itacats

[itacats]

are you five nights at fucking kidding me

[itacats]

It was mine.

Not in a greedy way—

but in the way you call something a dream

because you’ve bled for it.

Because you carved yourself down to bone

just to fit into its shape.

And then—

gone.

Ripped from my hands in silence,

like the universe couldn’t even be bothered

to make the ending dramatic.

No fire. No collapse.

Just no.

Failure isn’t loud.

It’s not screaming,

not glass shattering.

It’s the quiet weight of an inbox that never answers,

the news of someone else doing the job

you thought you were made for.

It’s hearing congratulations

for a path that was supposed to be yours.

I tell people I’m fine.

Smile like I didn’t just lose

the only thing I ever wanted.

Say words like “new chapter” and “opportunity”

because they’re easier than

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Because if I admit it—

if I let the mask slip—

they’ll see me crumbling.

The universe doesn’t let me forget.

Every corner, every sound, every face—

it all circles back,

taunting,

dragging me through the ashes of what I built.

As if it enjoys reminding me

that I failed,

that I was never enough.

And yet—

the worst part isn’t the grief.

It’s when the grief runs dry.

When you go so far past rock bottom

that you stop feeling anything at all.

Numbness is easier.

It’s cleaner.

Better to feel nothing

than to touch the raw core

that still whispers,

you were supposed to be more.

So I pretend.

I laugh too loudly.

I talk about the future like it belongs to me.

I let them believe.

Sometimes I even let myself believe.

But when the lights go out

and the noise dies,

I know.

The dream is gone.

And I am left, hollow—

a body without a purpose,

a name without a place,

trying to remember what it feels like

to want to live.

[itacats]

Trump is dead this and Trump is dead that. The obvious answer for Trump's sudden disappearance is that Trump has gone into his very first heat and the Whitehouse is trying to cover up that he's an Omega

[itacats]

Debating silently showing this to one of the flight attendants while boarding

[itacats]

[itacats]

Wifey cam during an official match?

wait this is so precious. based on that one video, yall know the one. also made this gn!!

thinking about this with atsumu especially, it’s halftime and the camera cuts to you in the crowd in a MSBY jersey (his number of course. you wanted to wear bokuto’s but he pouted the second you joked about it). music plays in the background to rile up the audience again, and when it cuts to you, you gasp in surprise before letting it go.

you’re grinning and dancing around, shaking your hips dramatically and laughing. the crowd is laughing with you at your performance, clapping and cheering you on-

only for the camera to cut to atsumu.

he’s dancing too.

he’s matching your moves, your dramatics, he’s grinning and laughing himself. the camera cuts back to you, still dancing, except your eyes are on each other, not the camera. it’s like the camera doesn’t even exist, it’s not part of the silliness, all that exists in your world is each other.

when the camera cuts back to him, he blows you a kiss, cutting back to you quickly to watch you catch it. the footage ends finally, but you and atsumu keep staring at each other, just completely enamored and disgustingly in love. you use your fingers to make a heart, and he smiles excitedly and uses his index finger and thumb to return the heart back.

[itacats]

Just-Insufferable

SUM: A certain person thinks mocking your private journal is funny — until Task Force 141 shows him how wrong he is.

WRN: Bullying, mild language, protective!141, 'privacy' invasion, confrontation.

FT: Reader x TF141

A/N: Hey there all you lovelies, friendly reminder: making fun of someone’s hobby for your own cheap entertainment isn’t edgy — it’s just pathetic. And if you don’t like what I post or reblog, here’s a wild idea… scroll past it. Don’t trip over the internet on your way out.

You hadn’t meant for anyone outside the team to read your journal. It wasn’t even a diary in the traditional sense — more like a quiet corner of your mind where you wrote stories to work through difficult missions, loss, and the nights that refused to let you sleep. The characters in those stories weren’t always real, but the emotions were.

It was just a notebook. Old, leather-bound, kept tucked away in your rucksack.

But apparently, someone found it.

The first hint came when you walked past the break room and heard laughter — the loud, wheezing kind. A voice imitated your handwriting, reading exaggerated lines from one of your stories in a mock-dramatic tone:

“Oh, and Simon’s mask looked like a shadow, guarding me from the world—”

More laughter. You froze.

“Mate, this is gold,” another voice said. “They actually write this down? What a freak.”

You stepped in, expression carefully neutral, and reached past the small group to grab your journal off the table. The ringleader — a private named Collins — was grinning like he’d just won the lottery. His friends smirked.

“Good stuff, mate,” Collins said, leaning back in his chair. “Bit personal though, innit? You should publish it. Make us all laugh.”

