#someone write with me please

[amillixnvoicesarch]

i already have so many lucy icons i will probably never get to use HELP

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[littlelightfish]

This... this is a whole different kind of psychic damage here. When nightmares got Marcille, we get to knew that her's biggest fear is outliving her friends. This isn't even canon probably, but look at this. This isn't a "I don't want my friends to die" kind of dream. This is a "I'm terrified of loosing my daughters, of something killing them, and being incapable of stopping it" kind of dream. It's so simple yet it explains perfectly the whole of chilchucks character. He loves, he cares, deeply. But he, or doesn't acknowledges, or doesn't know what to do with that knowledge.

Besides that. Someone had to wake him up after this. Imagine the devastation in this man after he wakes up. He just saw his three little babys murdered corpses (or maybe he saw them die, wich isn't better). He would possibly not talk about it, and that would worry the hell out of the party, because we'll, they see him all down and only one of them knows what he saw. Imagine being the one to pull him from that nightmare. Seeing this man, usually so composed, fuking staring with tears and terror in his eyes to the composes of what you can only assume are his daughters. It would be heartwrenching.

Idk, I love this man so much...

[stoopidstapler]

SO IVE BEEN GOIN INSANE SINCE THIS TRAILER DROPPED. JUST. SIMON. SIMON. SIMON.

[lazylittledragon]

ok someone please correct me if i'm wrong but am i weird for thinking those 'audiobooks don't count as reading' posts are ableist as fuck????

[diamondzart]

Two goofy ahh muppets cuddling

[justaz]

country bumpkin merlin not knowing anything about city life and accidentally courting arthur without knowing

merlin, watching gwen give lancelot her favor: why do you do that

gwen, heart eyes at lance and not paying that much attention to the conversation: so he knows i’m rooting for him

merlin, with an Idea: ah.

gwaine, lover of chaos, pisser offer of nobles and royals alike, ultimate wingman: merlin…you have such lonely lips. shall i introduce them to mine?

merlin, unaware of the game gwaine is playing: so you can steal my breath away? i think not, scoundrel

arthur, crushing his goblet in his hand:

merlin: arthur’s been in a bad mood recently :( i should cheer him up

merlin, remembering when arthur was put out when merlin brought morgana flowers and not him: i know just the thing

merlin, bringing a bouquet of carnations, roses, and tulips and setting them on arthur’s table while he’s eating breakfast: good morning, sire

arthur, trained on flower language in hopes that one day when he was to take a queen he could woo her easily, trying not to audibly choke on his sausage as he reads merlin’s declaration of love sitting in front of him:

arthur, who recently found out about merlin’s magic and was trying to find a way to bring it up, catching him in the act and watching merlin panic to explain himself:

merlin, Freaking: and i swear to you arthur, i have only ever used it for you. my magic is yours. my life is yours. i am yours. i would never do anything to harm you. i have protected you for years and will continue to do so at your side if you’ll have me

arthur, already believing them to be courting, desperately trying to figure out if that was a proposal for marriage or not but tired of being confused and deciding fuck it: here.

merlin, taking it: i…uh…huh?

arthur, watching merlin with hawk eyes and trying to figure out what he’s thinking and feeling: it’s my mothers sigil

merlin, confused as FUCK but is focusing on the fact that arthur is handing him something of his mother rather than a death sentence: my…my lord?

arthur, realizing how scared merlin’s must be about him finding out about his magic and trying to comfort him while also proposing, killing two birds with one stone: i will always keep you at my side, merlin, so long as we both shall live. if you’ll allow me.

merlin, almost collapsing with relief and tearing up, smiling at arthur as if he had parted the storm clouds to allow sun to shine down on them in that moment: of course…of course, arthur. always and forever.

merlin, watching the castle staff rush this way and that: wow. this banquet must be incredibly important

sir leon the long suffering, day one ride or die, one of the original merthur shippers: banquet? merlin, this is for your wedding

merlin, overworked and exhausted: my WHAT? to WHO??

leon, regretting everything he’s ever done in his life that led him to this moment: to…arthur?

merlin, over joyed but also absolutely befuddled: i’m getting married to ARTHUR?????

leon: you two have been courting for the past year or so, have you not?

merlin: i’ve been COURTING ARTHUR?????? FOR A YEAR?????????

