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When Dutch gets all contemplative at the beginning of the Blessed are the Peacemakers mission in Chapter 3, he actually becomes the most attractive man I've ever seen for all of 10 seconds

That sad remorse? The regret about killing brother O'Driscoll bc he's mourning the fact that Colm killed his someone he loved very dearly?????

Something something I have a type and it's fictional angsty old men.

And then he goes insane. And I get back on track with my main angsty cowboy <3

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Trauma dump rant ahah!

I hate writing Price comforting anyone after a fight or disagreement actually (especially with kids) bc then the little kid in me who got yelled at (which escalated to more severe punishment) for asking "why can't I go to so-and-so's" and "why do I have to do this specific sports drill" or I'm struggling and frustrated so I'm expressing it and you think it's disrespectful. Comes out and cries.

She needs to be held fr. Someone tell her it's okay to fail or wtv cuz it ain't gonna be me lol

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was no one going to tell me that echidnas have four headed penises??????????? not four penises. like four heads. wth

N e way. you know where this is going. has this been done before? Something something I like when johnny's hybridness is not immediately obvious. Echindas wiki :D

18+ nsfw absolutely filthy smut. soap is a loveable little guy (freak). soap x unspecified reader.

People always assumed Johnny was some kind of canine hybrid. Maybe something like a jackal. Maybe a mutt. Something common. That energy of his, the bouncing-off-walls chaos, the wag-in-his-hips swagger, the way he panted like a damn dog when training ran too long yeah. Most folks didn’t question it.

He presented no outward, physical traits. No ears. No tail. Nothing. He's sensitive as hell to other people though. He can tell you who's walking down the hall way based on "vibes." He loves naps and cuddling on the warmest surface. He's funny. Sweet. Quick witted. Had to be low presenting dog hybrid.

And Johnny? He let them believe it.

Because saying "echidna" out loud was always followed by questions.

Too many of them.

"Where are your spikes?" "Can you really smell electricity?" "That's pretty rare, how are you alive?" "Oh no wonder I get weird vibes from you."

And if it ever got to what he looked like under his clothes... well. That was where things usually fell apart.

Too many partners had looked at him like he was freakish. Curiosity laced with recoil. Fascination until it turned to discomfort. One even laughed. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

So Johnny stopped showing. Stopped explaining. Built a new story around himself instead, this fast-talking, shiny-edged thing full of jokes and tension and playful little smirks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he’d say when people asked what he was. "Bet you a drink you'll never guess."

He didn't expect you.

Didn’t expect the way you saw through it. How your curiosity invited. How you looked at him, really looked, and didn’t blink when he said it.

“Echidna.” He’d said it so quietly, sitting on the edge of your bed, shirt off, hands flexing nervously in his lap.

You’d just blinked. “That’s kind of amazing.”

He laughed, bitter and short. “Yeah? You won’t be saying that when you see my cock.”

But you stayed. And that’s when Johnny changed.

Not immediately, but slowly, sweetly, and dangerously.

He became obsessed with you. Couldn’t stop touching. Holding. Nuzzling into your neck with a low little sound you’d never heard from him before. Gentle at first. Worshipful, almost. Like he didn’t believe he could have this, you, not really.

Until your hands were on his hips, your mouth soft on his skin, and you said, “I want it. I want all of you.”

Something in him melted.

And that’s when you saw him, not just the charm and cocky grin, but the Johnny who’d never been allowed to let go. The Johnny with claws in the sheets and heat in his eyes. The Johnny who growled when he slid into you and couldn’t stop his hips from rolling again, and again, and again.

“Made for you,” he’d pant, forehead against yours. “Meant for this. Meant for you. Fuck, you’re perfect, look at you—taking me so well, baby. I’m not stoppin’. Not ‘til you’re leaking full and beggin’ for more.”

You could feel it in the way he trembled above you, sheer desperation from the effort it took not to lose himself the second he sank into you. Not just one head stretching you wide, but two, hot and pulsing and already leaking, fitting together as one inside you. You swore you could feel them move independently, twitching as he moaned deep in his chest.

“Jesus, Johnny—”

He cut you off with a kiss and maybe a whimper. His mouth was clumsy on yours, needy, all tongue and teeth, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to fuck you or devour you.

“Too good,” he groaned, voice breaking as his hips rolled just the two heads inside of you. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good, can’t think straight, baby.”

And he didn’t want to think. Not with you moaning beneath him. Not with your thighs trembling around his hips, your nails biting into his shoulders, your body gripping him like it knew him. Like it was begging to be split open and stuffed full.

