him, his hulking frame dwarfing yours easily, allowing him to effortlessly man-handle you as he pleases.

“Shhh, sweetheart. It's just me, just Steve. I'm your friend, remember?” the man husks, his hot breath dampening the back of your neck.

Your shake your head as best as you can, your mind spinning with the disorientating events crashing down on your.

“You're not my friend,” you try to say, but it only comes out as stifled mumbling from behind the gigantic paw covering up half your face to keep you quiet.

This isn't Steve, it can't be. Steve is nice, sweet. He'd been matched to you on a random pen pal website you signed up on out of boredom, the two of you hitting it off quickly and building a nice bond through the letters you sent each other regularly.

It's a little old-timey, but you enjoyed writing Steve letters. He even included a picture of himself in one of them and you did the same in return.

But this brute behind you, that is not the man from the picture.

Steve is short, a little skinny, and his hair has a pretty shade of blond and his smile is infectious.

The man stealing you away from the roaring fire burning by the shore, your friends still scattered around it in small groups, is not short or skinny.

He is dragging your jerking body through the sand, your feet uselessly slipping on the little grains of sand while you watch the camp fire grow smaller, the flickering flames no longer illuminating the ground around you, its warmth too far to comfort you.

Before you know what is happening, you're hauled up a slippery dune, now finally out of sight for all your friends or any by-passers as you're shoved down the other side.

There, in between dunes and bushes, sits a picnic blanket, small lanterns standing on two corners of it that light up the space.

“It's me, Steve. I did all this for you. You always said you wanted to have a picnic by the beach and spend the night outside looking at the stars. I remember it. You said it in one of your first letters you sent to me,” the man babbles, his tone so urgent he sounds almost possessed.

His words are what concerns you though, not how he says them. Because it's the truth. You'd told your pen pal Steve about wanting to spend a night at the beach to watch the stars, had laid out the whole romantic fantasy you dreamed of on lonely nights.

You reach the blanket and the hand on your face loosens. You're spun around to face your kidnapper and when you instinctively lift your head to stare up at the man's face, your heart sinks.

“Hi, sweetheart. I knew you'd recognise me,” Steve says with a wide smile, his white teeth glinting in the low light of the lanterns around you.

You're petrified. This man does look like Steve. But he's bigger, stronger. And this big, scary man knows all your deepest secrets and desires.

You've told Steve everything, because what could be the harm in it? He's always been states away, just a picture you keep in your desk drawer and ink-soaked pieces of paper. You never thought there would be any harm in confiding in him.

Well, you were wrong.

“You- You..” stammer and stare up at him. “You look different.”

Steve grins and shrugs as if he didn't look like he could easily break you in half as opposed to the skinny boy he's sent you a picture of.

“You too. Better, so much better in person. God, you're beautiful. Come here,” he says and without warning moves his hands from your arms where he was holding you still to your face and swoops in for a forceful kiss.

You let out a startled sound and jerk your hands up to push at him, but he doesn't budge, hips lips firmly pressed to yours, tongue poking at them as he tries to gain entrance.

Your muffled protests make him stop eventually, his face pulled into a frown as he pulls his head away to peer down at you.

“What is wrong? You said you loved me, sweetheart. I came all the way to surprise you, I prepared this night. It needs to be perfect, so play along! It's your fantasy after all,” he says, an edge to his voice as he scowls down at you.

“I- I... Steve, I don't love you, I don't even know you, I-”

“Stop! You know me, we've been writing letters for months. I know what you like and what you dream of for your future. I know your favourite food and colour. I said I love you and you said it back! You wrote it in our letters, you did!” Steve shouts, his face reddening with agitation.

You take a step back, now positively terrified of the deranged man before you. How could he be the same person who's been writing you fro almost a year now?

“Sit down, come on, sit. We're going to enjoy this night, I made it perfect for you,” he says, quieter now, but still obviously displeased by your resistance.

Not daring to disobey and upset this crazy man, you let Steve push you down on the blanket. He sits down next to you and then forces you to recline into a laying position. He lies down as well and then grabs your hand, his fingers forcing your clenched ones apart to hold them.

You lie there, heart beating wildly and wide eyes staring at the night sky, the stars twinkling back at you as they watch the situation unfold.

“Isn't this nice? Good thing the sky is clear. I've been waiting for the weather to clear up and tonight is just perfect for our first night together. The first of many,” Steve swoons beside you, his deep voice floating around you.

Your hand hangs limply in his as you try to get a grip on your situation.

All you wanted was to spend a day at the beach with your friends. You had brought food and snacks for the whole day and enough wood to keep your camp fire going through the night.

But that is forgotten now, your friends too far away to help or hear you and this psycho beside you instead of someone else, someone you knew.

“You're so beautiful, baby. I looked at your picture every day, wondering how soft your skin would be under my fingertips, what you would smell like, taste like...” Steve rumbles beside you, his head turned to look at you, warm breath ghosting over your cheek.

You swallow, stiff as a board and terrified of the meaning of his words.

“Will you let me find out, sweetheart? You will, won't you? I know you want to,” he says, his hand letting go of yours as he shifts up onto his elbow to stare down at you.

When you don't answer, too scared to say no and not wanting to say yes, he lets out a huff.

“Playing hard to get? Let me convince you...”

You don't have time to react, Steve's frame moving with a speed that should be impossible for someone so big, slotting between your legs with a shove of his hips.

He widens his thighs as he kneels between yours, pushing them further apart when you jerk away and try to close them.

“No! Steve, stop. No, no, no-” You start to chant, hands slapping at every bit of him that you can reach as some sort of survival instinct kicks in.

“Stop pretending you don't want this! I know everything about you, you told me. I know you want this, I know, I know, I know,” he barks, repeating himself over and over as if he's trying to convince you.

Grabbing your flailing hands in one of his, he gets to work on ripping off your swim clothes, the thin fabric stretching and ripping underneath his violent hand until it's gone and your body is bared to his eyes.

“Pleeease, no,” you sob out, legs kicking on either side of his, hands fighting in his grip to cover yourself, but he doesn't budge.

“Shhhh, you'll like it, sweetheart. I'm good at this, I promise,” he shushes you, his words of affirmation doing nothing to quell the horror and shame of being naked and at the mercy of this lunatic.

You squeak when he reaches down and easily finds your clit, spit-wet finger getting to work and drawing tight circles around the little nub while you squirm and whine beneath him.

But there's no getting away and you have no choice but to endure his patient rubbing and circling, forced to witness your body's surrender that comes in the form of thick slick collecting at your entrance.

Shame boils hot in your gut and when Steve lets go of your hands in favour of kneading your breasts, you hide behind your sweaty palms. You can't look at him, you won't.

“There we go, your body knows what you need, baby. Look at that pretty little pussy getting nice and wet for me,” Steve mumbles appraisingly, finger abandoning your clit in favour of exploring further down.

He pushes one thick finger inside your pussy, the digit easily slipping in. It's quickly followed by another and he twists his hand to rest the heel of it on your clit.

“So tight, hmm. Made for me,” Steve mumbles to himself, eyes fixated on where he's sinking his digits into you.

He starts fingering you, fingers pushing in and out of you, his hand grinding into your clit harder and harder the faster he goes.

You can't hide the noises he pulls from you, wet squelching and helpless moans alike ringing out around you.

The familiar hot tension in your gut rises and your hands slap down on the blanket beside you, fingers fisting the fabric when Steve angles his fingers just so, rubbing that spot inside you that sends tingles of pleasure shooting down your legs and up your back.

“Come on, come for me. I know you need it, your little pussy is clenching down on my big fingers. Feels good, doesn't it?” he eggs you on, hand speeding up and finally tipping you over that edge.

“There we go, yes! Good girl,” Steve exclaims triumphantly as he works you through your orgasm, watching your trembling limbs with a deranged kind of satisfaction.

He pulls his fingers out of you with a wet sound and lifts them to his mouth. You watch through half-lidded eyes how he opens his mouth and sucks your slick from his fingers with a pleasured moan, his own eyes falling shut.

“Knew you'd taste good, baby. So good. I need more, baby. I'm sorry, I can't help it, I just need more,” he rambles, hastily shifting between your limp legs until his face is level with your sensitive pussy, slick still leaking from the twitching opening.

“Just a taste...” he grunts before sticking out his tongue and dragging it across the length of your cunt with an obscene moan.

You jerk away when he touches your clit, but his hands swiftly wrap around your thighs, keeping your core anchored to his face.

Whines and breathless gasps escape you as you writhe in his hold, your head growing foggy with the pleasure forced on you.

When your second orgasm rushes through you in a shuddering wave and Steve keeps going on, you limply resign yourself to a long night of forced pleasure. With him, there's no getting away.

Never.

After all, he knows everything about you.

...

There we go, he's got her in his clutches now-

Here's my updated Bingo card!

[sanjoongie]

𝙵𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚏 & 𝙽𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚣

🐍Pairing: Snake Familiar! Seonghwa x Witch! Reader (f) x Cat Familiar! San

🐈‍⬛️Genre: Fluff, angst, adventure

💧Au: witch au, supernatural au, fantasy au, familiars au, shapeshifter au, magical au

🐍Trope: savior love

🐈‍⬛️Rating: PG-13, MDNI

💧Warnings: mentions of familiars bonded against their will, escaping from an oppressed warlock, magical abuse

🐍Word Count: 2,147

🐈‍⬛️Summary: when a seemingly random cat and snake show up at your front door, you're pulled into a whirlwind story that poses you as the hero for the two

💧A/N: to my dearest Haru @stardragongalaxy. I hope your birthday can be a good one. You are my strength when I am feeling down. That's apparent with this tiny plot bunny that's been alive between us for almost a year now. Floof and Noodz have always been there to comfort me and that's because of you. I'm finally breathing some life into that story so that we can both share in the comfort of them. Happy Birthday!

You stepped out of your humble cottage by the sea and breathed in deeply of the salty air. You stretched for a moment, enjoying the tranquil morning before heading towards your tide pool. Inside was coral, kelp and mini sea creatures. You frowned when you saw your seahorse in the top right quadrant. Why did your tidepool project that you were going on an adventure when the most you planned to do was shuck some mollusks?

