#clinging to a rafter

[beaft]

the other day in BG3 i used karlach's superior strength to jump her up to a rafter and collect some loot, which would've been fine, except i'd forgotten to turn off group mode so astarion somehow followed her up there and got stuck. we left without him. i didn't even notice he was gone for a full half hour. was just like "wow it's real quiet around here all of a sudden." like leaving a baby at a service station

#bg3 #be shh now #i clicked back to him after noticing a strange absence of bitchy comments #and there he was #alone #clinging to a rafter #couldn't be arsed to traipse back and fetch him so i just left him there till end of day #peace and quiet <3

[latinorry]

I think Mitch is hot and I enjoy his music… that said his fanbase is unbearable and I will not be subjecting myself to that ever again lmfao

#it’s pretty much exactly the kind of freaks you’d expect clinging onto any shred of love on tour/harry #why are u looking in the rafters for Harry his ass is NOTTT in Williamsburg get real

[halftheway]

ngl i still consider this to be one of my favorites i've written

#ranboo is here for comedic relief and i think he provides. #he is watching this all upside down from where he's clinging to a ceiling rafter btw #las nevadas polycule #this has been in my docs for so long that i think ranboo hadn't even come out when i wrote it #so i got to add in the comment abt foolish further in the editing process for flavor. cfoolish objectively hot if you disagree youre wrong

[aardvaark]

love when parker drops from seemingly nowhere. not every ceiling has exposed rafters or pipes that she can cling onto or perch on, sometimes she must be pulling some kinda superhuman spider-man shit. it’s not a plot hole btw i fully believe she can do all that stuff, i would never doubt THE parker’s abilities

#parker leverage #leverage #leverageposting #wren speaks #how does she get out of locked rooms with even her own team being totally confused by her reappearance outside? idk. but i love that for her

[sprout-fics]

Afterburn

(Everyone x F! Reader)

Rating: M Wordcount: 8k Tags: Aftercare, Post-nut clarity, Praise kink, Taking a bath together, Just 6 dudes taking care of their girl after completely and utterly wrecking her A/N: ...This was supposed to be a drabble. No few regrets. My personal take on the aftermath @yeyinde 's "Body electric". Special thank you to @guyfieriii @moondirti @zwiiicnziiix @ladiilokii and many others

Summary:

It’s over.

The world around you feels dense, cryptic, laden with mysteries and vagueness as you still try to process how you ended up here. Your eyes stare up at the creaking, wooden rafters of the safehouse, vision still swimming, dried tears flaking at the corner of your gaze. Every small motion seems to roil with a discomfort that’s heavy with the aftereffects of pleasure, bleached to the bone and dull, cracking at the edges. Splayed over the table where maps and gear had been hastily shoved aside you can’t deny the chafe, the rawness that manages to soak deep into your veins.

The boys are milling around you, speaking in tired, disbelieving tones at the events of the past few hours, at how you had managed to take them, all of them at once.

It had been a blur, your memories drowning in a cacophony of slickened skin and torrid, whispered praises, or grunted pleasures and hissed curses as they all took as much as they gave. You weren’t sure who’s idea it was at first, but in the course of fucking you, of ruining you, you had surrendered completely to them, let their hands and voices guide you as you floated on an endless sea of sensation and desire. Even as they had drunk their fill of you, of your salted moans and whimpered, pleasured cries, they had been ever attentive, listening to the roll and tide of your ebbing lust, knowing exactly when to push and pull you like the ever-changing undercurrent of the ocean itself.

Now, in the aftermath you feel like you’ve been washed ashore, left there by the churning waves as fluid drips across your skin and clings there like salt.

You don’t survive this long with the 141 without your fair share of injuries. Burns, cuts, and blisters are your war medals, decorating your skin with a silent story of pride. Grenades, IEDs, the ground shattering sensation of a missile launch or the back-kick of a rifle. These things were familiar to you. Not this.

When you blink, it’s to wince at the rough chafe between your legs, the tender touch of a love bite sucked into your throat. You ache all over, and while the afterburn of pleasure still roils low in your stomach, sated and simmering with fading euphoria, the dull, insistent stretch and soreness of handling five men at once feels at once too much, too sharp, too severe.

A whimper bubbles up your throat when you try to shift, try to roll over onto your stomach with your back still braced on the harsh metal table braced against your back. Someone had been kind enough to spread a towel under you, but it’s still not enough to ease the bite of discomfort clinging to you like rose thorns.

The chatter around you ceases instantly at the sound that pours from you when you try to move. The world around you seems more like hazy, indiscernible shapes with how overstimulated your senses are, an abstract of shades and shapes that make little sense to your pleasure-addled brain. Yet even so, it’s Rudy’s face that flickers into your vision, brow still slick with sweat but scrunched with concern.

“Shh.” He hushes you, and his hand is petting your hair from your face and your eyes flutter shut under his touch. “Easy, mi Corazón.”

“How is she?”

The voice is gruff, accented, and the question itself seems more like a demand than a question, spoken with an air of unquestioning authority. Price.

“Tired.” You manage, voice tacky and stick in your dry throat as you swallow and taste bitterness there. “Sore.”

Rudy clucks at you, and the sound feels for all the world like a worried mother hen. His thumb smears a drop of flaking cum against your cheek, and the touch is tender, careful with your over exhausted state.

Except then there’s another touch, one that grasps at your hand and raises it between two calloused palms, bitten with years of duty.

“Ya did good, hen.” Soap coos, and you twist your head to see him, his eyes still glazed over but bright, warm as they regard your lidded gaze. “Did so well for us.”

You can only hum, trying and failing to find the wherewithal inside you to summon a proper response. Soap smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.

“What do you need, doll?” A different voice asks, and you tilt your head to see Gaz leaning on the table next to you, one hand planted next to your shoulder as he gazes down at you. His head is tilted, eyes tracing over the mess of fluids and grime caked on your skin. There’s something that flickers across his eyes, bitter and almost guilty, and had you not been so spent you would have reached for him, murmured reassurances against the curve of his jaw.

“Water.” You mutter instead, and instantly Gaz is gone from you. Before you can try and follow him with your eyes there’s hands bracing at your shoulders, fingers spreading against your bare skin. The world shifts around you, body bent and raised up to a sitting position.

“Easy, querida.” Alejandro soothes as you let out a little whimper of discomfort when he sits you up. “Con suavidad, mm? Gently now.”

You don’t have the strength to sit up by yourself, choosing to lean heavily on him instead, body slouching and trembling. From what you aren’t sure. You’re bare as the day you were born, and though the safehouse seems a touch chilled by the evening air, the shiver in your limbs runs deeper than that, wear and overspent.

“Soap.” Alejandro speaks, and his voice is muted, quiet so as to not startle you. “A blanket.”

Soap’s footsteps fade just as Gaz draws near once again, wrapping your hands around a canteen even as your grip shakes unsteadily. When he helps you tip the flask, the water soothes mercifully over your chaffed and cracked throat, and you gulp greedily. Yet it’s too much too fast, and it only takes two deep swallows before you cough and splutter, water trickling down the corner of your lips.

“Careful.” Gaz warns, voice low as he hovers in front of you, one hand still engulfing the hand holding the canteen. “Not too fast, doll.”

Yet then you feel him pause, shift and make room for a different figure that presses closer to you, a calloused hand gently gripping your chin and tipping your head back once you’ve caught your breath. When your eyes flutter open once more, it’s to meet the vision of Captain Price, eyes grim as he faces you head on, gaze never wavering.

“How bad?” He asks, and you know that tone, firm and demanding to know what you know, for you to not lie as you convey the depth of your awareness into his.

You swallow.

“I’m fine.” You tell him, and it’s the truth. You feel the ripple of suspense, of apprehension dissipate with a sigh from the men around you, relieved yet still precariously concerned with the sight of you, shivering, exposed, and exhausted from the inside out.

“I’m just…tired.” You emphasize again, incapable of conveying much more. “…and kinda gross.”

Price nods, the motion firm. You can see him digesting the information you’ve given him, letting it simmer and ruminate as he configures his next attack like a battle-hardened soldier.