You met his eyes and said evenly, “Thanks for your… feedback.” You turned and left without letting him see your hands shake.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t even tell anyone. If they saw you unfazed, they wouldn’t win. Still, that night the words echoed, warping into something uglier each time they replayed.

The next day, however, someone else noticed.

Soap was the first to pick up on it. He’d been joking around with you in the hall when you smiled a little too mechanically. “What’s wrong, bonnie? That smile’s faker than Gaz’s hairline.”

Gaz, walking beside you, scoffed. “Oi.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly.

“You’re not,” Soap pressed, frowning now. “What happened?”

You shook your head. “It’s nothing worth talking about.”

But later, when you were out on the range, Ghost wandered over. He didn’t say much — didn’t have to. “Price wants to see you,” was all he said before walking with you back to the briefing room.

Price was there, arms crossed, the air heavy with an unspoken seriousness. Gaz leaned against the wall. Soap sat forward in his chair. Ghost stood in the corner, unreadable.

Price’s eyes met yours. “Collins.”

You stiffened. “What about him?”

“We know what he did,” Gaz said.

You opened your mouth, but Price cut you off. “You should’ve told us.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you muttered, even though your throat tightened.

Ghost’s voice was low, dangerous. “It was. And we’re handling it.”

You frowned. “You’re not going to—”

“We are,” Soap interrupted. “You don’t get to decide on this one, lass. Not after he decided to drag your name through the mud for sport.”

Price’s gaze was firm. “You’re part of this team. No one humiliates one of ours and walks away smiling.”

That night, Collins and his friends were having a little get-together in the rec room. Music blared from someone’s speaker, cheap beer cans littered the table, and the same journal — your journal — sat right in the center like a trophy.

They didn’t notice the door open until Ghost stepped in.

The music stopped with a sharp click.

“Evenin’,” Ghost said, voice calm but heavy enough to silence the whole room. “Mind if we join?”

Behind him came Soap, Gaz, and Price. The air went colder.

Collins swallowed. “Uh… sure, we were just—”

“Reading, were you?” Price’s voice was quiet, but it carried the kind of weight that made even seasoned soldiers sit straighter. “This,” He walked over to the table, picked up your journal, and looked Collins dead in the eye. “belongs to one of my people.”

“Just having a laugh,” Collins said weakly. “No harm meant.”

“No harm meant?” Gaz repeated, stepping closer. “You went through their private things. Made them the punchline to your little comedy show.”

Soap leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. “Do you know what they write here? No, you don’t. And you wouldn’t understand even if you did — because it’s theirs. Not yours. Not your mates’. And definitely not for your cheap amusement.”

Collins opened his mouth, but Ghost’s slow step forward shut him right back up. “You think humiliating someone makes you clever?” His tone was flat, lethal. “You don’t even understand the kind of people you’re playing with.”

Price set the journal down deliberately. “You owe them an apology. Not a lazy one. Not because you’ve been told to — but because you understand exactly what you’ve done.”

Gaz tilted his head. “And if you don’t… we’ll make sure you do.”

They didn’t hurt him. Not physically. But the way 141 dismantled Collins and his friends’ smugness was surgical. Every word dripped with precision, peeling away their bravado layer by layer until they sat pale and silent.

Collins finally stammered out a shaky, “I’m sorry.”

Price didn’t blink. “You will be if it happens again.” He picked up the journal and turned to leave. “Party’s over.”

When they handed the journal back to you later, it felt heavier somehow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly.

“We did,” Gaz replied. “You’re family.”

Soap grinned faintly. “Besides, you should’ve seen their faces. Priceless.”

Ghost’s eyes met yours briefly. “They won’t try it again.”

Price’s voice was quieter now, but it held the same steel as before. “Don’t ever think you have to deal with that alone. Not while you’ve got us.”

You swallowed hard, tucking the journal close to your chest. “Thank you.”

For the first time since that break room, you felt the tension in your chest ease. They’d made sure of it — not just by confronting Collins, but by reminding you of something you’d almost forgotten:

With Task Force 141, you were never alone.

[itacats]

Got a little story brewing rn... posting here Just in case I forget to actually post it🤣💀

[itacats]

writing style: author from the 1800s with a severe love of commas whose sentences last half a page 

[itacats]

[itacats]

simon riley has the worst laugh you've ever heard, sounds like you told someone to laugh and they'd only ever read about what laughter is. that deep spoken "heh heh heh" that he lets out in response to his own jokes is so insincere that you hesitate to even all it laughter but he is so clearly enjoying himself that it gives you pause. you ask around but whenever you ask gaz or soap to imitate ghost's laugh you get the same results. so you live with it. you live with the spoken word poem of laughter that spills out of him.

until you're sitting on the patio of a nice little seafood place trying to decide between the paella and the scampi and look up just in time to watch a child fall sideways off a bicycle. and simon Laughs like a lawnmower starting up. a deep revving of unused motors that climbs out of his throat with a wheeze of breath. the ugliest thing you've ever heard in your life accompanying tears that burst from simon's eyes as he struggles to find composure. there's a snort here and there, as the engine dies into silent shudders, bracketing attempts to heave in the air he's so rapidly pushing out with some sound. it isn't until he finally manages to pull himself together that he clears his throat and goes:

"kids fallin' off things," a sniff, "always funny."