Then you saw the most peculiar thing while peering over the stone wall of your land. A very black cat was making its way over the black sand dunes surrounding your home. You thought perhaps he was lost but his path appeared very determined. Must be someone’s familiar out and about. You confirmed such when you spotted a pink collar around its neck. 

Satisfied that there was nothing wrong with the world, you went to your shed to acquire your sturdy boots and some strips of cloth to tie back your sleeves and skirts, and grabbed a basket you had weaved of dry grass. 

You made your way to the cliffs that always had a good amount of mussels clinging to the rock, swinging your basket and humming a pirate’s ditty under your breath. Thinking of how you also needed to resupply your storage cupboard of the pretty black mussel shells, you aimed to pick big ones, hoping that the insides provided for a good supper later as well. 

Oddly enough, the black cat you had spotted early chose a spot high above you on the rocks, watching you with dark eyes. You tipped your floppy hat in greeting and went back to your work. You found an awful lot of mussels, huge ones, a better haul than you had ever acquired and started to get suspicious. 

You stared at the black cat, unblinking and licking its paw, a little too casually. Every witch knew black cats were bad luck. You froze in alarm when the pink collar around the cat’s neck began to move but that’s when you realized that it wasn’t a collar. In fact, it was a tiny pink snake that had wound itself safely and securely around the cat’s neck. It slithered until its small head was on top of the black cat’s, tongue slithering out, scenting the air around it.

Curious but well aware the pair were none of your business, you made your way back to your cottage. You worked on the outside water pump, luring fresh water to wash most of the salt water from the mussels you had gathered. You shrieked and fell on your ass when the same black cat from the rock’s was suddenly on top of your pump.

The black cat raised its hair and hissed back at you. “Well, that’s not a very nice hello,” You muttered under your breath. 

The snake and cat exchanged a look. Suddenly, with a poof of golden starred smoke, the black cat changed into a human. “You’re the one that screamed because of me,” the man pouted when he spoke.

The snake was still in snake form, around the black-cat-now-man’s neck still. He was dressed in a flowing white shirt and tight black pants but he didn’t like he was in the best of shape, the clothes quite shabby and bags under his eyes. His dark hair was long and he shook it out of his face. He sported a chain that connected from his ear to his lip, piercings in both parts there. He was quite handsome. You shook your head. That was besides the point. 

You brushed yourself off of sand as you stood up. “And you, sir, are on my land, without permission.”

The man stood a bit straighter at the formality. “Mistress Witch, with your permission, my companion and I are seeking refuge. Would you allow us a day and a night on your land and in your cottage? Allow us to break bread and drink merrily at your table?”

You sighed. It was a harmless but formal request. The fact that he had responded in kind to your language meant that he was definitely a familiar and knew of the laws that governed all the witches and warlocks. 

“A day and a night is granted,” You agreed. You sent a dirty look at your tide pool and you could have sworn your mini dolphin sassily flipped in the water in response. 

The black cat introduced himself as San and the snake was Seonghwa. San immediately hauled the collection of mussels inside, aiding in shucking them while you chattered about a few recipes you contemplated cooking them into. 

The silence lulled and your eyes were drawn to the sparkly eyes of the snake around San’s neck. “Will your companion be joining us?” You wondered.

San ran a fond finger over Seonghwa’s scales. “He’s…shy. He’ll probably stay in his snake form for our visit.”

Seonghwa raised his head off of San’s collarbone and flickered his tongue at you. Then he slithered down San’s shirt, into his sleeve, and stuck his head out from the cuff of San’s sleeve. His tongue flickered again and then he looked back at San.

“Seonghwa says you taste like good magic,” San supplied. 

You laughed abruptly. “Do I?”

San frowned, unsure if you were mocking him or not. “You could say we’re not used to that.”

You tilted your head. “Wait. You’re truly seeking safety? You weren’t just offering a formality?”

San scratched the back of his head, avoiding your gaze. “It’s just for a bit. We won’t inconvenience you longer than we agreed on.”

If San wasn’t going to supply the reason for needing safety, you weren’t going to pry. You’d had your fair share of people passing through. So you cooked up the mussels in a wonderful white wine and ate in companionable silence with San. You were about to wash up the dishes but San insisted on doing that too. He was quite polite for a guest. 

Then as day turned into evening, and there was only the snap and pop of the fire while you sat in front of it, you found yourself lulled into a sense of warmth by the fire and fell asleep. You woke up to shouting from San and it was not a nice way to wake up.

“Seonghwa! Stop eating that right now!” San protested.

You blinked your eyes clearly and found that Seonghwa was three quarters of the way through chomping down on your imbued narwhal horn that acted as your staff. You stood up quickly, magic sparkling from your fingertips. 

San stood in front of Seonghwa immediately to stop you. “Wait, I know how this looks!”

“Like I offered you safety stupidly and now you’re stealing my staff!” You growled.

At this point, there was simply the tip left to consume and you took a step forward. “Either he stops or I’m about to suck you both into such a strong, magical maelstrom you won’t know up from down.”

“He can’t stop once he’s started, I’m sorry,” San apologized, “We’ll help you replace your staff.”

You watched with a heavy heart as the pink snake finished consuming your staff and shrunk back to his teeny tiny size. Then he slithered up San’s leg and found his place back around San’s neck. You narrowed your eyes at the offending creature. 

“That staff has been passed down from generation to generation. I use it to push away big storms or to help wrecked ships! There’s no way--”

“There’s a warlock after us who is looking to suck away all our power for himself!” San shouted suddenly.

It took you a moment to process this information and still it didn’t quite hit home. “What?”

San sighed heavily and took a seat in one of your wonderfully constructed, ‘filled with sea-foam’ chairs. He wiggled until he was comfortable and then began. He spun a tale of how Seonghwa and he were powerful familiars. They had not bonded with any witch or warlock. Then one day they met a warlock with a charming grin. He introduced himself as Hongjoong. The warlock was indeed powerful, but with a familiar already. The hawk Hongjoong held on his arm was Yunho but he didn’t look good; his feathers weren’t healthy and Seonghwa sensed something wrong with the hawk. San and Seonghwa both declined to agree to a bond with Hongjoong but as it turned out, Hongjoong didn’t need them to agree. He was capable of twisting familiars to be his without an agreement. The two had been fleeing from Hongjoong since they fought with the warlock. 

“Is that why Seonghwa ate my staff?” You demanded tiredly.

San nodded. “I’m sorry. It was like an instinct for him. I had fallen asleep too after the yummy meal you made us.” He sent you an apologetic smile. 

You stood up, unable to sit down any longer with the energy inside of you. “I’ll have to cast a spell. Perhaps a magical fog to suppress your auras. That will keep you hidden for a bit, at least. But you’ll have to stay here.”

San frowned at you in confusion. “Why would you help us? Especially when Seonghwa just ate your staff?”

“I… I will not stand for anyone to be bullied,” You said adamantly, “This Hongjoong must be stopped.”

San raised his hand to run a reassuring finger down Seonghwa’s head but found that there was no snake around his neck. You both looked around in alarm but as it turned out, Seonghwa had slithered to your chair and was hovering on the arm of it. You inched your hand forward, pulling back when Seonghwa’s head reared back, but when you offered your hand palm up, Seonghwa slithered until he was coiled up in the palm of your hand. 

You brought him up to your face, still not pleased with your staff being eaten. “You, sir, are going to have to do a lot of apologizing.”

Seonghwa, whether in response or simply to taste if your magic was still good, flickered his tongue out at your nose, almost kissing it. “Seonghwa!” San scolded him.

You glanced towards San. “Did he… say anything?”

“He says the narwhal horn tasted yummy and he was wondering if you had more for him to eat,” San admitted.

You couldn't help but laugh despite the situation. You shook your finger at Seonghwa. “No more magical item consuming, please. If you want me to help you with Hongjoong, I’m going to need all the help I can get!”

You went outside, about to pass Seonghwa back to San but instead, the snake wound himself around your wrist instead. You lifted your eyebrows up at San but he shrugged, not sure what Seonghwa was intending. 

You raised your arms and called upon your powers to summon a fog that could cloak everything it touched. The fog appeared along your ankles and swirled around the sand until finally you couldn't see the sea or anything outside of the limits of your land. When you were done, you looked down to see Seonghwa was shining, iridescent and neon pink. You looked over to San, whose eyes were now shining a bright purple. You checked your inner well of magic and it was like you hadn't cast a very large spell at all.

“Did you help me?” You took a shot in the dark.

“It’s the least we could do,” San smiled, showing some dimpled cheeks. 

That night you slept in your hammock, hanging up a spare for San in the sunroom of your cottage. But when you woke up the next morning, from a tickle on your arm, you found that San had turned back into a cat and had curled up on your chest. You stretched for a yawn, holding San very carefully and depositing him into the hammock where he remained slumbering as a cat.

You moved into the kitchen and found a very tall, pink-haired man standing there. He turned around and shot a pink beam of magic at you, which you very quickly ducked out of the way. 

“Oh--no! I’m so sorry! That was instinct! I didn’t mean to harm you!” The large man’s eyes began to shake in worry. 

“At least I didn’t--” Your mouth shut when you saw the hole that was now in your fireplace. “Oh, Seonghwa.”

The black cat bound into the kitchen, meowing loudly and entwining around your ankles in comfort. Seonghwa smiled painfully, “We’ll help you with that too.”

You rubbed your temples in worry and tried to smile back. It was going to be a bit before the two of them trusted you but perhaps a few fumbles on the way would build a rapport between the three of you. Only time would tell and you hoped you had plenty of that before Hongjoong descended on you all.

[jolapeno]

it begins (i)

johnny 'soap' mactavish x f!reader summary: except, you're not entirely sure it is hate, and more an insistent need to prove to yourselves you’re alive. two people searching for a reason amongst what they saw, experienced and lived through. word count: 5k warnings: spice + smut. enemies(ish) to lovers. an: many thanks to @guyfieriii for listening, plotting and reading snippets of this and convincing me it’s good.

part one of it happens | soap masterlist

1.

It begins on a dusty floor. 

His teeth grazed over your collarbone, your fingers running down his spine. The two of you grasping for something—a pulse, a piece of evidence that this is real and not some twisted nightmare. 