And he obliged, again and again. A little mad with it.

One of his hands gripped your hip tight, claws grazing skin, the other cupping your face with surprising gentleness. You looked up and saw the war behind those blues, soft, shattered reverence and something unhinged underneath.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, then bit down on your throat, not enough to break skin, just enough to make you cry out. His hips stuttered. “Say it. Say it’s mine, say I’m yours, c’mon—fuck—”

“Yours,” you gasped, wrecked, shaking. “Johnny, I—yours, yours, yours—”

That did it.

He pulled out just enough to add the other two, hot and slick, heads flaring as they pressed in slowly, stretching you obscenely. It hurt a little, but you were so open, so desperate, your back arching off the sheets as he filled you all the way.

“There you go,” he whispered, awe-struck, watching the way you opened with the stretch of him. “Takin’ it. Fuckin’ takin’ it all, look at you. Look at you, baby—”

And when he started moving again, slow at first, then faster, rougher, it was over.

You sobbed for him. Held onto him tight. Felt his cock grind against every sweet spot inside you, his four tips dragging and stroking and claiming, filling you until it was too much, not enough, too good—

You came around him so hard your vision blurred. And Johnny didn’t stop.

Just fucked you through it. Into the next one. Pressed kisses to your throat, your temple, your lips, murmuring, “Gonna give it to you, baby, gonna fill you up so deep. You want that? Want me stuffin’ you full of cum? Markin’ you so nobody ever questions who you fuckin’ belong to?”

You were crying, blissed and happy and needy in all the right ways. "Johnny—please—”

He buried himself deep, groaning filthy and low, and came with a jerk of his hips, his whole body tensing. You could feel it flood inside you. Heat and pressure and then more, God, too much. It leaked out around him almost immediately, your hole too full to hold it all.

He kept rocking, slower now. Gentle.

And above you, Johnny’s face was soft and slack with pleasure, mouth parted, eyes half-lidded as he stared down at you.

“You’re not gettin’ away from me now,” he murmured. “Hope you know that.”

You’re not sure how long it lasts after that. Time stops mattering because Johnny doesn’t stop.

He gives you barely a breath between orgasms, just enough to sob, to cling to him, to whisper please without knowing if you’re begging for mercy or more. He keeps you spread under him, rocking into you in slow, deep thrusts as he pants against your shoulder, the curve of his mouth hot and wet where it presses to your skin.

You feel the shift. He groans at the sensation like he can’t help it.

“Fuck,” he grits out, voice nearly gone. “Still—still got more for you, sweetheart. You can take it, you’ve been so fuckin’ good—”

He moves faster. And you feel him building toward another orgasm, another wave of heat and fullness that has you crying out even before it crests. Your body’s gone loose and wet and ruined around him, slick with sweat and cum and your own arousal. You’re shaking.

He holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him together. And when he comes again, it’s with a shudder that feels almost reverent, this biological imperative carved into his very soul.

And then… Again. And Again... and again. You lose count somewhere after six. You think he does too.

By the time he finally stops, your body is wrecked. Slick with sweat and mess and stretched impossibly full. Your lips are raw from kissing. Your voice is broken from begging.

And Johnny, he’s trembling too. Soaked in his own effort, arms shaking as he eases out of you carefully, slow and apologetic even though you can barely whimper. He watches the way it leaks out of you, thick and endless, twitching with each pulse of spent pleasure.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse, reverent. “Filled you so fuckin’ good, baby…”

He kisses you soft and slow. Runs his hands over your body like he’s trying to memorize the curve of every bruise, every tender spot he’s left. And then, gentle as anything, he lifts you. Carries you like you weigh nothing. Cradled to his chest as he walks to the bathroom.

“I’ve got you,” he says, nuzzling his nose to your temple. “Let me take care of you now. You did so good, sweetheart.”

The water’s warm, drawn with a caring hand. He lowers you in with a soft hum, slipping in behind you, your back to his chest. He runs a cloth over your body. Washes you with such focused care it makes your eyes sting again.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to have this,” he says eventually. Voice barely a whisper. “Not like this.”

You turn your head, lips brushing the underside of his jaw.

“You do,” you whisper back. “You do now.”

His arms tighten around you.

And when he kisses your shoulder next, it's with a gratitude only this lovely, feral, sweet little echidna can manage.

thanks for reading.

Yes! I read a whole article about echidna penis research. Most important lines:

""We're not really sure" why this is beneficial to the echidna males, Fenelon said, "but we think it could be an advantage for male-male competition for females."