[arttsuka]

Au where this happens instead of the portal incident

Edit: someone did write a fic about it. Wow. Here

Original image:

[kingfuc]

Sorry if this story makes no sense

[zinnie-zoloft]

Charles is absolutely that guy on Reddit who was worried he was being homophobic towards his roommate only to discover it was actually just jealousy

[ceruark]

DANCE WITH THE DEVIL.

synopsis: yan! hsr men as slasher movie killers… and “love interests.” [blade, boothill, aventurine, sunday] words: 3.1k cw: yandere themes: obsession, stalking. slasher elements, gore. a/n: happy friday the 13th to all who celebrate

BLADE is already pretty much like Michael Myers from Halloween: large man, terrifying presence, unfathomable kill count, and cannot die. No matter what you do, no matter how many times you or the other survivors find a way to kill him, he keeps coming back, and with renewed vengeance every time.

The first time you’d been subjected to his knife was at a summer camp. Having gone there every summer for years growing up, you grew attached to the place and decided to pick up a role as a counselor in the summers following your high school graduation, and they passed peacefully. However, in the few months leading up to your college graduation, misfortune befell the small town where the camp was located. Someone’s grave had been dug up, and just weeks after that, people started turning up dead, their bodies littered with so many stab wounds that some were unrecognizable.

Given the ongoing investigation, the counselors and other camp staff requested that the summer camp not reopen, but the owners and even some parents insisted they stay open, and so despite your better judgment, you returned. You needed the money, and you knew how to defend yourself— if anything happened, you could keep yourself and your kids safe.

At least, that’s what you believed. When the man appears in the doorway of your cabin, his stocky figure silhouetted by the moonlight and leaving two red eyes gleaming down at you, you know there’s not a chance in hell you’re making it out of there alive.

You’d thrown yourself at him, yelling for your kids to escape through the back. He’s been merciless, sinking his knife into your flesh over and over again, but you persevered and fought back until you were sure every single one of your kids had made it a good distance away from the cabin. At some point you’d collapsed, from exhaustion and blood loss.

The doctors said it was a miracle you survived. They had your house guarded since he hadn’t been detained, but once word of his death by police gunfire got around, things calmed down significantly. You relaxed over the years, letting your guard down and believing that things could return to normal. Serial killings all over the nation popped up, but you worried not—after all, the killer you were concerned with was dead.

One of the survivors reached out to you five years after that fateful night, wishing to get together with the others who lived to get drinks and properly move on from everything. It was, of course, a set up; Blade had returned, and the man who invited you believed he’d be spared if he got the rest of the survivors together in one place.

He’d been the first one murdered that night. 

Once again, you narrowly dodged death, just barely managing to get yourself to a hospital before you received one stab wound too many. Time goes on, and no matter how many times they put a bullet through his head, he manages to come back. The list of survivors has grown, but the list of victims is now countless.

You’re in your thirties when the police reach out to the adult survivors. There’s a new survivor: a five year-old girl by the name of Yunli. Her parents had been ruthlessly slaughtered, but he hadn’t touched even a single hair on the young girl’s hair. She didn’t have any living family, and so, you agreed to take her in. 

Life is easier with Yunli in it. A bright, spunky little thing, she brings joy to your days and some semblance of a family that you’ve been too scared to seek out. It’s nice to have the sound of laughter filling your home.

That same laughter has you smiling tonight, the girl’s giggling floating down the hallway and into the kitchen, where you’re washing dishes. A quick glance at the microwave’s clock tells you it’s close to her bedtime, and she’s far more energetic than she typically would be at this time. You wipe your hands off on a dish towel and walk down the hall toward her room, wishing to find out what’s working her up at this hour and wanting to tell her to wind down before bed.

You knock lightly before turning the knob. You get the door open a crack before the sight on the other side of it leaves you frozen, horrified.

He’s in Yunli’s room, kneeling before her as she shows him the many dolls you’ve bought her. His knife is on the floor beside him, and the eyes that have haunted your dreams for years pierce into you, pinning you where you stand.

The girl seems… happier with you, than she had been with her parents. Perhaps he’ll have to be kinder to you this time.

BOOTHILL gives me Texas Chainsaw Massacre vibes in terms of how he kills and the brutality of it all, but not personality-wise. No, I actually think he’d be quite personable with that southern charm of his— so of course, no one would ever expect him to do anything unspeakable.

You and your friends are on a road trip when the car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing but fields of crops as far as the eye can see, and the only sign of civilization is a barn, some stables, and a few coops with two houses near them about a mile away from where you’re standing.

You all make the trek, hoping to be able to get some help from the people living there. Worst case scenario, if it’s all been abandoned, you can squat there and look for tools to help you fix the car. But to your surprise, when you knock, a kind-looking man with wild white and black hair opens the door, and after hearing about your situation, is more than happy to be of assistance.