Iron still taints the air, hanging between the two of you, swirling with fustiness and rotting wood. There’s still sand between crevices, grating against skin, no matter how much lukewarm water has coated both your skins. Sand always stayed—a bitter reminder of the hell you'd been through outside these walls. 

Soap sinks his teeth into your neck, making you groan, and hiss—rearing your head back, meeting his eyes even in the low light. Not surprised to find the same, cold stare. 

Because he hates you. At least dislikes you. You’re sure of it. Adamant, even. 

Before today, the two of you had shot comments at each other's suggestions—all wrapped full of brimstone and curses. You'd been ordered to spar with him, release the pressure—eyes digging into the other as the two of you landed and blocked shots. You weren't sure how the two of you got off on the wrong footing, but the two of you did. 

Now, you can’t help but look at him with a softer edge—because he’s here at least. 

Alive. Breathing. 

Your voice is still fragile from screaming his name when the bullets began firing, when the car had gone up in flames. Relief flooding through you the same as the pain did, when his body slammed into you, knocking you to the floor. 

Miss me, lass?  No. 

But you did. 

You had. 

The idea of him bleeding in the dust and sand, the twisted images of him losing the light from his eyes, the voice from his throat—even if it was full of sarcasm. Because you disliked him too, hated how self-sacrificing he was, how upbeat he was to charge into danger without thought. But you still wanted him alive—wanted to have him close, pushing you, making your skin prickle in annoyance and contempt. 

That’s why you’re kissing him: relief. 

You know it with each grasp of his hand, your teeth biting down on his lip, tasting copper and bitter. The taste accompanies how rough, and frantic this all is. The floorboards protests at each movement becoming the soundtrack to your hate-fucking.

Except, you're not entirely sure it is hate, and more an insistent need to prove to yourselves you’re alive. Two people searching for a reason amongst what they saw, experienced and lived through. 

All of it rolling around your head until your hips lift and the head of his cock teases your entrance until you’re stretching around him. And he’s big—bigger, and thicker than you thought. 

He fills you, stuffs you, making you feel so full you’re sure you’re forever changed. That rawness spreads as he stretches you until he bottoms out, making you whine and moan—almost cry out. But he swallows each one of them like it will quench his thirst, his overgrown ‘hawk pulled in all directions from how it’s dried post-shower. 

And fuck, does the sight lick heat up your spine. 

It mixes with the electricity in the air and knots something inside of you. Something feral and suddenly awake that makes you slowly begin to meet each thrust, makes you plunge your tongue into his mouth and groan against the back of his throat. 

Because you want it to hurt, want there to be bruises that paint over the ones from the ambush. Change the narrative, the memories—give yourself something positive from the fuck up of the day. 

Your nails claw at him, his own hands pawing at you, bruising, gripping you as if you would fall through his fingers at any moment. But you won’t—couldn’t. 

Not with how you need this… him. 

You should feel ashamed at how needy you are, how much you want him to break you in two. You want to ache and be sore—a reminder that you lived the bloodbath, that the two of you had made it through a near sandstorm and bullets. 

"Harder, Soap. Fuck me harder." 

But then, you’d had no shame about sharing the shower with him. Stripping, peeling unwilling layers from your skin. Not even when he comments on it—

“Fuckin’ hell, lass. Gimme a warning’ or summat.”

On any other day, your cheeks would have burned in shame. 

Today they didn’t. So empty of emotions and regret. You guess because it was clinical. A necessity. Reason flowing through your mind, because safe houses have limited resources, and neither of you knew when you’d be peeled from the heat by evac. 

Your back was to his, hands scrubbing at skin, muscle and bone. All desperate to rid yourselves of the day. Not a single thought ran through your mind to look, to take a peek—see if he was as built as he felt during training. His body had always felt like a wall of muscle when he sparred with you. When he’d put you on your back and stare into you like you were merely in his way. 

You had done well till then, toeing the line of professionalism well—and then you heard him hiss. 

And not a little one at that. 

One that stemmed from somewhere in the back of his throat. One that had been almost muffled by sheer grit and determination. Released wrapped in an array of Scottish that you couldn’t begin to understand. 

Then you looked, because he was hurt—and because he didn’t answer when you called his fucking name. Your sergeant, the one who charges into danger like he’s indestructible. Who teases you when you’re in the field but ignores you on base. 

And now you were fucking him. 

The air is stained with sex and sweat, it’s peppered with grunts and groans—all of it giving the creaking floorboards and stone walls something to talk about. The blanket under you bunching, clinging to your lower spine as your fingers crawl up his neck into his hairline, grasping him closer, heel embedding against him. 

And it’s messy, all of it. All teeth clashing, nails digging, his poorly applied bandage crinkling as his hips snap to meet his. You let his name roll from your tongue. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. It plunges from your lips, mixing with the sounds of your cunt squelching around him. 

Because he’s so impossibly deep inside of you, hitting that spot, over and over as you lose your goddamn mind. 

You have to have to fuck your teammate. The same one who barely held your gaze when the two of you were strategizing—

And now he can’t keep his eyes off of you. 

“Fuckin’ hell, lass. You’re so pretty. So fuckin’ pretty.

C’mon, hen. That’s it give it t’me.”

So you do. You stop fighting, back arching slightly, splinters grabbing to fix themselves into your shoulders—but you don’t care. 

You come instead. All mind further blanking, only feeling him, all of him. It ricochets through your muscles, sparking and electrifying—your body tensing, feeling him continue to thrust you through it, unwilling to slow even for a second. 

A part of your brain, the only part working, focuses on the way his hips keep connecting with yours, the way his hand is on your throat; how his eyes, those ridiculous azure-coloured eyes are digging into you—the ones which are trying to swallow you whole.

And succeeding. 

Dragging you under, making it hard to breathe with how intense they are. 

Then, his lids close, and you can breathe. His own pleasure ripping through him, embedding himself into you—coating your walls in his anger, his dismay and…

Something else you’re not able to translate from the way he groans your name, your real name. 

Then the air is filled with something else: breathing. 

Your eyes remain closed, needing to do so for preservation. Needing to not get sucked in, to dive into his eyes and have no hope of rising to the surface. 

Because you don’t do this. 

You don’t fuck your teammates. 

Any of them. Even the ones you like—even the ones who have a Scottish twang and beautiful eyes. But then, you also haven’t been close to death five times in the span of half a day. 

When you catch your breaths, you expect a glare—you expect him to move immediately. Realise what the two of you have done. Your eyes watching his, counting his blinks, one, two, three…

And then he kisses you—same passion, but with a little less anger. 

2.

It doesn’t happen again for a while. 

Soap wears a smile, and you throw up walls. 

A pattern he should have predicted, seen coming from a mile off. At first, you had been unable to meet his eye—a refreshing change to the lava-filled one he’d been receiving till then. 

What happened in the safe house is buried under regret and disdain. More from you, than him. 

He’d been fine with it, far preferring whatever verbal sparring the two of you had going on previously. The one which toed the line between school ground flirting and bickering. 

But, then you’d winced during sparring. Ghost having twisted your arm too far, a hiss and a pained look flushing across your features, and something changed—shifted, sprouted. 

The pretending had worked until it fucking didn’t.

His hand hooking around your good elbow, pulling you into a dark corner—the scent of jasmine and oranges hitting his nose, a scent he’d come to know as yours. One that you coat your skin in on days when your eyes are more sunken, your spirit a little more dampened. 

Y’don’t have to avoid me. M’not gonna tell anyone what happened. 

If you were surprised, you didn’t show it. Wrenching your elbow free, jaw rolling as you swallowed. 

You want a medal for being a gent, MacTavish?

There have been moments before when your eyes were full of lava, brushing over him, threatening to burn and turn him to rock. But that look had been something else. All multi-layered, gone before he could translate it—begin peeling the meanings back until he saw what you were hiding. 

In the days after, you held his eye line—found your body brushing past his, arm knocking against him, shockwaves darting through him as he tried to ignore it. 

Ignore you. 

But he’s weak. The line is so thin between want and hate that it gets smudged as easily as charcoal—his rigid determination almost crumbles as easily too.

Liquor is the catalyst. The spark that lights the charge. 

The reason he finds your nails scratching at his neck, his arm wrapping around your waist—desperate to have you close. Soap pulling your body flush to his—needing to feel your fucking lips again. The two of you stumble through the door. 

Your door. 

It’s nothing. He just needs you. 

It’s why he’s kissing you, all desperate and chaotic as it spreads through him. Tomorrow he can blame the tequila, scotch and vodka. 

Tonight, he can’t ignore it—you. 

Not the way you burn through him, knock the breath from his lungs and have his mind empty other than those sweet noises you made all for him. His name has never sounded so good. 

Never before letting someone other than Ghost call him Johnny. Now, he wants you to call him only that. Wants it accompanied by your hands on his biceps, clutching him, hanging off of him—looking as breathtaking as you always do. 

Just like you had done when they’d all been drinking. Him not able to take his eyes off of you, the desert changing things, unlocking it—yanking the lid from the chest he’d stuffed how he’d felt. 

Worsened when he grabbed your wrist, handing you a shot, a similar one in his free hand. 

You don’t need to get me drunk, MacTavish. I’d fuck you again sober. 

Your words had locked up his spine, rushed through his bones—not halting until you pushed him down onto your bed. The one which cries out in protest, that he hears gets worse when you're straddling him, knees on either side of him.  

Soap considers why he changed your last shot to water. He wouldn’t have before. 

Jus’ say the word, lass. 

And he had meant it. 

Then. Now. Since the moment you’d joined the fucking team. Your smirk imprinted in his brain, there on the back of his lids when he closed his eyes. You were there when he wrapped his hand around his cock, palm splayed across the tiles, the shower drowning out the way he hissed your name—hating that he does, finding he can’t stop it. 

You’re like poison—but one he wants to infect him. 

You have twisted yourself under his skin, and it’s why he’s quick with his hands, needing a second time with you—another taste. Each item in his hand he balls up, practically ripping it from your flesh before throwing it far from the two of you. 

Yer’ so pretty, y’know that? 

He watches you let it kiss your skin for half a second before you baton it away. Hand on your cheek, feeling how warm it goes, how it burns under his praise, before you tell him to Shut up, MacTavish, lips pressed against it, smothering any more of his words. 