"you've got a nice laugh." you tell him.

"always thought it sounded like a strangled goose."

"yeah, but it's nice." it's more sincere than he likes, and you can tell he's going to be grumbling about it later by the pink that tinges his ears. you're treated to a half mumbled "fuck off" and later, when you tell a particularly horrible joke, the same lawn mower chain rattles its way through your flat.

[itacats]

As someone who visits various nursing homes across my state, there is a stark contrast in patients who have been taken care of and those who are "managed." I see how patients lived, I look at their decor-if any- I remember the smell of the room when I walk in. Some are good, others great... but there's a saddening amount of times where my thoughts drift to hoping patients are actually happy even though the smell of urine and dimming fluorescent lights turn the place into a scene from a dark, oppressive dream. Please. For the love of all that is good in this world. Think about the level of care not only you but your community needs and deserves when they reach the time in their lives where a nursing home or care facility is being considered as their HOME.

nursing homes are not punishments.

They are supposed to function as care centers for people who are disabled.

So why is it our culture thinks its a joke to say "shape up or you'll be sent to a nursing home". Families are not trained medical staff. It is a luxury to stay in your home as your care needs increase. You can need a nursing home or similar level of care at any age.

Pay attention, how they are run is a sign of ableism and ageism. The lack of funding and abusive staff stories should matter to you NOW because if you arent disabled now you will be in someway (and well, because its basic compassion but if we had that I wouldn't need to make this post)

[itacats]

there are four grown men in your med bay and exactly zero of them have a legitimate reason to be here.

you’re pretty sure the only actual new injury is gaz’s paper cut, which—despite his dramatics—stopped bleeding about twenty-ish minutes ago.

soap’s sat on your exam table, kicking his legs like a kid at the pediatrician, absently munching from the emergency snack stash you’ve hidden in a drawer clearly labeled MEDIC ONLY.

“y’doin’ checkups, sweetheart?” he asks through a mouthful of granola bar, brushing crumbs off his lap. “or lettin’ us rot here while you work?”

“you’re all rotting,” you say, snatching it from him and folding your arms. “from the brain outward.”

“you wound me, darlin’,” he gasps, taking a bite despite it being in your hand. “you wound me.”

the place is technically just a converted storage room with a flickering overhead light and a radio that only plays static if you turn it past 92.7. there are at least three mugs that aren’t yours, a rotating stock of protein bars (some half-eaten. guess who), and a blanket price insists you need even though winters are your off seasons. you’re convinced it’s just for him.

somehow, it’s the coziest place on base. and somehow, you’re everyone’s favorite stop.

gaz is horizontal on your stretcher. he points at the band-aid you’ve given him when you look over.

“this isn’t even the good kind,” he whines. “where are the cartoon ones? i want spider-man.”

you sigh, giving in and letting soap have at his little snack. “gave you those last week, garrick.”

“they helped! he’s a mental health aid, i tell you.”

“well he’s not licensed, i’ll tell you.”

there’s only one not actively instigating, perched quietly at your desk like a gargoyle—arms crossed with his feet propped against it. yet even he’s not innocent. you clock the faint trace of blood on his glove at a spot you know you stitched up last week.

“simon,” you say sharply.

his head tilts, slow as his attention pans from your suture box to you. “yeah, doc?”

“you’re bleeding.”

he grunts. “tiny cut.”

you hold out your hand. “show me.”

simon sighs like a teenager, but obeys. the moment your fingers brush his, his shoulders relax the slightest bit. the old injury is just as you suspected, split open and just as easily patched up.

price strolls in last, of course, completely unapologetic and somehow already holding two mugs of tea. he takes a look around the room, raises a brow at you.

“crowded office you’ve got, love.”

“don’t start, captain,” you warn. “you’re next.” you say, even though you had absolutely zero intention of working at all today. seems to be something you get roped into often, anyway.

“i’m not hurt.”

“yet you’ve been limping all week?”

“old age,” he shrugs, sipping. “comes for us all.”

you look around. four soldiers. mud on their boots. scars on their skin. loud, ridiculous, and entirely too large for this room.

you grab your clipboard. “get on the table, cap.”

he smiles, obliges you.

“i’m all yours.”