During a separate experiment on a living but anesthetized echidna, the researchers found that by alternating pairs of heads the individual could ejaculate 10 times in a row without significant pause. This may allow some males to gain an advantage over others, but more experiments are needed to confirm this idea. "

10 fucking times in a row are they insane. freaky little doods.

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How about leopard seal hybrid/selkie(??) soap displaying courtship behaviors towards a bird hybrid ghost by bringing him dead things?

ooohhh okay okay, I like the way you think anon. I'm going to use Raven!Ghost for this one, just to sorta play with his own little collectors brain not even knowing what to do. And I like raven Ghost. And yesss Selkie!Soap. So he's a shifter hybrid. sure okay here go:

cw for dead animals. not gore, just is.

It starts with the rabbit.

Ghost finds it just before dawn. The sky’s still navy and smeared with stars, the air sharp with salt and cold. The rabbit is laid out neat and deliberate in front of his bunkhouse door. Still warm. Little ribs intact. Fur slick with dew. Not a speck of blood. Like it curled up and died there waiting for him.

Ghost stares down at it, arms folded, breath fogging in the thin light. There’s no note. No tracks. Just the soft, small body and the faint weight of meaning pressing at the back of his mind like a bruise.

He watches it long enough for the dew to bead on his lashes. Then he scoops it up with a gloved hand and carries it to the kitchen like it means nothing. Like it’s roadkill.

He tells himself not to think about it, but he does.

The next one is a fish.

It’s on the steps this time, belly-up and iridescent in the moonlight. Its sides rise and fall with the last twitches of death. A little saltwater pools beneath it, still warm enough to steam in the cold, trailing in arcs across the concrete like something dragged it up in its teeth.

Ghost crouches beside it. His gloved fingers hover over the trail. He touches the fish, just once, as if testing for heat. His mouth draws tight.

This time, he cleans it. Then roasts it over a pan and eats it alone. It makes some deep and ancient part of his instincts settle. His bird brain happy enough about it.

He sleeps like shit anyway.

Then another. And another. A fish. Then a gull, wings still half-spread like it had just landed. Then something unidentifiable and wet with fur, and he doesn’t look too close.

They show up like clockwork after missions, after training, after nights he pushes too hard and comes back with the copper tang of blood on his tongue. He finds them left at thresholds, always clean kills, always fresh.

He starts asking questions. Not serious ones, not yet.

Gaz just shrugs. “Fox maybe. Or a hungry cat likes ya.”

Price only lifts a knowing eyebrow and doesn't answer.

But Soap watches him too closely and too often.

He’s been different lately. He talks less and grins wide, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Sometimes he disappears for hours, comes back soaked, hair mussed, collar twisted. Once, Ghost swears he catches the glint of a bloodstreak down Soap’s throat before he turns away and towels it off.

Ghost doesn’t ask. He wants to.

He wants to ask about the ocean too, how Soap lingers there, long after the others leave. About the low croon he caught him humming last night, not quite human. About the scent he carries since they've been at the coast for a while: salt, brine, blood, wildness.

Ghost knows selkies are water-bound shifters. He knows their kind prefers the deep cold, the lap of the waves. But he doesn’t know what it means that his sergeant’s been bringing him offerings like some feral tide-creature dragged out of myth.

It comes to a head after a recon op up the coast.

They’re both soaked through, boots squelching, gear heavy with saltwater. The ocean churns behind them. Ghost rounds the far end of the dock, wings slick and low from the wind, and there it is.

Another fish, big and fresh. He's at least figured out this one's Johnny. The seal taking a minute to hunt while they're all still out.

It's laid right on the plank.

Ghost doesn’t move and he hardly breathes.

Something in him, instinct, rage, confusion, embarrassment, he's not sure, snaps like a tripwire.

“Soap.” His voice is low and as cold as the waves beneath them.

Soap startles on the stairs, half-jumping like he wasn’t expecting him to speak.

“What?” he says, wary.

“The fucking fish. The rabbit. The gull. The rat three nights ago.” Ghost’s voice stays low and sharp.

Soap blinks. “I—”

“Say it,” Ghost growls, wings twitching like they want to flare. “Say what you’ve been doing. You think this is funny?”

Soap’s face shifts, fast, shifting from confusion, guilt, then something like hurt. “No. I didn’t—I never meant—”

“Then what?” Ghost steps forward. His boots hit wet wood. “You’ve been leaving dead things at my door like a feral cat. If this is a joke, it’s done. If it’s something else, spit it out.”

Soap falters and looks down at the fish. Then up at Ghost.

The wind hisses past them. Gulls scream in the grey.