And he lets you because it’s easier. 

This is sex. Hate fucking—even if he doesn’t hate you. He feels something, but it’s complex, too big for him to begin to unravel here, under you. 

The two of you are no more friends than you were before you found comfort in between each other's legs in that safe house. You don’t make him a cuppa when it’s early, you don’t want him to go easy on you when he’s training you. 

You’re the same. So he’s the same. 

But now, you’re looking at him like you are starving, so hungry—as though by not doing this with him again, it would ruin you. 

And fuck, if it wasn’t doing the same to him. 

If it hasn’t been eating him alive. Pecking at his skin, memories interspersing with dreams, lulling him in that space between awake and sleep that makes it hard to know what’s real and what isn’t. 

But this is real. 

His palm on your thigh is an indicator of it as you take him in your hand, your fingers wrapping around him, holding him tightly. 

Last time had been so rushed, so desperate to feel something, you hadn’t had the chance to wrap your hand firmly around him, feel him twitch in your palm. 

It’s wrong on some level, what the two of you are doing. He shouldn’t fuck his teammate—not want to fuck you until you’re cock-drunk and malleable. 

And then you press your lips against the reddened head, swirling your tongue over him before you take him into your warm mouth. It’s bliss, fucking everything. Your mouth is so hot, tongue flat against the underside now and again. Teasing and taunting—making his knuckles white as he clenches bedsheets and your hair.

His moans paint the air one after the other. Changing it, shifting the apprehension and tension into wants and wishes. 

Then he’s pulling you up, eyes seeing the tears in your eyes from taking him as far in as you could. It makes his throat dry, and his chest tighten. For a second, just admiring you hovering on your knees above him, lips all pink and swollen. 

He doesn’t think of how intimate it is when he swipes his thumb against the spit on your chin. But, he knows it is the reason you kiss him again, and again. Softer, gentler—no biting or nipping. 

Because he, like you, doesn't like that you make him feel something other than need. Desperate to kiss you so he’s distracted, and his mind stops telling him this is a bad idea. 

One which gets worse, and worse, and worse—

Because then you’re lining yourself over him, soft whimpers falling as he slides two fingers through your folds—feeling your heat, how slick you are, how much you want him. And he’s learnt to keep the other hand on your jaw, thumb stroking, keeping your mouth against his, swallowing whatever you’ll give him, whether it’s a murmur or his name. 

His name tastes like heaven from you. It’s different—and he can’t assess whether it’s good or bad. The two of you are slightly more familiar, but there’s no adrenaline—no direct cause for the way you’ve snapped together. 

Because the alcohol had made him braver, but it hadn’t caused this. The two of you had. 

Tequila hadn’t made you yank his hand from between your thighs or lift it till the tip of your tongue reaches out to taste yourself on his fingers. Just the same as scotch hadn’t made him wrap his hand around the shaft, helping you line yourself up as you slowly sink down on him—your cunt swallowing him, inch by inch. 

He hears your hiss escape from your tongue as your cunt welcomes him like an old fucking friend. Greedily sucking him in as your eyes clench and he quickly tells you to breathe. 

“Y’got this. I got y’, breathe with me—“

Soap isn’t prepared when your eyes flip open, landing on him, spitting at him that you know what to do. 

Of course, you’d still glare when you’re full of his cock. It almost makes him smirk, thankful you’re the same spitfire he likes being partnered with. So, he just grabs your chin. His calloused touch brushes against softness as you make fire bloom across his skin as your chin lowers, and he can look up at you like you’re fucking artwork. 

Because you are. 

“Yer something else, lass.”

He remembers saying that when you’d killed three men with a rusty knife. This contrasts that. But he means it all the same. Soap said it now because you were a different kind of mess—a flushed, sweat-shimmering mess all for him. One which sunk their nails into his shoulders, leaving half-moon evidence of whatever the fuck this is for him tomorrow. 

Is he your stress relief? A pain killer? 

He’s not entirely sure, and he also doesn't have the energy, time or want to explore it. 

He just wants to fuck you. You and only you. His body charged, fully alive and vibrating with restlessness and torment because he’d thought of nothing but you. One taste not stifling anything, just opening floodgates for something he can’t contain. 

Not that he’ll admit it. 

You and your sweet cunt that is letting him split you open, not waiting to adjust even if it burns and aches, because of course you don’t. You never back down, never willing to not excel—to show what you’re made of. He sees it—he sees you. Even if you think he doesn’t. 

Even if the thought makes your eyes sting. 

You catch him off guard, slowly rolling against him, his thick fingers grasping you in place—getting you to slow you down. 

Go easy, lass. 

But you can’t. 

You say it with your eyes, dig it into him until he realises he has to lessen his hold and go along for the fucking ride. 

“Steamin’ Jesus—“

You’re quick to swallow your name, your tongue against his—swirling the taste of one another around and around. 

And he needs to hear it. Your moans are like the chorus to a song. His thumb finds your clit again. Him showing you how his clever, calloused thumb remembers—knowing exactly how to draw circles that’ll make your eyelashes flutter. 

He groans as your walls tighten around him, clamping down, making each upwards thrust feel so good as he breathed heavier—hard thrusts meeting yours. 

You’re close. So close. 

And he knows it better this time. 

There’s a glint in your eyes, a darkness that mingles with lust that makes his own release curl and tightens inside him. But he needs yours first, wants to collect it, see it—fucking hear it. 

Your head goes backwards, head facing the ceiling as he fucks up into you, thumb meeting his movements as best as he can. You’re always something, but now you’re everything. 

Stunning. Radiant. Beautiful. 

All of you burning up with pleasure, one he’s made you feel and he watches even with how good it feels as it ripples through you. It rips through you until it’s a wave that crashes down and his fingers are over your mouth to muffle your cry as you clench and pulse, nails digging into his chest. But, he still hears it: his name. 

It’s more sinful, more fucking delectable. 

The vice-like grip you have on him makes him quickly follow as he waits for the drop—

But, this time it doesn’t explode through him. It builds and builds until it reaches a crescendo. And he’s filling you, releasing coating your walls, feeling your body falling, freely, slowly against him as his hips become lazier. 

He lets himself have a moment. 

Running his hand up and down your spine, feeling your heart hammer through your chest to his. Let your breath dance along his neck, feeling how heavy your body is becoming as tiredness spreads through your bones. 

Soap doesn’t blame you, it’s why he shifts you from on top of him. Hearing minimal protests as he slides from under you. 

It’s practical, merely aiding and finishing the task in the way he cleans you up. Finds a towel in your bathroom, dampening it before running it between your thighs. He throws the sheet over you, protecting your modesty, even if your eyes are full of confusion and sleep. 

He doesn’t stay, putting his clothes on, hiding the evidence of your marks and welts, hovering at the doorway before leaving. 

He has to. You don’t want him to stay. 

Not even a little bit. He knows that. 

He knows what this was. 

3.

It has become a habit. 

Both of you have tried to fight it, only to quickly realise the pull you’ve both created—the addiction both have for one other. 

You don’t talk about it, and he doesn’t ask anything. 

Your hand on his forearm, tugging him—asking silently letting him know you need him as you both hunt for a room, a corner, or a quiet bit of wall to ruin and mark.

Sometimes it is he who looks for you—who seeks you out. 

When it’s Soap, he doesn’t kiss you, just simply closes the door and locks it with finality. He’s on you, pressing his chest to your back as you find leverage, meeting him as he grips your thigh. Not bothering to strip you fully, but just enough to make himself feel good—while pretending he doesn’t want to make you feel just as good. 

When it’s Johnny, he crashes his lips against yours, pulls you flush, and makes you face him. Runs his hands up and down all your available skin as if memorising you, committing you to memory to make a sculpture.

You aren’t sure which you prefer. Which one you crave more—which one makes electricity run through your muscles, and have you rubbing your thighs together. 

Tonight, it’s Soap who finds you—who fucks you. Your eyes meet him at the laundry room door, and his glare makes you feel like he hates you all over again. Just like at the beginning, when he barely said hello and didn’t meet your eyes. All before the time when the safe house blurred the lines, both of you hate fucking on the wooden floor. 

You’re soaked just from the way his eyes burn into you, from the way he crosses the room to you—never mind from the way he strips you. Your long-sleeve tee pulled up, your shorts yanked down around your knees, underwear following suit. His eyes are no longer bright blue but something murky and needy. And fuck, you don’t hate it. Not even a little bit. 

He kisses you with venom and frustration, before he 

spins you, back to his chest—his nails scraping up your thigh as his other hand bends you at the hip. And you do so, willingly. 

Welcoming it—the shift. 

Sometimes it’s like this. Like your strangers, not teammates. As though the two of you don’t know a thing about one another—not what caused the scars, not the exact shade of each other's blood. 

It’s nice, almost detached. 

This a reminder of what the two of you could be, if you both stopped this before it continued. But, that’s too late now. It had been weeks, all of them bleeding into months. Neither you nor him are able to unknot what mess the two of you have caused. The thread tangled around the two of you, connecting, keeping you tied together. 

He drags his tongue down your shoulder, hand slapping against your arse—fingers grasping it, squeezing as he bites down on your clothed shoulder. 

“Fuck, Johnny…”

“Love the way y’say my name, lass.”

Your top is the only thing still covering your arms, hiding it—the bandage. You suspect it’s why he needs this. Still wrestling with the guilt of what sits under your left sleeve. The gash from a bullet grazing you—not entering, just sliding past, kissing it. The turmoil and anguish on his face, the harsh way he’d spat out for a medic. It had churned inside of you, unsure what any of it meant when he’d pulled you close to him, needing to see for himself the damage. 

I’m fine, Soap. I’m fine. 

He’d flinched at his own call sign. 

Not realising till now how much you call him

MacTavish out here, and Johnny when there are no eyes. That same concern flourishes darkly as you realise how close the line is, and how easily it would be to step over it with him. 

You blink as you watch the pile of washing being thrown over the washing machine. Camo and basic shades fall in a cluster as he swipes them from being in front of you. You smirk, just letting it spread across your features as he kicks your legs apart. 

You don’t even tense when your chest is pressed against the cold metal of the washing machine, the drum spinning, whirring—drowning out the hiss you make as he slides his cock inside of you. You welcome all of it. 