“Rodolfo.” He states, and you hear the sergeant shift somewhere behind you, standing at attention on instinct at the solid, instructive tone of the captain’s voice. “Is there a bathtub here?”

“Si.”

“Good. Go run a warm bath. Not too hot. Gaz will help.”

“Rog.” Gaz affirms, and when his touch vanishes from you it’s Alejandro who keeps your hands steady, with your shoulder still pressed to his chest and head lolling onto his collarbone. He’s murmuring soft words at you that you hardly hear, fatigue dragging at you insistently like a riptide.

“Soap.” Price summons next, eyes turning to the Scotsman who still hovers close to the three of you with the blanket he’s retrieved. “Think you can find a clean set of clothes and fresh sheets?”

Through your wobbly gaze you see Soap perk up, eyes glinting with the look of a mission driven soldier.

“Aye, cap.” He confirms and takes two large steps before he’s again vanished from your sight.

It’s only once he’s gone that Price turns back to you, his calloused hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head up to face him once again. You whine at that, at the way the motion reminds your body of what’s already there, tender and raw and aching.

“Easy, love.” He gentles you, and his voice rumbles rough in his chest like cigar smoke, smoggy, acrid but warm all the same. “You did so well for us.”

His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, touch firm and insistent despite the little hiss of tenderness you summon in response. Yet then the captain’s eyes soften, drinking in your flushed face and clouded gaze, lips parted under the rough pad of his thumb.

“So well.” He repeats, eyes distant for a moment as they trace over your lips before at last flickering up to your eyes. “Now let us return the favor and take care of you.”

It takes a moment for your hazy thoughts to process his words but when you do, you ease into his touch, breathy exhale spilling across the flat of his palm and eyes rolling shut. With a single, blissful sigh, you surrender once more to these men, let them take care of you in the way only they can, with their soft, firm voices and calloused, tender touches that bouy you as if you're lost at sea.

Then, the soft touch of a fabric as Price helps Alejandro drape the blanket across your form, enveloping you in a soothing warmth. You go limp, more pliant than you already are, leaning into the warm embrace of Alejandro’s form. A single hand comes up to clutch the blanket, velvety and worn under your fingertips.

Price vanishes somewhere beyond you, and Alejandro tucks you further into his side, nose buried in your hair as you shiver against him. Your bare legs dangle from the edge of the table, feet barely skimming the ground. Price’s voice is somewhere nearby, murmuring to someone you can’t see. You think you hear the sound of running water somewhere, but your thoughts feel clouded, hazy and sated with the knowledge that these men are intent on your care as much as your pleasure. For a moment you feel the riptide of fatigue pull at you, lulling you under as sleep beckons with an insistent, raw promise.

Footsteps. A presence, omnipresent and heavy like the force of gravity itself. You don’t open your eyes, don’t need to, already knowing who’s shadow falls across your form.

“Give her here.” Simon asks, demands from the colonel, voice low like the rumble of distant thunder.

You feel Alejandro stiffen, hesitate at the thought of entrusting you to the hulking soldier, remembering the way you went blank-eyed and completely limp under him, under the weight and pressure and force that is Ghost.

“Let him.” Price encourages, voice careful between the two. “I’ll need your help in here, mate.”

That seems to do it, because Alejandro is pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head before he extricates himself from you, steadying you long enough for Simon to catch you by the crook of your knees and width of your shoulders, hauling you up against him. The blanket bunches around your form, legs dangling and head lolling into the breadth of Simon’s chest.

Yet the motion isn’t without punishment, not as you’re shifted and your body protests valiantly at the abruptness of it all. A choked, pleading moan frees itself from your throat as Simon begins to walk away from the common area, strides large and purposeful.

“S-Simon-“ You try, unsure exactly what you’re pleading for but wanting to be closer, huddled deeper into his massive form.

“Easy, love.” He murmurs in response, accent thick and cloying in your thoughts. You settle at that, at the illusive, strangely sympathetic tenor of his voice. You’re too tired to do much else than recline against him with a shivering sigh, limbs aching and caked in grime.

It’s the sound of his boots against tile that rouses you only moments later, the warm steam of the bathroom curling across your skin and licking against clammy, chilled flesh. Ghost hovers just inside the doorway, hands splayed against you as they cup you to his form. You wish you had the forethought to lift your arms, tangle them around his neck, but the thought is gone as another figure hovers at your side.

“I got it from here, LT.”

Simon gruffs a sound of affirmation, and with surprising care dumps you into Gaz’s waiting arms. The blanket wrapped around you gently pulls away, and when you shudder Gaz’s lips are pressed into your temple.

“It’s alright, pretty girl.” He hushes. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

He’s bare, you realize dimly, exposed flesh pressed against you. The thought is strangely mortifying, considering the man has been balls deep in your ass earlier. Yet you don’t realize why he’s naked until he’s stepping into the tub, lowering you down with him into the warm, soothing water.

It takes a few moments for you both to settle, some of the water sloshing out onto the tile with both your forms inside the tub. Yet Gaz’s chest is pressed against your back, legs on either side of you and arms caging yours as you sink lower into the water with a blissful sigh. You feel it when he rumbles a chuckle, a hand vanishing as he reaches for the supplies Rudy no doubt provided him.

You reach for them as well, but your hand is gently knocked aside by the sergeant you’re pressed against.

“Nuh-uh, love.” He chuckles. “This is all me.”

You find it difficult to protest, instead sinking further into the warm water.

He starts by gently pouring water over you, dunking your sweaty, matted hair and loosening the strands carefully with his fingers. The sergeant works systematically, lifting each limb and scrubbing it free of flaky cum and caked sweat, the soft bubbles of soap grazing across your arms and legs. You relax into him completely limp and utterly euphoric. Everything smells like coconut and aloe, aromatic and perfumed and warm as the water laps at your legs and chest.

Gaz takes careful attention to your face, gently cleansing it free of the tear trails and semen caked against your cheeks and the corners of your mouth. He’s murmuring gentle encouragements to you all the while, voice hushed and soft in your ear, full of “There we go, that'sa girl, sit up for me? Thank you, doll. Almost done, back next, shh, easy.”

When he gets to the apex of your thighs however, you flinch at his touch, just barely too firm against your chaffed, stretched holes.

“Take it easy.” A voice gruffs, and you blink your eyes open, vision adjusting to the dusty brown hues of the bathroom, seeking the cockney laden voice.

He’s there, in the corner, arms crossed and lurking, massive frame hunched into the otherwise too small space. Ghost’s eyes level at the both of you, gaze unblinking, blistering as he observes, watches, intent on observing and seeing through whatever mission he’s been tasked with.

Gaz only nods at him, his voice quiet in your ear as he speaks.

“You want to do this?” He asks, tone low, concerned at your reaction. You manage a nod over your shoulder, delicately taking the washcloth from his grip and letting it sink beneath the murky water.

It takes a moment, but you manage to hiss past the pain and arch up to scrub yourself, cleaning the mess of caked fluids that decorate your inner thighs and ass. You can feel Simon’s gaze on you all the while, the way he’s taking in every wince and jolt that flashes across your face.

“Deep breath.” Gaz encourages softly in your ear, and when you oblige there’s a slosh of water pouring over your head and dampening your locks.

You moan when Gaz works his fingers into your hair, massaging shampoo into your scalp and raking his fingers against the crown of your skull. You melt into the touch, all previous indications of soreness vanishing in the instant it takes him to chuckle warmly at your response.

“That’s nice, yeah?” He asks, and you can hear the touch of smugness in his voice, pleased with the way you grow limp and pliant against him, the way your eyes roll back into your head at the gentle, rolling motion of his fingers into your scalp. You can only hum a sleepy “Mmhmm.” In response, blissed out on the sensation.

He’s surprisingly good at this, you find out, making sure to go so far as to condition from the tips of your hair up, carefully combing your hair through his fingers. You relax fully into him, sink yourself up to your nose in the cooling water and let drowsiness take hold. Yet it’s only when you shift that you feel him, feel the hardening nudge at the small of your back that has you stiffening, sucking in a sharp gasp of air.

“Gaz…” You warn, casting a pleading look across your bare shoulder.