He tows the car onto his property and takes a look at it, determining that the entire engine needs to be replaced. Given his distance from the nearest auto shop, he says he’ll leave for town Sunday afternoon and get the part on Monday morning. It’s going to be an all-day trip, so he likely won’t be back until early Tuesday morning.

You’ve got a couple days to get to know him, in the meantime. Your friends absolutely adore him, pointing out how good of a guy he is, some even pointing out how attractive he is. You scoff one night as he’s making dinner away from where you’re all sitting, as one of your friends starts a bet on if any of you will be able to sleep with him before all of this is over.

Sunday afternoon comes all too soon, though, and none of you get very far with him before he’s heading off in his truck toward the nearest town. You’re a bit shocked that he would so willingly leave a group of strangers in his house unattended, but you chalk it up to his kindness that seems to be boundless.

You should have been far more concerned.

You’re all woken up that night by the sound of a chainsaw revving, shortly followed by one of your friend’s horrible shrieking. The room devolves into panic and chaos as you watch her get torn to shreds by the very man who invited you into his home, now donning a mask of what you hope is animal skin.

You all flee in different directions, but he knows the property better than you do, and sure enough, your friends are picked off one by one until you’re the last one standing. You narrowly dodge some of the traps he’s set up and take refuge in the stables, struggling to keep yourself together as you hear your friend’s cries in the distance. 

While looking for something to defend yourself with, you find a box hidden in a pile of hay. It’s locked, but you force it open, dumping its contents on the floor. A pistol, a few handwritten letters, and pictures of a woman and a young girl. You place the pistol beside you before your curiosity takes over, causing you to slowly go through and study the pictures.

In your distracted state, you failed to notice that he’d gotten into the stables. You jump to your feet when the chainsaw revs just a few feet in front of you. You turn off the safety and raise the gun, your hand steady and your shot clear.

He’s lost so much in his life, and it’s driven him to madness. And you, you remind him of something— someone precious who he lost to illness, to the cruelty of life.

He can’t lose you again. He won’t allow you to leave.

And that’s not something you’ll realize until he’s staring at you from the barrel of a gun you believe is loaded, laughing for a reason you can’t understand.

AVENTURINE stepped right out of a Scream movie. He’s a classic Ghostface-type killer, phone calls and everything. He’s certainly got the charisma needed to make the intimidating phone calls, and I feel like he would enjoy stalking and toying around with his prey a bit before going in for the kill. 

You could probably argue that he’s not the type to want to make things messy, but I feel like in this case, he would be using this as an outlet, meaning all his kills are brutal and gory. (Creative, at times, too. The police will give him that.) There’s just something so comforting about being covered in blood, the warm liquid almost serving as a warm embrace.

For him, there aren’t any better targets than his close friend group. He knows all their darkest secrets, and has no problem using his knowledge to torment them and easily back them into a corner, too panicked to see him coming until it’s too late. These people have always been fake, anyway, and he knows they’ve always looked down on him. Can you really blame him for taking out the trash?

And then, of course, there’s you. You’re not a saint by any means— no, you’ve got your fair share of skeletons in the closet, and each secret you divulge to him because of the trust you foolishly placed in him is sweeter than any death he could imagine giving you. Maybe that’s what draws him to you so much; where everyone else wears a mask, there’s something about you that’s genuine, and it’s a side of you that you’ve entrusted to only him.

So when the killer finally shows up on your doorstep, he’s the one you turn to. As you’re on the phone with the killer, responding to his taunts in an attempt to figure out where exactly he is in your house, you’re texting Aventurine on the side and sending him what you believe is your last goodbye. 

“Do you want to be forgiven?” The disguised voice on the other line croons into your ear. “Do you think you should be?”

You’ve just pressed send on your message when a hand seizes you by the back of the neck and throws you to the ground. The impact of hitting the hardwood floor distracts you from the sound of a phone buzzing nearby. You scramble backward, attempting to get to your feet as you do, but the masked man grabs onto your foot and sinks his knife into your calf, ripping a pained screech from your throat.

He drags you back toward him before settling on top of you, his legs straddling your waist rather suggestively. He sinks his blade into you and drags it across your skin slowly, the scorching pain leaving you writhing and crying out in pain.

He flees once he hears sirens in the distance. The police find you on the floor of your living room with four stab wounds and multiple cuts. Aventurine shows up not long after them, disheveled and worried and flashing the police the text you sent him. They allow him to ride in the ambulance with you, admiring his intent to endanger himself if it meant saving you.