Soap’s jaw moves. Then he exhales, rough and unsteady, and runs a hand back through his damp hair, pushing it from his face.

“I didn’t think it’d bother you,” he says. Quiet now. “Didn’t think you’d... take it like this.”

Ghost’s stare is flat.

Soap’s throat bobs. “It’s instinct,” he says finally, his voice gone small. “That’s all.”

Ghost frowns. “Instinct?”

Soap shifts and rubs the back of his neck. “M'a shifter hybrid. Selkie, technically.”

“I know what you are.”

“Aye. But maybe you don’t know what that means.”

He won’t meet Ghost’s eyes. His voice stays low.

“When we... like someone, or admire them, or feel... grateful, maybe. We bring things. For feeding. For nesting. For comfort. We

"I know that, Sergeant."

Soap swallows. "Aye. I know… selkies, when they—when we like someone, or admire someone, or are grateful, we bring things. Dead things, sometimes. For feeding. For nesting. It’s a—fuck—just appreciate you, Lt.”

The wind cuts sharp across the dock. Somewhere above, gulls cry.

"That's it then? Appreciation?" Ghost can't meet his eyes now. Not that Soap would know, considering he's looking back at the fish.

"No—Yes. I—"

"Which is it, Sergeant?"

Soap huffs out a bitter laugh. “I—You think I wanted this to be weird? I didn’t know how else to say it. You don’t exactly invite conversation, Ghost. You don’t let anyone in. And I—” He cuts himself off. “I just wanted you to know I see you,” he finishes, quieter now. “And that I’d… I’d take care of you. If you let me.”

Ghost’s mouth works open then closed. His wings flare slightly, then snap tight again. “You’ve been leaving me dead animals to say you like me.”

Soap nods, defeated. “Yeah.”

Ghost's wings twitch. His hands curl. His mouth opens and shuts again. He exhales slowly and drags a hand down his face. Then: “You’re fucking insane.”

“Yeah,” Soap says. “Little bit.”

Another long pause.

Then Ghost sighs. “Next time,” he says, “just bring me a knife. Or something you find on the beach, a shell or… something.”

Soap looks up, eyes wide with disbelief.

Ghost’s expression doesn’t change. “You can keep bringing things. But pick something my hindbrain doesn’t mistake for a threat. Your choice, Johnny.”

And slowly, Soap smiles.

thanks for reading

Is this anything ? Idk. I think Ghost would be such a dumb little ass about hybrid instincts bc he's ass about his too.

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He's. A door. He's a door. A trap door.

And shirtless. And hot

And I am as red as a firetruck about it

jfc.

What a time to be alive

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Continuation of this where Raven! Ghost shows his appreciation. (eg. once again, I like the thought of Ghost and his little things and happy little birdbrains😊)

It happens quietly a few days later. Almost like Ghost doesn’t mean for it to happen at all.

The mission’s done clean and fast, for once. They’re back at base, dusk seeping soft into the sky, and Gaz is lounging on one of the outdoor benches, wings half-fanned to soak in the last warmth of the sun. Price is inside. Soap is in the showers. Ghost is… lingering.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands nearby, half in shadow, something pinched between his gloved fingers.

Gaz looks up and blinks at him, yellow and black feathers shifting in the sun. “You alright?”

Ghost shifts. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Not until he steps forward and, awkwardly like it physically pains him, reaches out and sets a small object on the bench beside Gaz.

It’s… a bead.

Old, black with a sliver of yellow through it. It's curved. Like a boomerang maybe or a feather curling into itself. Something that probably came off a dress or something nice. Worn from age or pocket time. There’s a little crack down one side. Nothing special.

But Gaz stares.

Ghost clears his throat. “Found it in Marseille. During that rooftop job. Thought you might—” He stops himself, gruff and halting. “It reminded me of your wings.”

Gaz looks at him. Then down at the bead. Then back.

Something blooms in his chest.

His goldfinch brain, his heart, his instincts, something sparks and warms with delight. Flockmate brought him something shiny! Something interesting! A token. A gift. An offering. His feathers fluff slightly without him meaning to, and he smiles, soft and bright.

“This is… really nice,” he says, voice gentler than usual. “Thank you.”

Ghost shifts again and looks down at his boots. “S’just a thing. Nothing important.”

But Gaz holds it like it is. And Gaz doesn't know it, but it’s not the only one.

Ghost has a drawer. A little one. Doesn’t tell anyone about it. It's filled with odd bits he’s picked up over the years, twisted bits of wire, flat sea-glass, fragments of old charms, buttons, coins, a gear from a watch that broke in Poland. He doesn’t collect, not really, things just caught his eye, or his hand.