The stretch. The cold. The vibration against your body. 

“So good f’me,” he whispers against your spine, running his beard against your skin. 

Your nipples are hard as they’re pressed against the metal, and it’s both pleasurable and painful all at once. 

The coil in your stomach tightens and tightens with each stroke of his cock. The ache and itch being scratched each time his hips connect with you, each thrust filling you. 

“Need you, Johnny. Harder, please—“

“I know, I know, lass.”

And he does. 

You can tell. His usual self-control is gone, replaced with a need so desperate that he pounds into you as if it’s a goodbye—wondering if he sees how close the line is too. Your toes curl as he thrusts deeper, the machine hiding the slap of his skin against yours, your mews and moans. 

Wanting to kiss him. A want that’s so foreign than normal—usually kissing him to bury moans or to keep him silent. But this, it’s different. A change. You want to kiss him because you miss the way his lips feel. Like the way his mouth parts when you tug on his hair. 

But he wouldn’t let you—not today. 

Today he needs you face down, hands in front of you. The harshness of each thrust is evidence of it, mixing with the way he spits affectionate words down your ear as he leaves fingerprint kisses on your hip bone. 

“Yer a fuckin’ vision, lass.”

The resonance of his voice thrumming through you. Repeating. Swirling. Because he should know.

After all, you’d seen his drawings. Seen the shading he can do, the details he can bring to life on a page. You wondered if he’d drawn you. If he’d chosen an image from his mind where he had you like this, facing away, able to tell himself you’re someone else—someone he doesn’t hate. 

“You're something else, Johnny.” 

Each time he scrapes the edges of his beard against your back, you hope it scratches you—hopes you are left with something other than soreness between your thighs. 

Each thrust and stroke of his thick cock against your walls makes your hands clutch, grasp, and scratch for leverage. Hoping it’s not a goodbye, almost praying. 

The scent of sulphur, tropical fruits and your body wash all mix in your nostrils as the washing machine continues to whir. He presses your cheek down against it, the cold of it making you hiss, his hand flat against your cheek as he tells you: “Y’need to be quiet, don’t wanna get caught.”

And you know you clench around him at the thought. Pleasure creeping close to your edges, gasping, choking out a wheeze of his name at the idea.

“Yer a fuckin’ dirty girl, you.”

He doesn’t let you get embarrassed. He rewards you. Treats you for it. His fingers find your clit, teasing, circling it with the same precision he has come to master, as he continues to pound into you. 

Your back arches more as his hips jerk, feeling so full. And it’s bliss. It’s electric and fire all at once. All of your senses both heightened and dulled, your orgasm creeping, crawling over you, slowly stealing your limbs as you tremble and go weak—

His name rips from your throat as he fucks you through it. The way his hips piston, chasing his own release, hand lessening on your hair, turning softer, moving to stroke your hair as groans.

Not your call sign. Not lass or hen. Your name.

The one he knows, but never used. Never.

You suspect it’s why he holds you, and why you let him. Hips still pressing you firmly against the machine, cheek still down on the metal. The cold rooting you, reminding you it was him who did this—he who turned your legs to jelly, requiring him to keep you in place.

When he pulls away, you feel empty. More than you have done before. You dress, quietly, a different kind of tension bubbling in the air as the machine beeps impatiently.

You watch his hands, the ones that were formerly on your hips before, moving to smooth out his hair before he buckles his belt. 

“This the last time...” 

You’d let it meet the air—allowing it to form in his head either as a statement or a question. Saying it more matter of fact. Limited emotion and eye contact. 

It’s a cross between distance, walls and a barrier. 

One neither of you believes will last, it is made from paper rather than brick. It keeps none of it at bay, the two of you doing this dance so often, you can predict the others move. 

So you avoid him, his eyes and that fucking smile he does. The one you can’t be sure doesn’t mean.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid.” 

“Don’t know what that means, MacTavish.” 

He pauses at the door, shooting you a glare before it’s swallowed by a wink and a smile. “Ye’ you do.”

And you do. 

Biting back a smile. Thankful. Grateful. 

Feeling his spend between your thighs as you return your underwear and shorts where they were as you hear his footsteps vanish—realising he kept your hair band. 

part two of it happens ->

[skele-bunny]

Hello hello! I ate up those Sunny hc and i loved em. I wanted to request some Aether and Phantom content, preferably fluffy, our bug has been through enough (for now)

Sending lots of hugs, 🎃

NSKWKDKD "FOR NOW"....... Pumpkin if you come in my inbox with awful ideas I will devour you whole (BUT GIVE ME THEM THIS INSTANT!!!!!) /SILLY

OighHghh Aether and Phantom have such a great relationship.

Aether loves taking Phantom out on little dates together. Wether it's just around the gardens, swimming, or a movie night for just the two of them! Any time spent together they enjoy so much

Phantom's first gift to Aether was a sanded down regular rock he thought was calcite. It was just the biggest smile that won Aether over. Even though Phantom knows his mistake and is embarrassed about it, Aether kept his "Honorary Calcite" on his alter.

Little dance buddies!! Wether it's little sways or outright ballroom, they're having the time of their life. Phantom loves standing on his tiptoes to try and twirl Aether, always results in them laughing :3

During quint ceremonies, they're always next to each other as not only are they mates but their internal bond is super duper strong.

They have private practice sessions, not only is Phantom able to focus better but it's easier learning from the person you're taking over for.

When they scent each other, they shock each other a lot sjejdjxj too much energy that just sparks out. Always makes them purr louder though, little static dudes

Aether calls Phantom "Lovebug", Phantom calls Aether "big dipper" jokingly but otherwise it's "Star/Stardust"

Quints prefer things with a lot of nutritional or health balances! Also refills their energy super fast so things like bananas, peanut butter, apple juice, and chocolate are usually found in their cupboards. Aether has always had a stash he shared with Swiss when he needed it. Phantom? Full access. Usually always goes for the chocolate, and Aether loves showing him combos he adores like peanut butter covered bananas, avocado and tomato sandwiches, and even the unfortunate mixture of chocolate mangos.

One time Aether had an exhaustion spell from working two doubles back to back and just completely collapsed on Phantom. So he just laid there, holding Aeth for about three hours until he woke up again. Was able to squirm out and get him his snacks, just taking care of him so well as best he could.

Love cuddling in their true forms!! Aether is like a giant dog/cat mix, with such soft and silky fur Phantom loves running his hand through. Phantom is like an hoary bat, not much fur but still super soft and smooth. Sometimes they'll lazy roughhouse like when dogs are playing down and just put their jaw on the other with little huffs and pawing away. They have so much fun with it

I LOVE THEM UR HONOR

[sihtricfedaraaahvicius]

the only request i have is can you write some fluffy comfort shit 😩 i am in need of softy sihtric. it's totally okay if you don't dont

ps i love youuuuuu bestie 🫶

oh, my dearest. I took some time away from my vamp!Sihtric to put this together. I wrote it in twenty minutes just now, so please forgive me if it's not what you needed, but I didn't want to keep you waiting either.

wordcount: 549

You had been short with Sihtric through texts all day, and he knew it was nothing personal. It still bothered him though, but not in an angering way. No, Sihtric was just concerned. He loved you with his entire heart and he knew you loved him all the same, but some days were tough for you because life just wasn't always kind. He immediately knew it was one of those days, so he dropped everything he was doing when you hadn't replied in a few hours and he jumped in his car.

On his way to you, in the hopes to surprise you and cheer you up, he stopped by the store to pick up some treats. He quickly browsed through the store and collected your favourite candies and salty snacks. He grabbed a few cans of your favourite drink too and, as he neared the self-checkout, his attention was grabbed by a huge fluffy teddy bear that held a red heart in its paws. He snatched the bear off the shelf and went to pay. When he reached his car he flung the snacks on the backseat and placed the bear in the passenger's seat.

'Safety first, big boy,' Sihtric mumbled to the stuffed animal as he put the seatbelt on for it.

In his haste to get to you he almost forgot to put his own seatbelt on, and he abruptly braked to correct his mistake before he drove off the parking lot. His mind was reeling with thoughts while he was on his way. He wanted nothing more than to cheer you up, whatever it was that was bringing you down today, if any. Because Sihtric knew that sometimes your mind was just heavy and took it out on yourself, making you feel bad about yourself for no reason at all. He would do anything he could to distract you on those darker days, wanting to be the best boyfriend for you he could possibly be.

He pulled up your driveway with squeaking tires and parked the car like a real asshole, blocking half of the sidewalk, and he jumped out as soon as the engine was shut off. He grabbed the teddy bear, struggling to get it out of the car because of its ridiculous size, and he then grabbed the bag of snacks.

'Fuck,' he spat to himself as he suddenly remembered he didn't get you any flowers.

He looked around the street and his eyes landed on the garden of your neighbour, who happened to have pretty purple tulips and red roses growing. He snuck his way over after double checking if no one saw him, and he violently tore a handful of flowers out of the garden. He shook off the sand and loose leaves and composed himself again as he walked up to your front door.

'Sihtric?' you almost yelled, surprised he suddenly showed up, 'what… what on earth,' you stammered as you saw his loaded arms.

'I figured you weren't feeling well today,' Sihtric said with a sheepish smile, 'so I got you some stuff. I thought we could order some food and watch whatever movie you like,' he smiled and leaned in to kiss your cheek, 'and maybe I can stay the night too if you'd like, my love.'

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 28

Downstar calls a Clan meeting to honor Parsley for her service and guide her to the elder’s den.

[Image ID: Parsley, now laying down in an elder’s sprite, says to Puddlespeckle, “It looks like you aren’t alone anymore, Mr. Puddlespeckle.” Puddlespeckle says, “How wonderful…”]

(Parsley: 122, female, elder, righteous, great speaker)

(Puddlespeckle: 154, male, elder, strict, good hunter, good kitsitter)

Clammask, Shadowdrop, and Rustshade find another abandoned kit near the gardens.

[Image ID: Clammask, Shadowdrop, and Rustshade face a white kit with gray stripes and sage green eyes. Under the kit, it reads NEW PLAYER: MOUSEKIT, 5, FEMALE, KNOW-IT-ALL, ODDLY OBSERVANT.]