You’re so frazzled that you don’t even notice he showed up at your house way sooner than he should’ve, as though he was already nearby. You just blindly turn to him for comfort, clutching onto him for dear life. It’s cute.

He runs his hands through your hair soothingly, shushing you and gently rubbing your back as you sob into his shoulder. You shouldn’t worry so much, dear. He’s here now, and he’ll make sure no one else lays a finger on you ever again.

You don’t realize your grave mistake until you’re standing in Jade’s basement, her brutalized body at your feet and a metal pipe in your hands. You can defend yourself all you like, but it’s far too easy for the masked killer to evade your swings and land his blade in your shoulder, your stomach, your thigh. All places that won’t kill you, of course.

When you finally collapse to your knees, sobbing hysterically and succumbing to your fate, the killer unexpectedly drops to his knees beside you. He wraps his arms around you and presses his chest to your back, trapping you in his hold. You shudder as he runs his blade along your face and neck, smearing your own blood across your soft skin.

“It’s okay,” he coos, and the familiar voice makes you freeze. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

The mocking laughter that follows makes your heart drop, and the rest of your hope vanishes.

SUNDAY is definitely involved in some Children of the Corn type of shit. Some supernatural slasher stuff where there’s a cult behind everything, and he’s at the head of it all.

Ena is not a kind god. Countless generations of Oaks have tried various methods of worship and offerings, but none work quite as well as the human sacrifice. This is something Mr. Wood had taught him from a very young age, explaining to Sunday their history as he methodically cut up whichever poor soul had wandered into their humble, hidden town that week.

As head of the Family, he’s exemplary. No one has ever wielded a blade quite like he has, his hand always steady and unflinching. His blessed hands bring prosperity to the land that has never been seen before, Ena’s favor raining down on him and his people. He is as revered as their god at this point, and there is nothing his people would not do for him.

The road trip you make every year to your parent’s house for Thanksgiving was a long one, and a sudden downpour along the way has you rolling to a stop in the nearest town. You plan to just take shelter at a restaurant and grab a bite to eat while you’re there, then fill up on gas and be on your merry way once everything clears up. 

Everyone is so kind, though. The locals in the restaurant make conversation with you, asking about your life and cooing at you once you explain that you’re on your way to visit your family. You spend most of your time talking to the people at the table next to you, a man and his sister, and you get so lost in conversation that you haven’t even realized night has fallen. You pay your bill and are ready to head out when the man stops you.

“You should stay the night at one of the inns,” he advises, a delicate hand placed on your shoulder. “There are still storm clouds, and it could start pouring again at any moment. It would be unfortunate to have to travel through that, especially at night.”

You check the forecast, and to your dismay, he’s right. With his help, you check into a hotel across the street, and you thank him for his assistance before you turn in for the night.

Your peaceful sleep is soon disrupted by a rag being held over your mouth and nose, startling you awake. At this point, you’ve already breathed in the chloroform, and you barely have time to register the formless figures around your bed dressed in shades of white and navy blue before you pass out.

You wake up in an underground cellar, stone walls encasing you in cold nothingness. There are four other people in the room with you, also bound and gagged and staring back at you with wide-eyed terror. There are screams of pain echoing down the stairs from somewhere above you all, the sound of synchronized chanting doing little to mask it.

It’s not difficult to guess what fate awaits you.

Young children dressed in extremely formal clothing bring you all food and water. They’re sweet to you all, terribly so. You’re not sure how long you’re down there, but the time you have left is counted down with each person that is taken out of the room. There are new people brought into the cellar, but once the original four you were with are gone, you know your time has come.

The next time the shapeless people in robes descend the steps, they reach for you. You’re injected with some kind of sedative before you even have the chance to lash out at them, and the blindfold they place over your eyes seems pointless, since you black out, anyways.

When you wake, your arms and legs are bound to some kind of marble slab that you’ve been laid on. You’ve been stripped, and your skin is covered in some kind of oil. It’s cold, and the vulnerability of being exposed just makes your situation all the worse.

Your breath hitches and your pitiful, muffled cries for help stop when you feel something sharp prick your skin. Sunday lightly applies pressure to the knife in his hand, carving beautiful patterns along the surface of your skin. With his free hand, he traces a gloved finger over the beads of blood the blade leaves behind, his touch so devout it’s downright sinful. The sight of you brings him pause, the knife stopping all too suddenly.

It is the first time he has hesitated during a ritual.

Perhaps… you’re not meant to be sacrificed. No, surely something as divine as you is meant for much more than that. Perhaps Ena has lured you here just for him, a reward for his unwavering faith, steady leadership, and all he has done for their people.