[itacats]

On writing sexual tension

⊹ standing too close. like just barely not touching. why are their shoulders breathing on each other??

⊹ conversations that sound normal but feel like foreplay. “pass the salt” has never been so loaded.

⊹ one of them says something flirty and the other freezes for 0.2 seconds like “oh.”

⊹ eyes dropping to lips and then—back up. with effort.

⊹ holding eye contact just a little too long. like... are they gonna kiss or duel??

⊹ unintentional physical contact that lasts one second too long and now they’re both broken

⊹ a hand on the small of the back. that’s it. that’s the tweet.

⊹ tension so thick that other characters start noticing like “hey are you two okay?” (they are not)

⊹ “accidental” sleepovers. “oh no there’s only one bed.” yeah. suuuure.

⊹ biting back a smile. biting back a moan. biting anything really.

⊹ one of them walks away and the other has to physically restrain themselves from watching the hips

⊹ lots of sighing. frustrated sighs. horny sighs. “i want to kiss you but I’m emotionally unavailable” sighs.

[itacats]

[itacats]

Should’ve Stayed in Bed

Feat: Simon "Ghost" Riley × Reader

Warnings: Suggestive content, heavy kissing, groping, strong language, teasing, possessive behavior, implied sexual tension

SUM: You’re on your way to work — or you were — until Simon pulls you into a heated kitchen moment that ends with one hell of a promise: he’s claiming what’s his when you get home.

AN: not dead yet, but close😅

You’d meant to grab your coffee and go — boots already on, bag by the door, radio murmuring some slow indie tune in the background. The sun was barely up, stretching long shadows across the kitchen floor, catching on steam from your mug. Just a quick sip before the drive.

Simon, still in his joggers and a threadbare t-shirt, wandered in like he owned the morning. Hair a mess, socks mismatched, and sleep still in his eyes — but his grin?

Sharp. Knowing.

“You’re up early,” he said, voice rough with sleep and smoke from the coffee he hadn’t touched yet.

“So are you,” you shot back, not meeting his eyes as you sipped. Too dangerous. Too familiar. You could feel him closing the distance without even looking.

And then his arms slipped around your waist from behind, dragging you back into the warmth of him. His mouth brushed your neck, stubble scraping just enough to pull a gasp from your lips.

“Y’look too good to let go,” he murmured, accent thick, hands already sliding up under your shirt. “How’m I supposed to let you walk out the door dressed like that?”

“Simon,” you warned, breath catching as his palms flattened against your stomach.

“What?” he said, teasing. “Just touchin’, aren’t I?”

You turned around — half-expecting to shove him playfully away. But your hands met his chest instead, warm and solid beneath the fabric. And then his lips were on yours.

Hungry.

Messy.

His tongue swept past yours like he already knew you wouldn’t say no. You barely had time to think before you were pressed against the counter, your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt, his body heavy against yours.

“Christ,” he mumbled between kisses, voice muffled against your jaw. “You kiss me like this and expect me to behave?”

“You started it,” you breathed.

“You touched me first,” he said, grinding his hips forward just enough for you to feel the heat building beneath those sweatpants.

Your hand moved without thought — dragging down, palming him through the soft cotton. Just once. Just curious. But even that was enough to make him groan into your mouth, lips curling into a grin against yours.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered, voice low and smug. “That the way you say goodbye now?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, flushed.

Simon leaned in again, hands cupping your ass, lifting you just enough to sit you on the counter edge. “Nah, love. You don’t get to tease me and then run off to work all sweet-faced like nothin’ happened.”

You let your fingers drift down again — slower this time, testing. The groan he gave was practically feral.

“You gonna stop me?” you asked, breathless, eyes on his.

He kissed you once more — harder this time — then pulled back just enough to speak.

“Not stoppin’ you, darlin’. Just lettin’ you know: you’ve got ten minutes ‘til you’re late... and I’m countin’ every bloody second.”

Then he leaned in close, voice low, breath hot at your ear — that accent dark and full of heat.

“When you get home… I’m claimin’ what’s mine.”

[itacats]

The other night husband and I were watching a documentary about the yeti where they were doing DNA analysis of samples of supposed yeti fur, and every one of them came back as bears.

Anyway, the next night we watched a thing about some pig man who is supposed to live in Vermont. People said it had claws and a pig nose but walked upright like a man. Now, I happen to know that sideshows used to shave bears and present them as pig men. So every piece of evidence they gave of this monster sounds to me like a bear with mange.

So now the running joke in our house is that everything is bears. Aliens? Bears. Loch Ness monster? Bear. Every cryptozoological mystery is just a very crafty bear.

Bears. They’re everywhere. Be wary. Anyone or anything could be a bear.