You’re not sure if it’s the warm water, the lingering haze of lust, or the blissful, relaxed sounds that spill past your lips, but you can feel him, can feel the blunt pressure of him against the nudge of your spine. It sends a lingering shower of sparks racing through your veins, but the heat of it is dulled, muted by exhaustion. You can’t, not again, not right now.

Gaz seems to read your mind, sees the way your eyes flicker with wariness. His hands still for a moment as he leans, entering your field of view with warm eyes that dance with a touch of mischief below the caramel surface.

“Don’t you worry about me, doll.” He replies softly, but there’s a sultriness there that isn’t fully extinguished. “This is all about you.”

And when his thumbs dig a dull, heavenly touch into the nape of your neck, you find it hard to complain.

All too soon, you hear the bathtub drain gurgle as Gaz pulls the plug, the water receding like the tide gone out to sea.

“They done?” A voice asks from the doorway, and your gaze blinks up to reveal Soap, present with what looks like two changes of clothes in hand.

“Just about.” Gaz replies, and you feel him shift as he detaches himself from you, scooting so he’s halfway out of the tub and can help you wobble your way to a stand to step out onto the cold tile.

Yet at the first step your legs tremble like an unsteady filly, and it takes both Soap and Gaz to steady you, sit you down on the edge of the tub. When you plop down on the edge, however, a remainder of soreness shoots across your hips and up your spine and you’re unable to bite back the moan that escapes you.

Gaz and Soap shoot each other a look, self-satisfied smirks tugging at the corners of each of their mouths.

“Shut up.” You grumble, feeling warmth threaten to flush across your face once more.

They spare you, thankfully, and as Gaz dries himself off it’s Soap who’s drying your hair, wiping the water from your shoulder and back. You trace the planes of his face as he does, watching the way his brow scrunches with concentration, the way his eyes linger over the swell of your tender, bruised breasts and the curve of your hips. The plumpness of his lip is sucked between his teeth, and you can tell he’s restraining himself, trying not to indulge with his touch on you, letting his fingers wander and press and summon whimpered pleas from your bones. His hands are assertive in the way only soldiers are, resolute with duty and yet still somehow gentle, considerate when he grazes over the soreness of you.

You attempt to help, feeling a trembling strength returning to you now that’s your hydrated and clean. Yet Soap merely grumbles at you, refusing to hand over the towel.

“Just sit back, hen.” He tells you, and his voice is firm despite the tenderness there.

You purse your lips at him, feeling a flash of guilt at letting yourself be so completely pampered like this, not allowed to do so much as properly dry yourself. Yet Soap notices, steely blue gaze flickering to yours when he notices your hesitation.

“Lass.” He begins, that cocksure smile tugging at his lips once more. His eyes are sparkling, and you can’t stifle the helpless flop of warmth that pools inside of you at the sight. “You just let us shag you seven ways to Sunday and were bloody perfect for it. Let us spoil you, aye?”

Yet you’re still unsure, and when the Scotsman sees you’re unconvinced he sighs.

“When else are you going to have five burly men at waitin’ on you hand and foot?” He asks almost impatiently, and that thought is intriguing to say the least, enough to make your hand fall limply back to your side.

Soap grins. The warmth thickens.

“That’s a good lass.” He murmurs, and there’s a touch of smugness in his voice, at the way he’s managed to school you into surrendering, letting yourself succumb to his touch once more. Yet that conciliation is enough to get him chattering now, tongue loose as he purrs little praises and encouragements at you all the while.

“So pretty.” He coos as he turns your face up in his palms, towel brushing hair from your brow, as he wrings water from your hair and carefully wipes at your still tender hips and thighs. “Perfect little bonnie for us.”

You’re pliant, docile under his touch, letting him do as he needs to and letting the familiar touch of hebetude pull at your senses. It would be easy to fall asleep right here, to lean against him and let rest take hold of you, drown you as it's meant to. Clean now, warm and undeniably sated, the promise of sleep creeps near with a touch that feels achingly familiar. The temptation is an enticing one, the promise of deep, velvety unconsciousness dragging at you even as Soap reaches for your change of clothes.

“Arms up.” He encourages, and you can’t help the drowsy little grumble that escapes you in protest.

“ ‘m tired, Johnny.” You slur at him, but the sergeant merely tuts at you.

“I know hen. I know. We’re almost done.”

You grumble even as you oblige, lifting your arms up and letting him slide a T-shirt that seems far too large for you over your bare torso. Pants follow, and you have to fumble with the drawstring of the sweatpants to cinch them around your waist so they don’t pool at your hips. Yet it’s the hoodie that Soap slips your arms through that makes you slouch into comfort, hum a note of appreciation at the back of your throat.

“Smells like you.” You mumble, eyes sleepy and warm at your sergeant, and you see Soap melt.

“Only the finest.” He grins back at you, eyes glinting with that tell-tale elation he has whenever he’s got your full attention.

There’s a call from down the hallway that you don’t catch, one that draws Soap’s attention and causes him to turn his head. You follow his gaze at first, but find yourself distracted by the shadowy figure still present in the corner, head tilted as he observes you, watches you watch him. You can see his eyes, see the way they’re slightly narrowed at your slouched form on the edge of the tub. It isn’t clear exactly what Simon is looking for, but he seems to find it nonetheless, gaze darting up from your pebbled nipples to your open, curious expression.

“Think you can stand?” Soap asks you, drawing your attention back to him. You nod, and with his help wobble to your feet, bare soles still sliding across the wet floor.

Yet again, when your legs shake with weakness it’s all you can do to remain standing, hand gripping Soap’s arm with a trembling, unsteady grip. Your gaze flicks upwards, once again finding the skull mask that haunts the edges of the room and the periphery of your thoughts. You don’t make a sound, barely alter your expression, but within moments Ghost is rolling his shoulders to push off from the wall, closing the distance between you both and wrapping an arm around your waist.

He doesn’t say a word as he scoops you up once more, and even Soap seems a bit surprised at the sudden gesture, eyebrows arched as the mammoth soldier cradles you into his broad chest.

“I-“ You try, but when Ghost’s eyes peer down at you your throat feels dry, tongue heavy, and the words are lost.

Soap trails you both as Ghost escorts you back in the direction of Price and the others. As you round the corner your nose instantly fills with the thick, scented spice of garlic and onions, and soon you find Rudy and Alejandro in the kitchen, turned to each other with smirking, tell-tale smiles as they bend over a pan of something that you think smells like heaven.

“Here.”

You turn at the sound of Price’s voice. He’s seated at the head of the table, and the chair creaks as he scoots away from the table, widening an arm in Simon’s direction. Simon follows the order without protest, gently depositing you into Price’s lap even as you whimper at the tender flesh of your ass coming into contact with him.

You should be embarrassed, you think. You should be a little bashful at this circumstance, perched in the lap of your captain who smells like cigar smoke and gun oil, at the way his arm closes around you and keeps you braced against his chest. Yet Price is warm, solid, his grip on you firm and reassuring, so you struggle to find yourself to care.

Price reaches for something on the table, a tube of what looks like ointment. You blink at it for a moment, brow furrowing even as he deposits a liberal smear on his calloused fingertips. When he catches your wary expression he merely huffs, the mutton chops of his beard twitching upward with his smile.

“Ointment.” He explains. “It’ll help with the tenderness.”

You arch an eyebrow at him, surprised but also a touch curious.

“You say that like you’ve been in this situation before, captain.” You remark carefully, but Price merely huffs at you, warm, smoky breath ghosting across the planes of your face.

“Years of experience, love.” Is all he gives you before his hand is snaking under the hem of your shirt, up to the tender, suckled flesh of your breasts. It’s a shock, you flinch under the cold touch of his slickened fingertips. Yet Price’s opposite hand digs into your thigh, steadying, guiding in the way only he is. You arch into him with a little protest as he smears the ointment across the rise of your chest, whimper caught in your throat.

“Easy.” Price gentles when you squirm, and the tickle of his beard whispers over the nape of your neck when he presses a kiss there. “I got you.”

You only nod, eyes scrunched shut and breath stuttering in your chest, hands gripping his arms and head tucked back against his shoulder. Your heart thrums louder, skin burning, yearning for the grip of him but knowing it’s too much, too soon, that you can only sit there and take it as his war-worn hands smooth the cream against your battered flesh.