“As the highest among us,” Mr. Wood had said the day he named Sunday the new head of the Family, “you have first pick at reaping Ena’s blessings.”

Ena is not a kind god. But perhaps, just this once, they would allow him to be selfish.

[starcurtain]

Sometimes, I think about how much Alhaitham's entire adult life has been shaped by Kaveh and I just... have to sit down for a second.

Kaveh was Alhaitham's first, and, as far as we've been told, only friend until recently. At the very least, Kaveh was likely his only close friend throughout Alhaitham's entire schooling years, from teens into adulthood.

Alhaitham lives in the house he received for his work with Kaveh. The house Alhaitham lives in wouldn't even exist without Kaveh.

Alhaitham's ideology and behavior have been shaped by his diametric opposition to Kaveh's perspectives. He acts and thinks the way he does in part because of how their debating over years shaped how Alhaitham sees the world.

He's become an active part of a friend group almost entirely because of Kaveh. Alhaitham's story quest says that he didn't become particularly friendly with the rest of Sumeru's saviors even after they saved the archon, but now we see him hanging out with Cyno and Tighnari all the time because Kaveh was friends with them first and eased the way.

He even drinks a particular brand of coffee because he and Kaveh picked it together.

If you removed all trace of Kaveh from Alhaitham's life, virtually nothing would be the same. He wouldn't live where he does now. His house wouldn't look like it does inside at all. He very likely wouldn't have a single close friend. His ideology would probably be significantly more pragmatic and cold. Literally the only thing in Alhaitham's current life that hasn't been shaped in some way by Kaveh is Alhaitham's job. Which is... probably why work is Alhaitham's least favorite aspect of life.

Meanwhile, Kaveh is honest to archons over here wondering "What does Alhaitham even think about me?"

I don't know, buddy, probably that you're his whole world?

[inkskinned]

we were sitting on the floor and i was cutting out tiny pictures to make a collage for a friend's birthday. you were on your phone and you laughed about something, and i was still in love with you then, so i asked what had you giggling.

"sorry. i was just..." you took a moment and went back to texting. "i was telling someone about how you're afraid of the dark."

i'm afraid of the dark because something bad happened. "oh." i felt a little slinky of shame crawl down my throat.

you glanced up, and maybe it showed on my face, because you rolled your eyes and held the phone to the side casually so i could see the group chat. "what? was it a secret?"

i looked down to the scissors in my hand. "i just..." no, it's not a secret. it just felt like something private, something serious. saying why would you tell someone that just feels like an accusation. it's unfair. i honestly am not even ashamed of it, it's just a fact about my person that i don't usually share.

what a strange experience. is this a human thing or a generational thing? for our grandparents: did they need to worry about how quickly someone can just... share your personal information? again, i didn't even really have a true objection. what could i say? i want any person in my life to feel they can be honest with their friends. it's not like i said don't tell anyone this.

i cut out another letter to complete the rainbow happy birthday, started hunting for the exclamation mark. i heard you sigh dramatically.

"don't make a big deal about this," you said.

this entire conversation was a pattern for us, and this was when we got to my least favorite part of the pattern. i would get my feelings hurt in some oblique not-technically-terrible way, and then it would be making a big deal about something. you'd get frustrated for me for being soft, but i was born soft. you knew i was soft when you pierced me. it's one of the things that made controlling me so easy.

"i'm not," i felt my voice crack. the question came without my wanting. "why are you guys talking about me?" and why are you saying that thing? why not like - i'm telling them how you're generous and kind and pretty.

you let out this low, tragic groan. "oh my god." you tossed the phone away from your body. "there, see? i just won't talk to them if you don't like it."

the rest of the hour went the way it always went, between us: i said i don't actually mind if you talk to your friends but -, you found a way to call my minor expression of discomfort "being dramatic." you got upset that i had been offended. i ended up apologizing, even though i hadn't actually done anything.

afterwards, you picked up the phone again. after texting for a little bit, you snorted. "okay," you said, "but it is kind of funny you're afraid of the dark. i mean, when you think about it."

[aphel1on]

AURGH auwarghh the autistic parental trauma... the epi was wacky hijinks then dropped this on us out of nowhere... (sobs) laios... laiiiiooooos

[vicariousresearcher]

concept: hybrid needing a knot during their heat but none of the 141 has one...........they learn that two dicks is a good replacement

cw: heat, hybrid!reader, afab reader, double pen, underwear stealing, degradation, dub-con ish not really.