---

Rattlepaw was not a stalker. She had a perfectly normal interest in Carnationspeckle and Oilstripe. Why shouldn’t she want her mother to find someone that made her giddy? Oilstripe was the perfect choice! How else could Rattlepaw and Carnationspeckle grow their little family? They deserved more than just one another. They deserved a bigger family. As such, while Rattlepaw practiced a song with Rabbitjoy, she had one ear cocked toward Carnationspeckle and Oilstripe, who were happily sharing tongues before their sunset patrol. Recruiting them to practice dancing for the Harvest Moon had been the perfect plan!

“Mom?” Shadowdrop marched into the camp, scanning for Downstar. The sand caught on his muddy paws, making it look like he had white mittens. “Mom?”

“Fennelspot took Downstar out to exercise,” Rabbitjoy explained, looking over her shoulder at the black tom.

“Well then is Weedfoot around?” Shadowdrop sighed.

“I heard my name!” Weedfoot jogged out from the dirt place. “I’m here, I’m here. Hi, Shadowdrop. Was there an issue with your hunt?”

“You could say that,” Shadowdrop admitted. “We were hunting by the gardens and you’ll never guess what we found.”

“What, a kit?” Oilstripe scoffed. Shadowdrop went eerily quiet. Oilstripe’s eyes exploded. “Wait, am I right?” Rattlepaw’s leather pelt slipped off her back as she scurried up to Shadowdrop. Carnationspeckle stood beside her, her tail brushing against her side.

“That’s where you found me,” Rattlepaw gulped, catching Carnationspeckle’s eye.

“Tell us about the kit,” Weedfoot said. “I assume it isn’t a Clan kit from the way you’re acting.”

“We think so,” Shadowdrop admitted.

“You think so?” Carnationspeckle repeated with a tilt to her head. “Does the kit have a Clan name?”

“Yes, but when we spoke to her, she said she didn’t come from a Clan,” Shadowdrop explained. “I don’t remember anyone in the last few Gatherings mention a Mousekit, unless she’s lying about the name.”

“No one outside the Clans would name their daughter Mousekit,” Rabbitjoy pointed out.

“Rustshade is checking the borders in case the kit’s description matches a kit from another Clan,” Shadowdrop said. “Clammask is bringing the kit along.”

“Carnationspeckle, wake up James and make sure the nursery is ready for a guest,” Weedfoot sighed with a soft flick of her tail.

“We won’t be long,” Carnationspeckle chirped, bouncing where she stood. She seemed more like a kit than a grown molly as she hurried to the warrior’s den. 

“She might be cold…” Weedfoot muttered, glancing at the windy sky. “Rabbitjoy, can you start a small fire? Oilstripe, I want you to fetch Fennelspot. A lone kit like this will likely need a check-up.”

“Downstar might get mad at me if I interrupt her exercise,” Oilstripe gulped, avoiding eye contact.

“I saw them not long ago, I’ll get Fennelspot,” Shadowdrop grumbled. Just as he turned around, however, a wirey white molly strolled past him, flicking her tail while Clammask followed behind. The kit had the faintest of stripes and fur paler than Rattlepaw’s ashy skin. She couldn’t have been much younger than half a year. 

“This is RippleClan?” the kit scoffed. “You live in a big boat? How has it not fallen over?”

“You must be Mousekit,” Weedfoot purred, stepping in front of the newcomer. “Welcome. Hopefully we can get you home soon. What Clan are you from?”

“I already said I’m not from a Clan,” Mousekit huffed, sneering. 

“You have to be with a name like Mousekit,” Clammask sighed. “If you ran away because you were being hurt, you can tell us. We won’t drag you back.”

“I’m called Mousekit because my furless, spineless, coward of a mother spent my whole life telling me everything she knew about the Clans,” Mousekit snapped, turning on Clammask. “She’s the one who brought me out here. About time, too. I was sick of catching mice for humans.” Rattlepaw’s stomach twisted as she held her breath. No wonder Mousekit didn’t react to her.

“Your mother was furless too?” Rattlepaw gulped. She slowly approached Mousekit, who studied her with a cold glimmer in her green eyes. “Was her name… Rebecca?”

“How do you know that?” Mousekit said as the fur on her neck bristled. Rattlepaw couldn’t stop herself. She squealed and dove at Mousekit. She shoved her face into her shockingly soft fur.

“She was my mother too!” Rattlepaw cheered. “You’re my sister!” 

“Get off of me!” Mousekit snapped. She shoved Rattlepaw away. Rattlepaw tumbled onto her back. The sand scratched her fragile skin.

“Rattlepaw!” Carnationspeckle hurried out of the nursery. She and Oilstripe helped Rattlepaw back to her feet. Oilstripe brushed sand off Rattlepaw’s skin while Carnationspeckle licked her white ear.

“That was a hard tumble,” Oilstripe huffed. “Are you alright?”

“A little sore, but I’m alright,” Rattlepaw said.

“So you’re Rattlesnake,” Mousekit said, whiskers twitching with a strange contempt. “Our mother talked often about how she had to ‘save you’ from a breeding life.”

“How is she?” Rattlepaw asked. She braced herself for a venomous response as Mousekit’s tail flicked about.

“Why should I care?” Mousekit snapped. “She didn’t care about me. All she talked about were her plans to take me away as soon as she got the chance. I guess she took it.”

“If you like to hunt, you’ll like this place,” Carnationspeckle purred. “I took in your sister when she arrived here. If you wanted to, we could get to know each other more.” Carnationspeckle rested her tail over Rattlepaw. Rattlepaw pressed into Carnationspeckle with a soft purr.

[Image ID: Mousekit stares down Carnationspeckle and Rattlepaw. She yowls, “I had a mom, and she was awful. You aren’t my mom, and you aren’t my sister!”]

“You want to treat me like your kit?” Mousekit scoffed. “I had a mom, and she was awful. You aren’t my mom, and you aren’t my sister!” Rattlepaw pressed harder into Carnationspeckle. Her big copper eyes poured unspoken needs over Mousekit, but the pale molly turned away and back to Weedfoot. “So where can I stay?” It took Weedfoot a moment to collect her words; the small crowd looked between Mousekit and Rattlepaw, unsure whether they should have said something or not.

“Come this way,” Weedfoot said softly. She guided Mousekit across camp to the nursery. Mousekit walked with her tail high, leaving Rattlepaw and Carnationspeckle in her dust. While Carnationspeckle continued grooming Rattlepaw, something hardened in Rattlepaw’s chest.

She was already trying to find her mother a mate, and she’d just been given a sister. If she could push Carnationspeckle to fall in love with Oilstripe, she could convince her own flesh and blood to love her back.

(Rattlepaw: 11, female, artisan apprentice, insecure, plays with prey)

(Shadowdrop: 20, male, codekeeper, sneaky, eloquent speaker, good teacher)

(Rabbitjoy: 65, female, artisan, charismatic, master weaver)

(Weedfoot: 77, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Oilstripe: 32, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Carnationspeckle: 30, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

(Mousekit: 5, female, kit, know-it-all, oddly observant)

(Clammask: 22, female, caretaker, righteous, lore keeper, good teacher)

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Free Day Thursday

Belated Valentines because I had no time on Wednesday lol

(Adopted Dadmas au)

"Move it, junior!" barked a man from Longstump. He all but shouldered Jak aside in the market, headed for the vehicle pit.

Jak glowered at his retreating back and rubbed his arm. "You move it," he grumbled.

Daxter stretched to peer over Jak's head and whistled. "Is it me, or is it crowded in the pit today?"

"It's...pretty crowded," Jak agreed. "What's got them all rattled?"

"Hot sale on sand?" Daxter drawled.

"Bro."

"Yeah yeah, it's everywhere. But it is a hot sale, huh? Huh?"

"Bro." Jak grimaced in disgust.

The ottsel sighed. "No one appreciates my wit."

Rolling his eyes, Jak tossed a tomango from hand to hand before tucking it into his scarf. They passed the forges and the armor shops on Smithy Row, and turned towards the Arena. There weren't supposed to be any trials until later in the afternoon, yet the sounds of combat rang out beyond the steps. Jak took the stairs two at a time and, on a whim, headed for the ring.

Daxter grumbled about the sudden change from shade to blinding sunlight, and pulled the edge of Jak's scarf over his face for relief. Jak shrugged as he stepped onto the floating platform. Instead of letting it take him down to the Arena, he bent his knees, tensed, and sprang.

Fingers caught the edge of one of the support beams, and his momentum launched him up over it, kicking off for more height, to the stone forming the viewing box from which Damas presided over trials. His boot toes caught the most meager of ledges, but it was enough. Before gravity had a chance to wrap its greedy fingers around him, Jak hauled himself up to the next handhold. It was just enough for him to hook his wrist over the edge of the balcony and roll up and onto the platform.

As he'd halfway suspected, his father -- stars, it felt good to be able to say that, even in his head -- had "clocked in" to monitor the battles despite it being off schedule. Damas raised one brow as Jak casually arranged himself into a cross-legged position.

He lifted his tomango in Damas’s direction half in greeting and half in a playful toast.

"Hey," he said cheerfully. Then he bit into the fruit, causing Daxter to leap out of the way of spraying juice.

"Aw yuck!" Daxter shook his ears out and scurried into the shade. "Say it, don't spray it!"

"We have doors, son," Damas remarked, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his voice.

"Eh." Jak took another bite of the red-orange fruit and spoke around a mouthful of tangy flesh under a surprising sweet peel. "It's too crowded. Same as the garages. What's the deal, Pá? Some kind of relic hunt going on? They get a tip on the stuff for the Forest Site?"

Damas looked at him for a moment as though he wasn't quite certain if Jak was being serious or not. The twitch of his left ear seemed to herald a thought, and he lifted a hand to tug at his upper lip.

"Ah," he said at last, "I sometimes forget that Haven doesn't celebrate Heart Day as Wastelanders do."

"Heart...day?" Jak repeated in confusion.

"It's a courtship ritual," Damas explained, a little awkwardly. "Forgive me if this is...less than detailed. I have not participated in one in an...undisclosed number of years, and I did not think I would need to explain it so soon."

Daxter's ears perked up. "Courtship, you say? Ah-ha! I knew you had to be big ol' softies at heart!"