Yet it’s when his touch vanishes from you, when you sigh that you hear him huff, chest jolting with the motion as you brace against it. Except then he’s shifting, and you feel a hand pull at the hem of the sweatpants you’re wearing -black, you notice- as his fingers descend past them, along your belly and towards the core of you.

“C-captain-!” You shudder when Price smoothes lotion across your folds, and suddenly the world is too hot, too bright, and you’re shivering under his touch, body growing taut. Yet Price’s touch is purely medicinal, purposeful and clinical even as you gasp and writhe weakly against him.

“You can take it.” He encourages, voice grumbling and firm, ever the leader, anchoring you from the discomfort and the rapid, uncertain flutter of your heartbeat.

You try to stay still, you do, but Price’s and feel like a warming brand against your skin, reigniting a coiling flame there, one that you can’t indulge in despite the wish that you could. It’s all you can do to tuck your head back against him, shiver under his hand cupping the core of you, your hands digging into him as you seek gravity. When you whimper, Price’s touch softens, soothing circles into your hips, your thighs, your ribs.

“There we go, love.” He rasps when you sink against him, caressed into docility as you perch on his lap. “That’s a good girl.”

You whimper, and the sound is enough to summon a grumbling groan, caught like the grind of gravel deep in his chest.

“So fuckin’ beautiful.” And it’s Soap’s voice nearby, lilted low with desire as he watches you writhe and whimper on the lap of his captain, eyes scrunched shut and hands clutching at him to ground yourself from Price’s perseverant hand slid under the waistband of your pants. You look at him, gaze half-lidded and hazy, and when you do his eyes flash darkly at you, a curse bitten off in a language you wish you understood. It summons a weak, distant burst of arousal in you, one that has you squirm back against Price, seeking ground on which to retreat.

Yet all you find there is a grunt, a hand digging into your thigh with a warning as you recognize the bulge that presses up against the swell of your ass.

“Careful now.” Price mutters darkly, and you shiver at the desire there, even with his hand flat against the front of you, his beard tickling the nape of your neck as he at last withdraws his hand. “I don’t think you're quite ready for us again, sweetheart.”

For a brief, dizzying moment, you wish you were.

Footsteps, and when you turn your head Alejandro is approaching from the all too distant realm of the kitchen with a plate that has steam curling into delicious, mouth-watering whisps. When you catch his eyes you see him grin, and it feels for all the world like a promise of things to come, blooming like cumulus clouds against a far-off horizon.

“Arroz rojo.” He announces as he sets the plate in front of you, the red rice blooming with the scent of cumin at the back of your throat. “Rudy said you might appreciate something easy on your stomach.”

You twist in Price’s lap towards the direction of the kitchen, catching Rudy’s dark head of hair as he turns to meet your gaze. Contentedness blossoms across his expression, deeply satisfied and almost glowing with the hazy aftereffects of a man completely and utterly sated.

“Let me know if you like it, mi Corazón.” He replies, and his voice is almost shy, a touch bashful despite the fact that he’s the same man who spilled down your throat earlier.

Price’s fingers tap on your thigh, drawing your attention back to him. You crane your head to look at him, and then shiver at the darkness there, restrained but still ominously present.

“You’re going to have to move, love.” He gruffs at you. “Unless you want me to spoil your appetite.”

You gulp.

“Here.” Alejandro offers, arms open. You don’t have a chance to protest before you’re being moved between them, transferred from one set of arms to the other, adjusted until you balance on Alejandro’s lap.

“I-I can feed myself.” You try, feeling the ripe blister of embarrassment creep up your face as Alejandro reaches for the plate before you.

Yet the colonel ignores you, fork clinking as an arm keeps you braced against him, even as you try to appeal to him with half-lidded, weary eyes.

“Can you?” He asks, and that damned smugness that’s present in all of them is there in him too, as his eyes gleam down at you, a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth.

Still, you nod valiantly, grappling the fork away from his hand even as your own grip shakes lightly, spilling grains back onto the plate. When Alejandro chuckles the sound is warm, like the blaze of sun-kissed skin and spices curling on your tongue. His hand engulfs yours, steadies it as you raise the fork to your lips, letting the warm, cloying spices curl across your tongue.

When you give a little hum of enjoyment Alejandro practically purrs in your ear, and you realize that this must be doing something to him. With your tender and sore figure perched in his lap, the object of his desires smelling like musk and aloe and just a touch of him-

“Me estás volviendo loco con esos ruidos.” Alejandro murmurs, and the sound is more of a groan than anything else, spoken into your damp hair, arms hauling you tighter against him as you savor the food, a happy little noise hummed high in your throat. “The sounds you’re making are almost as pretty as you, bonita.”

“I take it that means you like it?” Rudy asks as he sets down a glass of water in front of you beside the plate, and you grin up at him, pleased.

“Mm.” Is all you manage around a mouthful of rice, and you see Rudy’s eyes melt, glaze over at the sight of you, fed and happy and satisfied. His hand flicks out, and you still as he brushes a stray grain from the corner of your mouth, drawing his thumb back to let his tongue run across the tip of his thumb. You still, tracing the motion with your eyes as a different heat flicker within you.

“Agua.” Alejandro encourages, reaching for the glass and tipping it up towards your waiting lips. You follow the command, the motion is easier now than it was before, when you were fresh out of a warzone that left you blistered and bruised but sated.

The two men before you seem entranced by you, damp and warm and docile in Alejandro’s arms. There’s a sense of pride there, you know, something about keeping you warm and fed and clean and protected that makes something primal pace against the confines of their thoughts. It’s the thought that they’ve rendered you to this much, carved gasping, lecherous words into your flesh and pushed you over into the abyss, time and time again, only to haul you back into their waiting arms.

It's not just them. When you cast a glance about there’s chairs pulled up to the table you were defiled upon, the men around you quiet but observant, gazes looking over your slouched, cuddled form with your drowsy, pleased expression and damp hair sticking to the corners of your face. Price, with his smoldering stare like the glowing burn of tobacco; Soap with his bright, keen gaze that glints at you from the distance between; Gaz with his softer, warmer eyes that still hold the hazy dying dusk of desire.

Ghost, who lingers against the wall just beyond. His eyes haven’t left you this entire time. It feels almost wolfish, the way he doesn’t shift, doesn’t blink when you look at him, arms crossed and gaze still dark, hungry for you in a way he doesn’t bother to conceal. You can still feel him, feel the way he split you open and left a piece of himself there, branding you with the heat of him nestled against your womb and his teeth grazing possessively over the underside of your jaw.

Alejandro’s fingers trace there instead, drawing you back to him, and your lips part around another forkful of arroz as he’s murmuring words into your skin that taste like cloves and paprika, aromatic and piquant.

“Wish we could keep you here, carina.” He mutters as you swallow, as his thumb smoothes over the still-trembling hand in his grasp. “We could keep you happy here.”

You are happy. Blissfully so. Despite the tenderness and fatigue, you’re undeniably comfortable, clean, fed, warm, satiated from the attention of the men around you. These men, who you’ve fought beside, who you’ve entrusted your life and body to, the ones who took their own pleasure from you as much as they gave you yours.

Maybe it’s the simmering coolness of your nerves, the way you’re so exposed and vulnerable like this, or the way Rudy’s hand pets your hair, the way Alejandro is murmuring to you, or the way Gaz looks at you with something that feels suddenly like longing-

You feel tears swell against the corner of your eyes, fat and heavy and too hot for your blistered skin. There’s a tightness that clogs your throat when you tilt your head back, trying to keep them from spilling like a cup over filled.

“Hey, hey, hey-“ Rudy coos, and his finger smears the growing wetness from your gaze, clearing it so you see his face flicker into view, brown-eyed gaze tenderly soft and worried at this sudden change in you. “Mi vida, what’s wrong?”

You swallow, and the capsicum taste of cumin lingers there. It does nothing to quell the tightness there, something skin to a sob threatening to bubble up when you speak. It dissolves as a sigh instead, one that falls across Rudy’s fingers cupping your face as you gently shake your head.