Canine hybrid! Reader who's been a bitch lately.

Mouthing off, flashing teeth, scrapping your claws at the leather collar banded over your throat, snarling like the feral animal you were when you first came to them.

Just being an absolute hellion to be around. 

The team think it ends there though. Just some mood swings and being territorial. You’ll get over whatevers bothering you.

You however were keenly aware of the changes going through your body; the restlessness that itched in your muscles, the almost overstimulating nature of even the most basic things, the more primitive part of your brain lighting up.

And of course the slick between your thighs. Having to change your panties in the morning because you’d soaked them through. And that's of course just throughout the nights. Days are worse. Spending all that time with the team, your body trying its hardest to convince you that the friendly pat on your shoulder was, in fact, not platonic.

And it's just getting worse the longer you ignore it. Accumulating in you locking yourself in your room after you were dumb enough to spar with Soap. All chidding comments and tangled limbs.

Getting tossed and restrained. Snapping teeth only to get a tug on your ear. Your face getting slammed into the mat and a goading ‘all that attitude and this is all you can do?’

Completely ignorant to the heat simmering under your skin and the patch of fabric between your legs where you’d soaked through to your pants.

……..

You practically ran away with your tail between your legs. Pissy and annoyed. Gaz saw the glare in your eyes as you walked past him in the hallway, recalling how Soap said the way to get you out of your funk was to beat it out of you because of course Soap thought that would work.

Didn’t take long for him to find the Scot and prod for some answers to what exactly he did. Rubbing some brain cells together they decided maybe a better solution was to be nice. Ask you to come watch a movie with em in the common room as an apology.

…….

They should’ve knocked, both decided silently. Assumed that you were in your room fuming and pacing like a caged lion.

What they didn’t expect to see was this.

Their dignified teammate, their hybrid, like this.

Lights off, straddling a pillow, bare from the waist down. Pitiful mewls muffled by the bunched-up fabric in your hand. Pressing it over your mouth and nose. Sticky noises from how fervently rode the slick soaked pillow. Choking when the seam caught over your clit.

All it took was one too thick swallow and your flattened ears perked up. Eyes snapping to the doorway. 

Took all of five seconds for you to retreat into the corner of your bed. A death grip on the pillow between your legs to maintain a semblance of dignity. The sneer on your face a perfect picture of humiliation and anger.

“This is why you ran off so quick?” Gaz said with a chuckle, breaking the silence. Pity creasing his brows as he connected the reason to your sudden change in behaviour.

He’s the one that moved first, leaving Soap at the door who was currently rebooting as he saw that the fabric in your hand was his boxers.

Took the time to adjust the chubbing in his pants before kicking the door shut. 

Pillows fluffed and padded around the bed like some sort of nest. Blankets-no-clothes strewn about. Ghosts hoodie here, Gaz’s track pants there. The shirt you wore having ‘Price’ on the breast. Just proving you’d been suffering like this for a while. Long enough to collect all this.

Your ears pinned back at their approach. Growl failing. Too high pitched, a needy whine.

The mattress sinks when Gaz places a knee on it. Up close he can see how dilated your pupils are. Feel the feverish heat your skin is emitting. One look and he knows you’ve gone nonverbal like how you do during stress on the field.

“Jesus, you had Price worried. Thought something was actually wrong with how you’ve been actin’.” 

Gaz says with a half smile. Like this was fucking funny or something-

As if seeing the impending snarl he closes in. Calloused hand smoothing over the side of your head, scratching the base of your ear affectionately. Voice sweet enough for the condescension to be drowned out.

“Shhh, you’re okay. It’s okay, pup. We’ll help.” 

Gaz’s smell is almost paralyzing. Dizzying in a way that makes you want to crack open his rib cage and live in his skin. You don’t even notice how your legs have been coaxed apart from the death grip you had on the pillow. 

Then Soap is up to your side, eyes locked down on the mess between your legs. Clit raw and puffy from your attempts at relief. Saliva building up in his mouth in anticipation of getting his face shoved between those thighs. Would you cry? Squirm? Pull his hair and ride his face?

Gaz’s patronizing voice in your ear stealing your attention long enough for Soap's fingers to ghost along your folds. A whine bubbles out of your throat when you flinch back. 

“Fuckin’ jumpy mutt.”

The look the two of them share is lost on you as you get manhandled. Soap wedges his hands under your ass and drags you forward so Gaz can slip in behind you. Your spine going rigid against Gaz’s chest as he flattens you against him, hooking his legs under yours and propping you open.