He rubbed his paws together in anticipation.

"So, juicy details: let's have 'em! My bubbly bar-queen beauty is languishing in Haven without me, and I wanna make an impression when we come back!"

He hopped up onto the arm of the throne and leaned forward eagerly.

"So what is it? Flowers? Chocolates? Chocolate flowers?"

"Metalhead hearts, actually," Damas said bluntly. "The fresher the better. So if you want to do this right, you'll have to wait until you're at the city gates before you carve out the heart you want to give the young spy."

With an almighty squawk of disgust, Daxter tipped off the throne and hit the floor.

He lay there for a few seconds, winded, then raised an index finger.

"Methinks," he said, "this advice was meant for Jak. Not me."

Damas nodded sagely. "He's not wrong you know, Jak, this applies to you, too."

Jak wiped sticky fingers on his scarf and stared blankly at his father.

Don't say it, don't say it, please don't say it- he silently pleaded.

"You know-"

Noooooo-

"The young mechanic could probably make use of a metalhead heart, don't you think, son?" Damas asked. Only the twinkle in his eye gave away his mischief. "The aorta makes for a very effective wire insulator."

Jak flushed as red as a tomango. "I-! It's, it's not like that, we're-! We're friends!"

A smirk spread across the king’s face, the smile of a hunter spotting weakness.

"Oh, of course. Friends. My mistake. Tell me, how goes her research?"

He leaned back and his smile grew as Jak launched into an animated description of Keira's search for the catacombs. As if he didn't know his boy was spending at least an hour every few nights talking with the sage's daughter -- poor girl -- on his talk-box.

"-gonna have to make more drones, of course, because that nutcase Veger's force fields fried some. If I could just find one of her old Scout Flies, I know that would work better, but I'd have to rob the museum to get one and we have a lifetime ban from it anyway and-"

"You have a lifetime ban," Daxter corrected, "I'm not the one who punched a tour guide for misattributing the origin of Scout Flies and keeping our a-grav zoomer behind glass-"

"It's not theirs!" Jak fumed, "Keira built that! It's hers! And maybe kind of mine, because I'm the one who drives!"

He looked up and caught the twinkle in his father's eyes.

Belatedly, he realized that he wasn't helping his case. Damas was grinning at him like the cabbit that got the canegret. Rot it all.

With a groan of defeat, Jak put his head into one hand. "....are there any whose parts you can use in anti-grav stuff?"

Damas tilted his head back and hummed thoughtfully. "Off the top of my head? Ginsus and Metalbats, but we don't have those out here. Their wings were never strong enough to carry them over the ocean. Metaljackets are an option -- in fact, we've been getting reports from Seem that there may be a hive of them in the sealed levels of the Temple. I can deal with that later."

Daxter cringed. "Least it's not spiders," he offered. "If there's metalhead spiders in there, you're gonna have to burn the place to the ground and fake your death. It's the only way to be sure."

"Dax really hates spiders," Jak agreed. He blinked and snapped his fingers. "Hey, what about those blue scout metalheads that hang around the forest? Y'know, I've seen them a lot, but they've never attacked us?"

Damas leaned forward with interest. "Grunt dragons! I haven't seen one in years! It's funny that they should have a name like "dragon" and yet be completely harmless. I actually rode on one as a boy once. My parents were furious."

Daxter looked quickly from Jak to Damas and back again. He saw the moment the idea took hold. Eyes narrowed, he turned back to Damas.

"Whatever happens now," he warned, "I just want you to know that you brought this on yourself."

[firstkanaphans]

How about M for SandRay? I feel like we need a car makeout with a different ending and some fluff to save us from all the SandRay angst!

Hiii! You are absolutely right. I decided to set this at the very beginning of episode 5, right after Sand saves Ray from that guy at the bar, and it is, um, a bit explicit. Because apparently that’s just who I am as a person. Hope you enjoy! Word Count: 1100

[M]aking out in a car

Ray was already hard as he dragged Sand to his car. He had been seconds away from getting a bottle smashed over his head and yet Sand had saved him. Again. His adrenaline was pumping, his heart was racing, and he needed to fuck something. Now.

“Are you drunk?” Sand asked. “Do I need to drive?” 

The question would have annoyed Ray coming from anyone else, but there was no judgment in Sand’s voice. No long-suffering exasperation. It was just a question, plain and simple. Ray didn’t bother to answer him. Who would drive wasn’t relevant. He had other plans.

“Back seat,” he said, yanking the back door open and gesturing for Sand to get inside.

“What in the world are you—?”

Ray didn’t have the patience for answering juvenile questions. He shoved Sand into the car and climbed in after him.

“Ray,” Sand warned as if he already knew what was coming. Ray didn’t bother to keep him waiting. He lunged forward and kissed him.

Sand let out a surprised yelp against his lips, but within seconds, he had melted into the kiss. He opened his mouth, kissing Ray deeper, and then tangled his fingers in Ray’s hair and pulled. Goosebumps erupted over Ray’s body and when he broke the kiss, he was pleased to see that Sand’s eyes were on fire.

“What was that for?” he asked, breathless. 

“You saved me,” Ray said simply. “It was so fucking hot.”

“That wasn’t—”

Before he could argue, Ray kissed him again. 

If Ray was being honest, he didn’t much enjoy having sex in cars. It would do in a pinch, but it required him to put in more effort than he was used to and often left him paranoid like he was coming off of a bad high. Tonight, however, he couldn’t wait. He was pretty sure he had never wanted someone so desperately in all his life.

So he kissed Sand, hoping that might sate the hunger inside of him, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to be closer. He crawled into his lap.

“Ray,” Sand scolded as Ray’s elbow just narrowly missed hitting him in the face. “This car isn’t big enough for this.”

“I’m small. I’ll fit,” Ray said. And somehow, he did. As soon as he settled himself across Sand’s lap, one knee thrown over each side of him, he sat back and he preened. “See?”

Sand shook his head in exasperation, but he looked so hopelessly fond that Ray just stopped and admired him for a second. He was pretty sure no one had ever looked at him like that before—like his eccentricities were something to celebrate, not something that needed to be fixed. So he kissed him again, slower this time, rolling his hips over Sand’s and relishing the moan it elicited from him.   

He reached between them, pawing the front of Sand’s pants, and found that he was hard too. He unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants down just enough for his dick to spring free.

“You don’t have to,” Sand said, breaking the kiss, but he didn’t actually make any moves to stop him. His eyes were glazed over, his cheeks flushed a beautiful red, and Ray wanted to see that color spread over his entire body. 

“You saved my life,” he said. “Let me thank you.” Then he licked his palm and took Sand in hand. This time, Sand didn’t stop him.

“Fuck,” he cursed, throwing his head back against the seat behind him. Immediately, Ray latched onto his neck, licking and biting and sucking the delicate skin of his throat, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more. So he led Sand back to his lips.

Sand had told him once that sometimes the act of singing in front of crowd physically aroused him—something about the ecstacy of the music vibrating through his body combined with the feel of a roomful of eyes on him—so Ray wasn’t sure whether he was still riding an adrenaline high from his set or if he was just that into him, but soon he was bucking up into Ray’s hand, breathing so hard that he could no longer maintain their kiss.

“Does that feel good?” Ray teased, still close enough that their lips brushed against each other when he spoke. Sand nodded, but it wasn’t enough for Ray. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Feels good,” Sand slurred, his voice barely more than a whisper. He looked so blissed out Ray wasn’t sure he even knew what he was saying. It felt more likely that he was just parroting Ray’s own words back at him.

Ray sped up his strokes, pulling out all of his tricks, and when Sand finally came, Ray muffled his cry with a kiss. Then he sat back and watched as Sand came down from his high. He was smiling as if he’d had fun and something inside of Ray sang. Sex had never been particularly fun for him. Instead, it was more of an itch he needed to scratch. But with Sand, it was different.

Ray kissed him on the lips one last time and then moved to climb off of his lap only to realize his hand was covered in come. Without thinking, he wiped it off on the closest available surface, which just so happened to be Sand’s jeans. He only realized what he had done when Sand let out a squawk of protest.

“Oops,” he said with a wince, crawling off of him. “Sorry?”

But Sand’s annoyance seemed to only be for show. He pulled his pants back up and buckled them. “Do you want me to…?” he asked, trailing off suggestively as his fingers danced a path up Ray’s thigh towards his crotch. Ray grabbed his hand to stop him.

“Not yet. I can wait until we get to your place. You’re going to need a full range of motion for what I have in mind.”

Sand smirked and then opened the car door and climbed out. “I assume I’m driving?” he said.

“Yes, please,” Ray agreed, following him out. And then, to Ray’s surprise, Sand held the front door open for him like an actual gentleman. It was a kindness he wasn’t used to. “Thank you.”

Sand rolled his eyes. “You going to give me a handjob for that too?”

“I might.”

As they drove to Sand’s apartment that night, Ray was surprised by just how at home he felt—in Sand’s car, in Sand’s home, in Sand’s life. He liked it. It felt like he had finally found somewhere he belonged.

For the Fluff Prompt ABCs

[0gaudeamus-igitur0]

Firepaw dodged an incoming attack from Lionheart, rolling in the dirt and sand. He was out of breath and his legs were trembling from exhaustion but his green eyes were gleaming with determination and pride. It had been two moons since he joined ThunderClan and already he embraced the ways of his new clan, his once pudgy form was now lean and strong, his senses sharper than ever. Tigerclaw, Ravenpaw, and Graypaw were observing by the other side of sandy hallow, just as tired as Firepaw but excited at the prospect of battle training. They spent the better part of the day learning new moves and now that the sun was setting, it was time to put them to practical use. Life in ThunderClan was difficult but the feeling of freedom was incomparable to anything he had ever felt up to that point, so even though his muscles ached after long hours of training and his stomach was empty more than it was full, he was satisfied with the path he had chosen.

Graypaw already had his session with Lionheart and Ravenpaw had also finished his training with Tigerclaw, if the older tom throwing him around and belittling his attempts can be called training. So all five toms would probably head back to camp once Firepaw finished his mock fight with the deputy.