“Nothing.” You say, but your voice cracks in betrayal as you try to find the words needed to explain this strangeness in you, overwhelmed and burning at the edges but undeniably happy in a way you’re unfamiliar with. You feel like you’ve been dragged from hypothermia and into a sauna, body and mind reeling at the adjustment but grateful all the same, trying and failing to express the rawness of the sensations that threaten the crux of you.

“I’m just…happy.” You tell him at last-

And begin to cry.

Now they crowd around you, hush you with gentle words even as mortification and contempt flood your veins. When you try and wipe your tears, hide your face as you sniffle, there's a hand that pulls it away, wipes your face. Hands smooth along your shoulders and sides, rubbing gentle reassurances there that echo into the air around you.

“I’m sorry.” You manage between stifled hiccups. “I-it was good, really good, I-I don’t know why-“

“You’re exhausted, love.” And it’s Price who’s talking now. You think it’s his hand that cups your chin, over your quivering lip as you try to contain yourself. “You’re overwhelmed and tired. ‘s not your fault.”

“ ‘M sorry.” You try again, but he merely tuts at you, and there’s hands in your hair and Alejandro’s voice against your shoulders and someone’s holding your hand and rubbing circles into your hips and-

“Don’t you worry about that now.” The captain tells you, and his voice is softer now, almost ginger in the way he’s regarding you, you who’s taken bullet wounds and shrapnel and yet have become undone by the simple, irreplaceable act of being cared for.

You nod, feeling your shuddering gasps begin to wane, the shiver in your limbs subside as they once again drag you ashore, out from the blazing sun and into the cool shade of their embraces.

“Think you can handle a few more bites, Querida?” Alejandro asks, and you nod, let him lift the fork to your mouth even as salt obscures the taste.

“Next time I’ll have you come to the ranch and make you elote e carne asada.” Alejandro rumbles, and you feel the smile of him against your shoulder.

“ ‘Next time’?” Soap chuffs, and that’s enough to draw the attention away from you and to the sergeant, who crosses his arms in Alejandro’s direction. “What makes you think there will be a next time, mate?”

“Yeah.” Gaz chimes in, and he’s leaning forward so one arm rests against the table. “Besides, your ranch? Next time will be back at Beacon base in the UK.”

“You’re both wrong.” Price grumbles, fingers tapping on the width of his arm. “We’re staying in Lancashire at my place.”

“Now hold on, captain-“ Rudy objects. “Do you know how expensive it is across the Atlantic? Tickets these days are-“

They’re bickering, the previous, united camaraderie of soldiers evaporating as they discuss the group’s future endeavors like mapping out battle plans, pinpointing targets and 0600’s and supplies. You don’t bother to listen, not even as Alejandro’s tumbling voice echoes over your head and his arm wraps around your middle in a gesture that seems more possessive than it does stabilizing, the warmth of his hand burrowing against your ribs with nothing but the cotton of your too-large shirt to separate him from your skin.

Full now, belly warm and senses cloudy with contentment, you lean your head back against Alejandro’s shoulder, body slumping as you feel the familiar drag of fatigue wind around you, pulling you downwards. There’s nothing left. You don’t think you could walk even if you wanted to, limbs heavy and immobile. There’s fuzz between your ears, like cotton balls soft to the touch, obscuring sound and sight as the heavy weight of drowsiness washes over you.

“A few more bites, carino.” Rudy encourages, and you whine at him, too far gone to summon a real protest. The sound is enough to make Alejandro brace his head into your shoulder and groan at the little pleading whimper in your voice, too full and tired to bother with much else.

“Chica bonita.” Rudy purrs at you. “Are you tired? Need to sleep?”

You nod up at him, feeling a small flush of self-awareness at how you must look right now, bedraggled and tired and damp, draped in clothes far too big for you, eyes lidded and heavy with the promise of sleep. Yet Rudy’s eyes are affectionate when they catch yours, and you can taste the melted chocolate that oozes from them, dark and sweet.

“Let’s get you tucked in then.” He murmurs, looking over your shoulder at Alejandro. They exchange in Spanish you don’t understand, and it gives you the opportunity you need to let your head drop, eyes fluttering shut even as you’re lifted, moved. The world tilts around you, yet this time it feels less like the daring free fall of a skydive and more like the gentle, reminiscent swing of a hammock on a sunny afternoon, dappled sunlight streaming through a forest canopy. The world is warm, cloaked in color and birdsong, the air around you like a salted ocean breeze that licks at the folds on your clothes and tangles in your hair.

“Shh, shh, gently now.” Soap murmurs, and you can smell him as he helps you down into the bed he’s helped make, military corners tucked in with precision. You sink into it, knowing it’s nothing more than a cot but thankful to the gods to at last be horizontal, laying on your side as a hand lifts your skull to slide a pillow there. You curl in on yourself even as a blanket falls across your form, shivering.

Yet when Soap tries to leave you catch him, fingers tugging on his pants even as he tries to step away.

“It’s cold.” You manage, voice small despite your bold, unspoken request. Little do you know that when you ask like that, when you blink your pretty lashes up at him, nose hidden under the sheets and fingers hooked on his pants leg, that there’s no way he can refuse.

“Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus.” He breathes, voice thick with wonder. Yet then he’s moving, tugging off his boots with a curse. The cot shakes as he braces on it, shudders when he manages to slip into the sheets next to you. A thick, brawny hand comes up to cup your skull, dragging you into his chest and pressing you there, and when you breathe in it’s him, cedarwood and ashes of the fire, thick and musky across your senses.

When you think it’s finally, blissfully over, however, there’s a hand petting your hair, and a younger, British voice on your other side.

“Room for three?” Gaz asks, and you manage to free a hand enough to wordlessly reach for him, wanting, needing him at your back. It’s not long before he’s settled in as well, spooning you from behind on the bed that is almost definitely too small for three people, two of them being built, sinewy soldiers.

You don’t care. You’re warm on all sides, warm from pleasure and affection and treatment from all of them. It feels like you’re suspended, floating on something beyond yourself, spirit lifting from your corporeal form and into the darkening sky above yet anchored by the touches of the men beside you. You’re too far gone to notice Rudy come, place a kiss atop your hair; to notice Alejandro drape another blanket over you, of Price and Ghost discussing in low tones by the doorway. The others stay, linger, on chairs or nearby. You think you see Rudy and Alejandro on the cot beside yours when your eyes flutter open.

Your vision shifts, gazing over the slope of Soap’s neck to the lit doorway. Ghost mutters something, a goodbye perhaps, and turns.

It’s to be expected. The man is a lone wolf, he works alone. For him to even be here is a miracle, and to have even participated at all a divine sign from the gods themselves. Now, however, he retreats to where he belongs, to the shadows that engulf the breadth of him, the kingdom where he was born and where he shall remain.

“Simon.”

The name escapes before you can stop it, and Ghost freezes, his head jerking upwards as he hesitates, turning to you, hidden within the embraces of his comrades.

You swallow, trying to conjure the spell to keep him here, within arm’s reach, forever now and always.

“Don’t get lost.” You mutter at last, and you think maybe your vision wavers when his shoulders droop, when his eyes blink at you, reflecting light.

His shadow falls across you on his approach, the width of him bulked by the tac gear he still hasn’t entirely gotten rid of. Ghost- Simon- blots light from the doorway like the shadow he is, absorbing brightness and drowning it in the essence of him. A hand reaches, smoothes the hair from your face.

“Never.” He mutters enigmatically, and even so you feel the edges of him splinter, crack like obsidian.

Your eyes flutter shut under his touch, cloak the world in mystic darkness as you surrender to him, to these men, to at last the inexorable, inescapable comfort of them, of sleep.

#cod #mw2 #simon ghost riley #captain john price #johnny soap mactavish #alejandro vargas #rodolfo parra #call of duty modern warfare #kyle gaz garrick #my fic #my writing #reader insert #if you see typos in this no you don't i don't care anymore

[nomsfaultau]

Fairytale au where Wilbur and Tommy always had no one but each other. The two young brothers fend for themselves as much they can, but it’s hard. One winter day they get desperate and try scavenging in the woods far past where humans are supposed to go. They find a cozy cottage, and tentatively investigate to find the owner is gone. The boys break in and devour as much as they can because they haven’t had a good meal (or sometimes any meal at all) in so long.