Long fingers clenched over your jaw, Gaz dragging your attention back to him. The look of uncertainty yet desperation on your face was enough to make him laugh.

“What? You don’t want him to touch you no more? You sit in here huffing his boxers like a dirty mutt but now that you have the real thing you shy away? Come on pup…” 

He kept his hold on your jaw while the other snakes around to hitch up your shirt's hem, letting Soap work without hindrance. Forcing you to keep your eyes on him. 

Soap doesn’t even have to work his fingers into you. Slick dripping onto the bed. Two sliding in so easily.  

“How often have you been like this hm? Is this why you disappear throughout the day? To get off?”

Three had your thighs jolting, straining over Gaz’s thighs. 

“Bitch in heat huh?” Soap says as he breaks his focus on your cunt to look at you. Neck arched back so your head can rest on Gaz’s shoulder. Lips parted to let out pathetic whines and whimpers. Gaz’s hand going under the hoodie to paw at your chest like he’s been wanting to since he set eyes on the obedient little hybrid who’d rip out throats at his suggestion. 

Four has your pussy squelching and wetness pooling into Soaps palm. A groan falling from his mouth at the sight. Freehand unclipping his belt.

“Stealing our stuff too? Hell, you even got some of Prices shit in here, you want to fuck him too? I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear bout that.”

The way your gaze slid down to him, humiliated yet so turned on made his grin widen. Cock straining against the seam of his pants.

“Doesn’t need any more prep.” Soap addressed Gaz from over your shoulder, pulling his fingers out of you. Showing off the excessive wetness in the low light, a shit eating grin on his face. “Mutt took care of that already.”

They just moved you like some doll. Soap taking you off of Gaz and setting you on top to straddle his hips while Gaz worked at his own pants. His hand presses down on your shoulder blades to see your spine arch all proper while he settles in behind.

Their obedient pet, kneeling on all fours, back bent and ass raised. 

Fluffy tail wagging as Soap hitched up the shirt so he could grope at her tits. Swollen and sensitive and needing a pup to latch onto them. 

The sound that came out of you when he took your nipple was pornographic. Shrill and needy, no semblance of the respectable hybrid of the 141.

Gaz was the first to push in. Gummy heat overwhelming, like nothing he’d ever felt. Not an ounce of friction.

“Hybrids can’t get pregnant from humans right?” Gaz asked, pulling out till just the tip was in. Head swimming. He only earned a bark of laughter from Soap.

“One pump chump huh?”

“Fuck off you haven’t been in her yet-“ 

You flattening your ass against his hips cut off the conversation. The feeling of him bottoming out finally scratching that itch that’s been building under your skin for days. 

Gaz tries to say something bout you being a “greedy mutt” but you just keep moving. Chasing that tightening feeling in your stomach. Slapping back hard against his hips so he can reach as deep as possible. 

Only for him to pull out when your bounces got more frantic. A growl builds in your throat, ears pinned back when you whipped your head around. 

“Was wondering where that attitude went,” Soap smirked, notching his fat cockhead against your entrance. 

They just kept on with this. Taking turns plunging into your pussy because neither of them are willing to stick their dicks between your teeth or risk the potential freak out with your ass. A silent competition to see who’ll cum first.

As soon as they’d feel that heat build up in their stomach they’d pull out only for the other to lodge in. Never leaving you empty for a second 

Drool dripped onto Soap's collarbone, Gaz’s fingers lodged between your teeth to keep you from latching onto Soap's neck and marking him. They weren’t stupid enough to enable that at least. Price would have their heads.

Not that you cared. Brain fuzzy as the restlessness you'd been dealing with for days got dealt with. Gaz’s position lets his batter against your cervix while Soap's dick curves perfectly so that his shallower movements let him grind against your g-spot.

All growls thinned out into whines as they both jeered and jabbed at you and each other. Gaz thumbing over your rim, Soap rough fingers meanly pinching at your puffy clit. Their stupid little hybrid who only took a couple hard thrusts and friction to cum.

Yet that wasn’t enough. You needed more to be satisfied. To be filled. Fulfill the animalistic purpose to be pinned down and bred.

Didn’t take long for either of them to get to the end of their ropes. Slowly pushing themselves into overstimulation from the repeated edging, pulling out just as they felt their balls tighten only to have to let the other shove past to get inside of you.

Blubbering came from you, attempts of begging. More you needed more. More of them. Needed to be stuffed full. Claws digging into Soaps shoulders to create bloody crescents. Crying out when Gaz slipped in too early. Bullying in to force you to fit them both. Stretch bordering on painful, eyes rolling back in your head. Coil snapping at the feeling of what your body can only understand to be being knotted.