Firepaw charged at Lionheart right after getting up on his paws again, hoping to catch the golden tom by surprise, however, the experienced warrior was ready and instead raised his huge paw to bat the apprentice away. Firepaw was too close to stop his attack so he braced for the impact he knew was coming. Except it never did.

Confused and disoriented he heard surprised yowling and hissing, he was being pushed to the side and out of the way of Lionheart's attack. It took him a second to realize that an intruder had interrupted their training session. The intruder was holding Lionheart by the scruff of his neck, their teeth dangerously close to the warrior's throat. At first, the golden tom trashed under their grip but the other cat was bigger and heavier than him so his efforts only made the cat dig their teeth and claws deeper into his skin. The rest of the apprentices and Tigerclaw were on their paws immediately, spitting and hissing but not approaching, worried that the intruder might snap their deputy's neck or tear out his throat. Firepaw was so surprised that he didn't recognize the other cat until they spoke.

"Get behind me, Rusty!"

The distinctly female voice shouted at him, muffled by fur but recognizable. The she-cat, Maple, towered over Lionheart and Tigerclaw, her white tail lashing furiously from side to side as she protectively stood between Firepaw and other cats. When he didn't listen to her instructions and instead took a battle stance, hissing at her, she stopped glaring at Tigerclaw to give him a look of confusion and betrayal.

"What are you doing? I said get behind me, there could be more of them!"

In her confusion, her grip on Lionheart must have loosened, as he tore out from beneath her and tackled her while she was unprepared.

Tigerclaw and Lionheart pinned her down while the apprentices took a defensive position around the ginger she-cat who was desperately trying to scratch and bite her way free of the tom's hold.

"Maple stop!" Firepaw snapped at her.

After a moment the she-cat stopped trashing and looked at him, unsure of what was happening. Firepaw was torn, it was his duty to protect ThunderClan territory but he knew Maple wasn't the type to pick fights for no reason, so her attack was probably just a misunderstanding. Luckily before he had to decide what to do, Lionheart took the lead. He was out of breath and blood was dripping down his neck but his voice was strong.

"Do you know this cat Firepaw?"

Immediately, before he could reply, Maple spat at the golden tom "What do you care you big brute? Attacking kits that aren't half your size, you're lucky I didn't snap your neck!"

Tigerclaw immediately growled, speaking for the first time since the attack "Quiet rouge! He wasn't talking to you!" Firepaw flinched at the anger in his tone but Lionheart's insistent look gave him the courage to speak up after a moment of hesitation.

"Lionheart please let her go, this is a huge misunderstanding, I'm sure Maple will behave if we all calm down."

The deputy looked at him with obvious doubt but when Firepaw sent a pleading look towards the ginger she-cat and after a moment of hesitation she stopped resisting except for a few frustrated twitches of her tail, Lionheart sighed.

"Tigerclaw let her go" He ordered, knowing the tabby tom would protest.

"But-"

"I said let her go, there's six of us and she won't get the jump on me twice" With that last part he sent a warning look towards the cat, who wisely chose not to say anything in return.

Tigerclaw grumbled, his tail lashing, but he listened to Lionheart and together they removed their weight off of her.

Maple immediately rose to her paws and shook her pelt of dirt and sand. She hastily made her way towards Firepaw and the other apprentices who quickly scurried out of her way, her every move being followed by the two warriors. She quickly checked him for injuries and finding none besides a few shallow scratches, Maple began washing his ears in relief and satisfaction, her loud purrs heard by all cats present.

Embarrassed, Firepaw shook his head and tried pushing her away, unsuccessfully.

"I'm okay Maple! They wouldn't harm me!" He loudly protested.

Clearing his throat, Lionheart had their attention again, he then repeated his earlier question.

"Firepaw, what's your relation to this cat?"

"Maple is my father's sister. She visited my siblings and mother a lot while we were still living together..." He explained shortly, looking slightly nervous.

Honestly, Maple was more like a second mother to him. Whenever she could she would visit their garden and play with them. She would also tell them stories and occasionally bring sparrows she caught. Those visits helped fuel the already present sense of longing for the forest inside the ginger tom. Firepaw hasn't seen Maple for a couple of moons now, not since he got taken in by his old two legs.

Lionheart seemed to think over this new information, looking between the two ginger cats as if he were looking for obvious signs they were kin. Tigerclaw on the other hand only grew more tense, his scarred face twisting into a deeper growl as he studied the tall intruder.

"Great, exactly what we need. More kittypets intruding on our territory." Firepaw bristled at the brown tabby's words but knew better than to oppose the experienced warrior. Maple didn't have such reservations, glaring right back at him. She didn't know what a kittypet was but she could tell by his tone of voice that it wasn't a compliment.

"Then maybe you should guard it better."

"Oh we will-"

"Maple please, you're only making things worse-"

"Enough!" Lionheart's voice echoed through the training hollow, effectively silencing the fight as well as startling the apprentices. They weren't used to seeing him get so angry or loud.

After a moment of silence, he gave Tigerclaw a look that had the other warrior shutting his mouth and looking away in frustration. Finally, he looked at Maple again, studying her expression and demeanor. She felt oddly stripped under his gaze, as if he was looking right through her yet she still raised her head defiantly. Looking at him right back in the eyes with challenge in her gaze.

"Your intentions might have been good but that doesn't give you the right to intrude on our territory. You need to leave now or we will be forced to chase you out." His tone was confident and strong, looking at the bigger feline with calmness but also authority. Had this been a patrol he would have chased an intruder like her away, however, there were apprentices present that he had to protect so a more diplomatic approach was necessary. This seemed to irk Tigerclaw more.

"Yes, I can see that Rusty- erm... Firepaw hasn't been harmed." Maple replied, eyeing the small apprentice out of the corner of her eye. Noting that he has gotten skinnier but also stronger since she had last seen him. "But I'm afraid I can't leave yet."

"And why is that?" Lionheart asked, narrowing his yellow eyes at the loner. It was clear that the deputy wasn't taking this lightly despite the fact that Maple wasn't being hostile.

"Firepaw's mother got word that he left his two legs to search for wild cats. She begged me to find him and make sure he is okay, I won't be satisfied until I see this clan of yours."

Firepaw grew more embarrassed and tense, but also... Regretful. Not of the fact that he left but more so about not saying goodbye, or at least making sure his mother and siblings knew he was okay. He should have known that his old life wouldn't be so easy to leave behind.

"Do you think you can just waltz into our home and make demands?" Tigerclaw seemed more ready to tear Maple's fur off with every passing moment, but a strict look from Lionheart was enough to silence the angry warrior.

"This isn't a permission I can grant you. Only Bluestar may say whether you'll be allowed to enter our camp or not." Lionheart meowed after a long moment, still keeping a watchful eye on Maple. "But you cannot stay here, or hunt on these grounds." If the situation got out of control this was a fight they could win, but the loner had already made it clear that she was a formidable opponent. Lionheart didn't want things to turn violent, especially not with the apprentices present.

"I will speak of this to Bluestar but if she rejects your request you will have to take your nephew's word that he is well looked after." Lionheart looked at Firepaw then, who seemed to shrink under his stare despite the deputy's demeanor being calm. He did not blame the apprentice for the intruder's presence.

Maple seemed to think this over, glancing at the ginger tom with a questioning look in her eyes. He seemed conflicted, his loyalty to the clan had never been tested like this, especially not against a family member but he did his best to remain strong and stand tall despite his obvious unease. After a moment she nodded.

"Alright. I'll wait for your decision at Ru- Firepaw's old home, but I'll be back if I don't receive a response soon." This seemed to irritate both warriors but Lionheart still nodded in understanding. Tigerclaw looked like he wanted to protest but kept quiet, glaring at the retreating intruder.

Before leaving Maple stopped by Firepaw, murmuring her goodbyes and touching his forehead to hers which he had to restrain a purr at. He knew that his responsibility was towards his clan but he missed his aunt, mother, and siblings. Tigerclaw was instructed to follow the loner and make sure she left the territory while Lionheart escorted the three apprentices back to camp. They spoke in hushed voices about the encounter until they were just in front of the thick thick gorse surrounding the Thunderclan camp, Lionheart sent Graypaw and Ravenpaw ahead but requested Firepaw stay behind for a moment.

Firepaw internally cringed, he knew that more questions were coming and a part of him was afraid that the clan would kick him out now that he was proving to be more trouble than it was worth. After all, he's the reason Maple intruded on their territory and made demands. Lionheart paused for a moment, just observing the younger tom until he spoke in an even voice.

"Maple... Is she not a kittypet like you used to be?"

Firepaw was surprised by the question, he expected Lionheart to question whether she was a threat to Thunderclan or not. Then again the deputy might have already made that judgement himself.

"I- not really? I think she was born one, but she definitely doesn't live with her twolegs anymore. I'm pretty sure she hasn't for a while..." Firepaw wasn't sure where this line of questioning was going but he trusted Lionheart.

"Look, I... I'm sorry to have caused trouble. I didn't know she'd go looking for me, we haven't seen each other since my old twolegs-" Lionheart cut him off, shaking his head.

"It isn't your fault Firepaw. It's natural for your kin to feel concerned, I just worry this might cause Thunderclan problems..." The deputy had a thoughtful look on his face, he seemed troubled but maintained a sense of calm and control.

"We can't have loners intruding on our territory. She might be your kin but your loyalties are with Thunderclan, you need to remember that." With that the golden tom sat up and entered the gorse tunnel, entering the camp and leaving Firepaw alone to ponder. The younger tom stayed there for a couple more moments, looking back into the forest as if Maple would appear again but there was nobody else here but him. With a sign he turned around and followed his deputy, hoping that this wouldn't further alienate him from the clan mates who were starting to accept him.

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

AN// Hiiiii, I haven't posted in a while (about Three years) but lately I was inspired to do a bit of writing

A lot has changed, I'm in college now but I still love warriors and occasionally draw my ocs. I really felt like writing something for my old Into the wild AU so I figured why not. This Au mainly focuses on Fireheart and his aunt (my oc) Maple who I inserted into the story because why not. It's not super developed so I might not post something like this for a while but It's kind of fun to make a chapter like this now and again. I guess this would be the prologue?

Anyway excuse the shitty writing, im an artist not an author so its not really something I usually do

If you want to see more or know more about my AU feel free to leave me an ask ^^ I love answering them