They scarcely notice the crow watching in the window sill, but it notices them. Philza is a very powerful witch, and naturally knew the moment they broke in. But he also has business at the moment, and so only gets back by nightfall. He finds the boys hidden in a cupboard sleeping nearly fused into one another. They didn’t want to get found, of course, but it was so cold outside.

Tommy and Wilbur wake up tucked in a bed. Naturally they flee, terrified of the wrath of a witch. The brothers count themselves lucky for surviving the encounter.

They find the cottage nearly every time they enter the woods now. But the brothers are cautious, a survival instinct beaten deep into their marrow. They avoid the cottage avidly, worried what awaits them.

But then Tommy hasn’t eaten in days, and Wilbur hasn’t eaten even longer than that. And Tommy keeps crying at night and Wilbur would do anything for him. So they enter the cottage. It is empty, or so they think, and so the pair raid the pantries once more.

But they freeze when they realize there’s a witch perched in the rafters, watching them the whole time. Like he’s ready to swoop at a moments notice and twist their necks with his sharp crow’s feet. They run.

But they don’t the next time. Wilbur keeps a wary watch on Philza the whole time as he urges Tommy to keep grabbing food. Wilbur almost expects the door to be locked when they try to leave, but it isn’t. The shadows that cling to the ceiling like fog don’t quite hide the witch’s smile. It sends cold down the both of their backs.

The boys grow a little bolder each time, still cautious, still wary, but assured to some degree the witch only ever watches. They never take anything but food, since all the stories say that’s a death sentence. Still, Wilbur is half way convinced their souls have been stolen already and they just haven’t noticed yet. But it matters little when his brother is starving. The winter is unrelenting in its cruelty, and each time hunger claws at their insides they’re a little quicker to turn to the cottage for warmth and full bellies.

And then one day the cupboard is barren. The witch’s crow lines crinkle as he stares at them. But the house smells of glorious cooking and Tommy scampers off. Wilbur follows, though keeps his eye on the witch the whole time.

They find a table set with three plates. They’re still warm and piled with mouth watering food. The boys have only ever really cooked something if it was dangerous to eat else wise, and it turned out charred more often than not.

The boys dig in, but freeze as the witch appears at the threshold. Philza drinks in the scene, then walks in, claws scraping across the floorboards. There’s no comment as he takes a seat at the side, Tommy having claimed the head of the table. The witch simply begins to dine, and then Tommy, finally Wilbur.

“So. You’re fattening us up to eat us?” Wilbur challenges.

“The pair of you are rather scrawny for that,” Philza says lightly. “Malnutrition tends to do that. I’d be waiting years if that were the case.”

“Then you’re trying to steal our souls!”

“I make no promises either way.” It was almost more soothing than if he’d outright denied it, because then Wilbur would’ve known for sure he was lying. Like this? …well, Wilbur still isn't sure, but his caution feels vindicated.

Caution that still fades over time. They begin to eat more meals than not with the witch. And when blizzards come and they have no other bed to turn to, the brothers find themselves welcomed to the softest pillows and blankets they’d ever known. They keep watch, of course. They always did, instinct ingrained. And then they spend more nights with Philza than without, and nothing ever goes wrong, and they both get so much more sleep if they don't bother with watch…

Gradually, they begin to never leave the cottage at all. There is no food or warmth to be found outside in the terrible blizzards. It just makes sense to stay. And Philza is so lovely to talk to. Wilbur no longer checks over their backs. The scrape of his talons on the floor bring not a shudder but a grin. And anyway the claws are always so gentle when they ruffle through their hair. On the coldest nights the witch’s feathers are so wonderfully soft and warm, so why shouldn’t the boys tuck under wing?

It’s when spring comes that Wilbur realizes something is wrong, so horribly, gut-wrenching wrong. Because there is no excuse to stay anymore, and yet the brothers do.

Wilbur prods the distrust in his gut, the wariness that’s served him his whole life. All he feels for Philza is warm fondness, and that— that is a feeling reserved for Tommy and no other. No, Wilbur knows for sure that whatever the witch has done to them is powerful magic indeed. A thrall inescapable, sly and slow like a poison seeping in until it's too late to cure. No curse is more inescapable and deceptive than mind control. The witch stole their hearts alright, just not in a way Wilbur had known to guard against.

Wilbur will cut out the part of him that feels that way if that’s what it takes. It’s only ever been Wilbur and Tommy, or Tommy and Wilbur. And no one, not even some all-powerful witch, will take that from him.

So quietly, carefully, Wilbur hardens his heart and prepares their escape.

(End part 1)

#Techno is. Idk a familiar man #3/4 curse real #Sbi #sleepy bois inc #sbi fic #sbi family dynamic #crime bois #crimeboys #sand duo #Wilbur soot #tommyinnit #wilbur soot fic #philza #Sbi au #sbi fanfic #something to nom on

[green-eyedfirework]

“Sometimes,” Dick says, quiet and soft and raw, “I wish you were a monster.”  He’s on his knees on the cold, cement floor, staring at rows and rows of filthy cages.  Empty cages.  “It would be easier to hate you.”

The man standing behind him says nothing.  Does nothing.  Just continues to exist, right under Dick’s guard, right at his unprotected back.

“It’s easier,” Dick murmurs, and if he closes his eyes, he can remember what the cages looked like when they’d been full of children, “If bad guys don’t do good things, and good guys don’t do bad things.”

He expects the man to laugh.  He expects the man to call him naive, stupid, a child.  A fool, for wading through the worst of what the world has to offer, and still clinging to fantasy ideals.

“Good and bad are relative,” he says instead.  “One man’s evil is another man’s saint.”  His tone is level.  Almost nice.

Dick doesn’t think that’s an adjective that’s ever been applied to Slade Wilson before.

“This?” Dick sweeps a hand out at the aftereffects of torture and abuse and violence.  “This is despicable.”

“By your standards,” Slade qualifies.  “By mine,” he adds after a pause.  Not by everyone’s, hangs in the air.

Dick knows that.  Dick has proof of that, proof that there are people in this world that consider the torture and enslavement of children as nothing more than a profit in their pocket, and he doesn’t want to think about how they live with themselves.  Doesn’t want to try to understand their motives.

Or the mercenary’s, right behind him.

It started off simply enough—Nightwing’s eyes going wide in the rafters when he met Deathstroke, because Slade didn’t have many lines but Dick sure thought that child trafficking was one of them.  Deathstroke clarifying, after pinning a struggling Nightwing to the wall, that he was here on behalf of one of the children’s mother, who’d paid an exorbitant amount of money for Deathstroke to find and bring back her baby.

Ulterior motive established, grudging alliance hammered out, that should’ve been the end of it.

#my snippets #sladick #human trafficking

[probablyspooky]

I love your Yautja fics! I was wondering if I could get a Yautja x Gymnast reader, who specializes in aerial ribbons?

Yatha had no clue how he ended up here in the rafters of the gymnasium, nor could he understand why he stayed for so long. He was already physically at the top of his class, and these tiny people made a whole building for getting stronger in the weirdest ways. Balancing, flipping, and tumbling, these were not at all suitable for combat, so what was the point in learning such things, He didn't understand, until he saw you.

You walked out of the changing room, your leotard clinging against your skin, Tatha watched as you quickly made your way over to what he could only call drapes hanging from the ceiling over a padded floor.

His mandibles clicked as he tilted his head towards the direction of you, his cloak shielding his presence from anyone looking up at the ceiling.

He watched as you wrapped the lower part of the ribbon to your body, and he watched as you used your upper body hold yourself up, as you flipped, using small flips and turns to tie the ribbon around your body so gracefully. His eyes flickered as you continued to spin like a feather in the room. Your body twisting and contorting so that you could climb to the very top of the ribbon, as you began your routine, striking small poses at the top, reaching out to the invisible crowd that you would see later on during a competition.

Yatha's heart fluttered as you let your hands free of the ribbons, allowing your body to freefall towards the ground below, he felt his heart jump as you were caught in an elegant split in the middle of the air, the ribbons daggling from your legs gracefully.