Your clenching walls force them both still beyond small, deep thrusts. Between you and the feeling of grinding against Soap's veins send Gaz over the edge first. Your cunt fluttering as if milking all of his load. Rapid enough to finish off Soap. 

Fucked dumb was the best word for you at this point. Overstimulating from the feeling of being stretched by two dicks, the smell of both of their sweat gives you a heady feeling. A lingering taste of copper in your mouth from breaking through Gaz’s skin.

They let you collapse into your nest once pulling out. Shaking thighs and a tear-streaked face. Soap scoops up a fingerful of his and Gaz’s cum and pushes it back into your quivering pussy.

Your whine earning mean laughs. Tail thumping against the pillows. Ready for round two. 

……

Later a video is sent into the group chat with a text underneath saying ‘teaching the dog new tricks.’

[becca-e-barnes]

Ma’am, you are deviously incredible 🔥 We’re begging for an exploration of him saying “I love you” while fucking her like he doesn’t 🥹

My brain keeps picking up the storyline a few splendidly torturous hours in when her body’s completely spent & quivering & she’s a blubbering mess & that’s when he picks her up & takes his sweet time positioning her so she can limply yet eagerly watch their reflection has he finally gives her… exactly what her twitching body’s been craving. 🥵

I'm so glad you all enjoyed the thought of this as much as I did because I've been dying to expand on it 😵‍💫 (Part 1 here)

I like to imagine by that stage, he's absolutely desperate too though. He's got to feel your sweet little pussy clench and flutter around him, contracting so tight every time you cum that he swears it's going to be the end of him.

He's been too hard for too long, buried inside your body and he swears he's never felt you this wet or this hot before. It's been fucking luxurious, forcing you to cum against his fingers, feeling how your body's natural reaction is to coax him to drain his balls into you but that alone isn’t enough. He needs more than that.

He wouldn't admit it to you but he can't take any more. His balls feel like they're fizzing; overfull and beyond ready to flood your waiting, overstimulated body.

He arranges you gently, laying you on your front because he doesn't trust your trembling arms to support you. "That's it, good girl." He coos, hearing you whimper and sob pathetically because he needs to slip out of you to slide a pillow under your hips.

"You've made such a mess." He groans, taking a second to appreciate the delicious, inviting, slick little cunt he's about to indulge in. "You're dripping, sweetheart. God, I just know there's no way I'm going to be able to pull out."

His huge hands are gripping your hips and with one sharp, brutal thrust, he's back inside you and you both sob pathetically at the feeling of your bodies being joined again. This is exactly what you've needed but you don't have the words to tell him that. All you can do is whine and will your body not to cum again so soon.

"I meant. What I said earlier." He punctuates his sentence with soft groans, drawing back until he almost slips out of you before pounding back in.

He leans forward, tilting your chin up, making sure you can see the way he's fucking you in the mirror at the end of the bed.

"I love you. And I don't want you to forget that." He sounds sincere, one hand trailing up from the small of your back to right between your shoulder blades and then back down again. It feels intimate and tender but all that is forgotten by the very next thrust.

"I love you. But for now, you're just a mindless. Little. Drooling. Breedable. Cunt for me." He slows his thrusts down, determined not to cum so soon but it's going to be difficult to last until he gets the first couple of loads out of the way.

"Baby..." You whimper, feeling the tip of his cock nudge against your sweet spot, making you shake from overstimulation.

"I know sweetheart, I know. It's too much. But you're being so good for me. You're so perfect. How have no idea how you feel. So wet and warm and I can feel you fluttering around my cock. It's like you're trying to squeeze every last drop of cum out of me. Is that what you want? Because angel, I'll keep this delicious cunt stuffed full of load after load until I have nothing left to give you."

His thrusts are punishingly fast, thumping against your raised ass, half chasing his orgasm, half holding it back.

"And when I do, I'll remind you just how much I love you. And the baby I'm going to give you tonight."

With that thought, he can't stop himself from cumming, his dick twitching inside you as he shoots thick ropes of his seed right against your cervix. You're so cock-drunk you can only rut yourself millimetres back and forth but that's all you need to send yourself spiralling into another orgasm that leaves you trembling and sobbing.

"Fuck, you want that as much as I do, don't you?" He kisses the back of your neck, breathing you in while letting the euphoric rush subside. He notices he hasn't softened in the slightest despite such an intense orgasm but he knows he needs to be gentle with you for a moment before he can get any rougher.