He continued to watch your act, until you leg go, and tumbled to the floor, slowly releasing yourself from the binds of the ribbons, you landed a pose at the bottom, and smiled, walking away from the ribbons that hung from the ceiling.

Yatha sat for a moment, thinking over what he had just witnessed, he now understood why the little people came to places like these to get stronger, and why it was so important to them, it was beautiful.

He had to learn more about you...his eyes under his mask glanced to the poster that signified the competition that was to happen later in the week, he surely wouldn't miss it if it meant he got to see you again.

#yautja #predator #predator x reader #yautja x reader

[happysadyoyo]

Part 2 of this from the time loop au

It won't let me reblog and add another read more. Stupid imo.

@pillowspace I'm tempted to write some major hurt next but idk if you would be comfortable being tagged in that.

You're dangling several feet off the ground, rotating very slowly in a circle. Below you, the arcade machines look like multi colored tiles, the carpets erratic 90's pattern (sure this place may be 80's themed, but those patterns scream pre-grunge early 90's) rendered mute by the distance.

What's scarier though is the drop to the next floor down. You got yoinked at the edge of the stairs, so the tips of your shoes poke past the safety bannister. If you fell...

"Brat." Moon's voice crackles on the word. He jerks you higher, into the safety of the rafters as the DJ drags his massive form over the machines, pushing open the bathroom doors with one hand to feel inside. Instinctively, you cover your mouth with your hands, your panicked breathing sounding loud even to you.

Moon shakes you a little and you find yourself staring directly into the red LEDs of his eyes. That smile is ever present, but he looks less a jester and more a predator. A cat, crouched and ready to pounce. You've seen a cat catch a mouse before. You hadn't ever thought what it'd be like to be the mouse.

"Are you going to drop me?" You finally managed to ask, hands still over your mouth. Moon's head rotates, just a little too much for it to look like a human motion.

"No," he finally says, and that's a small relief. "Should put in time out. Naughty naughty brats belong in time out."

"I'm not naughty," you protest. Moon's silence is incriminating. "Okay, it's a little bad to be here after closing but. But..." You hesitate. "I'm trying to help you." It wasn't a lie. It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't a lie.

"I don't need help," he snaps back, lifting you higher. Your stomach sinks, and for one second you're convinced he's about to fling you to the ground. Instead, he sets you on one of the rafters, releasing your sweater at last.

You grab at the metal girder, heart thumping hard against your rib cage. "You do though. Don't you want to see the kids again? Like before?"

There's no response, and your fingers are starting to hurt from how hard you're clinging. Below you, the DJ is moving, searching for you. His music is thrumming in time with your heart. Or maybe it's you adjusting to it, trying to find a new rhythm after Moon scared you out of your old one.

"Moon?" You want to reach out, but that meant letting go. Trusting yourself not to fall. Trusting him. Do you trust him?

You wobble a little as you let go, leaning into the empty space. Moon flinches away, a hand raising, but you still brush your fingers over his faceplate. "Moon, I am your friend," you insist. "You have to know that. You have to."

How do you explain that you know him, that you've met him three times already, and you know how to save him. Save Sun.

"You're the assistant," he says, and the growl is back in his voice. "You're my replacement. Not a friend." He pulls away from your hand, and then he's gone, zipping away, towards the atrium. Leaving you stuck in place as the music dies down, your eyes starting to itch.

Several loops later, you won't remember the terror of making your way back down to the arcade, fighting tears so you could see where you're going. The fear will be wiped out by exhaustion and pain, emotional and physical, experienced over and over. But for now, right now, this might be the most painful rejection in your life.

Because it's Moon. And you know him. You know he's not truly malicious, that there's something wrong. And he has to know too. Why else did he save you from the DJ? Why else is he not currently hunting you down as you make it back to the ground and walk on shaky legs to the elevator? He knows you're a friend. He has to.

By the time you make it home, the sun is starting to peak out from the horizon. You pull your curtains in your bedroom, collapsing into bed without taking your shoes off. And finally, you let yourself cry. You cry, burying your face in your pillows, curling up tight. You cry, and you think distantly of fictional characters who get trapped in time loops too. What sort of monster would dream of a world like this? To repeat the same thing over and over, only to fail time and time again. Being the only one who remembered.

You fall asleep slowly, and when you wake, it's well past noon. Your body feels heavy, your eyes crusty. There's the start of a headache, medicine withdrawal. It's been over 24 hours, and your body is warning you. Your ear hurts. You find your hearing aid, dead, buried in the sheets. You put it on the nightstand to charge.

When you check your sweater, you're not surprised to find some of the yarn had been stretched out of place, frayed and torn bits where Moon's fingers dug in. You'd have to fix it before your next shift. The kids loved your sweater, found it as safe and secure as you did.

Your Fazwatch is dead too. On the charger it goes, cell phone next. There's a text, but you don't bother checking it. You know it's work, asking you to come in today. You had, twice before. You slept through it today.

It's after you shower and you're toweling off that you notice the bruise on your shoulder. You touch it and wince, remembering hitting the arcade. You hadn't expected it to still be so tender. Maybe the warm water did something? You look at it better in the mirror, catching sight of your face. You look tired. And paler than normal? You poke at your eyebags, squinting, trying to remember what you looked like before this started happening.

Maybe you shouldn't go in tomorrow.

#time loop au #dca #re major hurt think like yn actually remembering dying at moons hands level of hurt #okay sorry for spamming you today I'm going to go play minecraft now instead of sleep

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Cat Void decide to be a gremlin and stay in their room in heaven and used their more scary form that normally used in hell just to see a reaction of any god that walked in to their room

Like Shiva, Apolo, and maybe Loki walking in to asked something but greeted with something horrifying

-A loud girly shriek rang throughout the Greek pantheon, one of pure terror and instantly, those who were around were quick to rush, thinking a maiden was in trouble.

-Shiva made it there first, throwing the door open and immediately leapt back, “What the hell?!” as he leaned his hands down onto his knees, trying to swallow his heart after it leapt to his throat.

-Loki arrived next, running in, wanting to know what happened and he immediately froze, unable to process the creature that was before him.

-You looked amused in your Lovesac chair, only, instead of your normal cat like form or the rare human like form you took- you took on one of your more rarely seen forms, a creature of darkness and nightmares, a being of pure evil.

-You had been feeling bored and decided to play a prank, needing some amusement, and boy had you been amused! Each person that entered either flinched back or ran out, terrified of you.

-Shiva stomped over, poking at that he believed was a cheek on this monstrous form of yours, “You need to stop hanging out with Loki- he’s being a bad influence on you!”

-You just laughed, finding it amusing, your unearthly form writhing with your glee, “I wanted a different form of entertainment today.”

-Loki, once he was unfrozen, was laughing, thinking it was hysterical, much to the annoyance of others.

-Shiva then paused, “Wait- then who screamed? Where is she?” you blinked, amused, “She? Uhhh- look up.” All eyes went to the ceiling and eyes went wide as they saw Apollo clinging to the rafters, nails digging in so he wouldn’t fall back down.

-The roar of laughter at Apollo’s girly shriek made everyone quickly forgive you, as that was way more amusing, much to Apollo’s dismay.

-At least you knew how to deal with Apollo in the future if he ever tried to mess with you.

#record of ragnarok #ror x reader #ror loki #ror apollo #ror shiva

[coolcoolcoolbutwtf]

We.*clap* Need.*clap* More. *clap* Robin hiding in Batman's cape content! Just imagine!

Robin clinging like a koala to Batman or any of the other batfamily members. Have you seen baby bats clinging to their mom? It's adorable!

I want, Nay, NEED the gaggle of bats all clinging to Bruce.

Bruce hanging upside down in a dark corner up in the rafters. Robin fast asleep in his arms in the watchtower and scaring Flash as he races by.

Bruce silhouette looks like a frightening giant bat when hanging upside down. Flash might have thunk it was Batman but "no" since it couldn't possibly be Batman hanging upside down so it was clearly a vampire or bat something's having invaded their tower.

Flash dashes into the cafeteria and screeches to a stop. Yelling about vampire monsters having infiltrated the watchtower!

Turns out Batman and Robin weren't the only bats resting like they were actually bats. Tim and Red hood had apparently also fallen asleep up in the ceiling rafters.

Luckily the other bats had found better hidden napping spots.

Real footage of Batman having woken up from a nap. He is checking that Robin is still tuked and asleep.

#batman #justice league #batfam #dc robin #We need more cuddle bats #like Robin holding onto Batman like a koala #napping #Tim and hood got spotted while they were arguing about who would nap in a spot #God forbid them they compromise and sl #bothe napping together #Bat cuddle agenda

[twisted-wonderland-shenanigans]

I remember you mentioned humans are weird stuff, and the red eyes things that hans have when lights flashes to them

What about tails? Humans don't have tails and we balance quite well without one most of the time and our natural buoyancy in water, how would the monster au be when they learning from that

And to add something funny when they see our soft padded feet and our habit to grab stuff

Ooooh, lots of good fun stuff to explore here! >:3 It’s so much fun imagining non-humans reacting to human based things, let alone trying to figure out how and why we’re so biologically weird to them (join the club, boys, even we consider ourselves to be really weird when most of us don’t even know what half the organs in our bodies do)! 😆

The red eye effect I can imagine Cater discovering by pure accident (and subsequently accidentally throwing his phone in panic). 🤣

//Heartslabyul Lounge Room//

Cater: “Hey, Yuu! Let’s take a selfie together~!”

Yuu: “Uh…sure, but isn’t it a little dark in here?”

Cater: “Yeah, but that’s what camera flashes are for. Ace, Trey, get in here for a group selfie~!”

Ace: “Sure, I’m down!”

Trey: “I’d rather not, thank you.”

Cater: “Suit yourself. Say cheese~!”

Yuu and Ace: “Cheese!”

Click!

Cater: “Okay, let’s take a look and post i-GYAH!!!” *launches into the air with his wings and clings to the rafters, dropping his phone in the process*

Trey: “Cater?! What’s wrong??”

Cater: “What’s going on with your eyes in the pic, Yuu?!”

Yuu: *confused as they pick up his phone and stare at the picture* “Ah darn it, I hate the red eye effect.”

Ace: “The red eye what??” *peers over shoulder and shudders* “Dude. That…that’s creepy as hell!”

Yuu: “It happens when the camera flashes in low light. Don’t you guys experience red-eye in photos?”

Cater: “No! Or…well, maybe? We call it ‘silver eye’ or ‘white eye’ when the flash reflects off our pupils, but I’ve never seen it be red before! I don’t even know if the filter to remove the effect would even work on that…”

Trey: “I guess we managed to find yet another difference between monsters and humans.”

///

Once word got back to the researchers of this effect, they were able to realize that not only did humans lack the same reflective surface as monsters, but that the camera flash reflected the rich blood supply in the back of the eye. Depending on the eye color of the human in question, it would become more prominent in paler eye colors—a fact that soon tied into the rare phenomenon of certain canine and feline monsters with blue and green eyes having similar effects to their own eyes.

When it comes to tails, it comes as a surprise to the researchers that humans did in fact have a tail bone, yet evolutionally speaking, it didn’t serve any obvious purpose…on the surface. In reality, the tail bone served as a support to help Yuu sit. When compared to the other monsters, it seemed Yuu had better balance sitting on virtually any surface—including uneven ones. “Not that it’s always comfortable to do so,” as one researcher noted after seeing Yuu somehow find a decent spot on the bumpy rock with an uncomfortable expression on their face.

Now, as for the natural buoyancy in water (unless you’re someone who has a lot of muscle mass and struggles to stay afloat or someone who just doesn’t know how to swim at all), the monsters might find it quite a surprise to see Yuu just floating on their back in the pool. They might even think that one of the aquatic monsters was holding them up…only to discover that no, they were just…floating there. For no reason other than it was comfortable.

RIP the monsters’ nerves if Yuu were to do the “dead man’s float” in the pool. 😂

For the feet grab thing, I’d imagine this takes place shortly after the “hoof-shoe discovery” post here. >v>

///

Ace: “This is so weird.” *pokes the fleshy part of Yuu’s foot* “How do you guys even walk with these things? Doesn’t it hurt?”

Yuu: “Not unless we step on broken glass or shell shards and sharp rocks.” *squeaks when he pokes again and pulls foot back* “Hey, that tickles!”

Deuce: “It…tickles?”

Random Student: “Hey, hurry up! Coach says we need to clean up the field or he’ll make us run more laps.”

Ace: “Okay, okay, yeesh! You good, Yuu?”

Yuu: “Yeah, I’m good! I’ll just leave my shoes off for a bit. The grass feels really nice!”

Ace: “Seriously, how are you humans so weird?”

*The monster students gather the larger, heavier items while Yuu starts gathering the lighter and smaller pieces left behind until their arms are full and a cloth falls out of the pile*

Deuce: “Here, let me get that for you.”

Yuu: “No thanks, I got it.”

Ace: “You literally have your hands fu-”

Yuu: *uses one foot to grab the cloth, twisting their leg around until they can grab the cloth with their opposite hand and continues walking* “See? I got it!”

Ace: *stares with everyone else in shock and disbelief* “…seriously, why the fuck are humans so weird??”

///

And thus began a new Magicam challenge for monsters to try (that don’t have hooves of course…Cater assures everyone that an alternate challenge is currently in the works so he can participate as well): try and pick up random objects with your talons and put it in a box like a human! If you use your hands to grab them off the floor or you don’t get it within the time limit, you fail the challenge. It became an instant hit on Magicam, with many struggling to recreate the same prehensile motions that—so far—only avian monsters have been able to mimic.

I can just imagine the muscle cramps some might’ve gone through trying to do this challenge. 🤣

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland monster au #twst monster au #cater diamond #ace trappola #trey clover #deuce spade

[vanfleeter]

dad!jake blurb. fluff below the cut 💕

Don't imagine Tommy's first snow day.

Jake coming home and eager to get his son dressed in his brand new snow suit.

"We've got your boots. We've got your hat. Your gloves. Your scarf."

Taking a good look at Tommy, he can't help but laugh. "You look so uncomfortable." He chuckles as he watches Tommy attempt to walk, unable to bend his limbs much.

Jake grabs Tommy's little, red sled from the rafters in the garage and brings it out to the driveway. He hears loud giggles and turns towards the yard to find Tommy bending over to scoop up snow in his puffy snow gloves and trying to throw it at the dog. The dog barks and jumps from side to side making Tommy giggle even louder.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Tommy chances the slippery ice on the driveway before Jake has a chance to salt it. His arms stuck out in the air beside him as he tries to balance and slowly walk across the ice. He still ends up falling and he lands on his bottom and back. But with all of the padding from his snow suit, he barely feels anything.

Jake grimaces, bracing for Tommy to start crying but instead he starts giggling, kicking and waving his arms and legs attempting to right himself. Jake laughs and carefully walks over to pick him up and place him back on his feet.

"You alright there buddy?"

Tommy nods his head as he clings to Jake's coat, his feet sliding out from under him. Jake places him back in the yard and in the few feet of snow.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Setting Tommy on the sled, Jake grabs hold of the rope and tugs the sled through the snow. Tommy erupts in laughter when Jake spins the sled. But he spins just a bit too hard, sending Tommy flying off the sled and into a mound of soft snow.

"Shit, bud!" He exclaims as he runs through the yard and over to Tommy. "Are you okay?"

He pulls Tommy out of the snow and dusts the snow off of his face. Tommy's face is contorted in confusion but then his mouth curves upsides into a smile and he laughs and claps his hands.

Jake breathes a sigh of relief before fixing Tommy's hat on top of his head. "Was that fun, I take it?" Tommy eagerly nods his head.

"Jake!" You call from the front door. "Time to bring Tommy inside, it's time for lunch!"

"Shit!" Tommy exclaims.

Jake quickly covers his mouth. "Shh, shh.. No, bad word." Tommy giggles and buries his face into Jake's scarf as he brings him inside the house.

#jake kiszka #greta van fleet fic #greta van fleet #greta van fleet fanfic #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka fic #dad!jake #jake kiszka fluff