That night, he opens the drawer. Looks at what’s left. Fingers brush a worn key, a bit of ceramic.

He doesn’t know why he gave Gaz the bead, not exactly. It just… felt right.

He dreams of golden wings that night, between the nightmares, a bit of soft, golden down.

And Gaz braids the bead into his wing-joint band the next day. He doesn't mention it, but Ghost sees. And his wings twitch quietly once, entirely pleased.

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guys I wrote something last night a 2am and put it in my drafts and read it again just now.

wtf was I smoking and where tf did I put it.

the nature documentaries are driving me wild apparently. Australia's got some weird ass creatures.

anyway. I added that smutty bitch to the queue.

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I ate too much food :(

It was so yummy and I didn't want left overs :(

But now :((( I can't even think :( I'm like a v stuffed cat rn lyin' belly up

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I've been struggling with art so much, line an endless artblock anyway. gaz doing some late night reading cuz i believe he is the calmest insomniac in the team also somewhate lightly implied ghostgaz and poly141

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PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I need more secret dragon reader PLEASE

Pt 2 to dragon reader :] (cw for sh discussion)

The heli ride back to base is tense and anxiety inducing. Price keeps a hand on you at all times, as if scared youll pass out the moment he lets you go. You feel fine.

Price tells you medics will be waiting the second you land. Some doctor is over comms with price, giving him instructions as your captain asks you questions. if you feel dizzy or lethargic, if you have any pains or aches. You tell them none more than the usualy soldier does.

Price tries to brush your hair aside to check for horn stumps, but you bat him away. Its bad enough having an unfamiliar dragon grabbing at you, you dont want him to touch you any more than necessary. Price narrows his eyes, debates forcing you to do it, but ultimately backs down.

Instead, he moves on to even more questions from the doctor. "How often and how much do you usually eat, soldier?"

"Only time I eat is during meals, captain, when you get everyone food."

Price swears under his breath, thunks his head on the wall behind him and runs a hand over his face. "Fuck, okay-" he speaks into the com, to the doctors "two to three meals a day, all human proportions...yeah uh-huh....yeah I made sure of that."

Price is silent after that, looking up at the ceiling. Small curls of smoke drift up whenever he exhales. You dont think he realizes hes doing it.

When the heli lands, youre shocked to see a literal team of medics waiting for you. Its feels...overdramatic. "captain," you whisper when a fucking stretcher rolls up "this isnt necessary! I can walk fine on my own."

Price flares his wings a bit, and bodily hauls you onto the stretcher when you try to walk past it. "you aren't going anywhere until youre cleared medically, understood?"

Medics and nurses rush around you, taking vitals and sharing glances. Its fucking humiliating. Being wheeled through halls filled with peers, while a group of medical professionals swarm you like youre some sick cancerous child.

When they get you to a private room, a doctor comes in and asks you a bunch of questions. More about eating habits, then sleep, then self-image. He asks if youve ever considered hurting yourself.

"Wait-" you pause him, holding up the arm without an IV. "Im not fucking, depressed or whatever, okay? Whatever problem you think is there mentally, its not."

The doctor frowns at you. Pity. Still, he nods and puts his clipboard away after writing a few lines. "Okay. Im going to examine you first, then well decide where to go from there. As your captain, price will be notified of only the most important injuries or complications, but given your...state, that may be quite alot."

You sigh, mentally exhausted and wanting to just curl up in bed. Its bad enough price knows your a dragon. Now its guaranteed the whole base will know of your escort to medbay by tonight. Wonderful.

Outside, in the waiting room, price paces and paces. Tight anxious circles as his horde is hopefully being saved by the doctors.

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I miss being in my uni classes and writing instead of taking notes :((((((

My best ideas literally came from that :(

Can't do that shit when I'm the actual instructor lmao

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Thoughts on a dragon!price in a world where dragons on scarce, never seeing dragons except for his own family, and then dragon!reader joins the team?

He doesnt realize what you are at first, and you would like to keep it that way. Most dragons have large wings, curling horns, sharp teeth and claws that could kill. Each one so distinct it would be impossible to be mistaken for a human.

So of course he doesnt suspect you to be a dragon. You make sure there's nothing to give you away. Wings that a far smaller than they should be at your age are folded and bound tight to your spine, claws filed down and the stumps hidden behind gloves. Your short tail can be tucked into pants easily enough. Oddly, you never have to struggle with horns, because yours never grow. The stumps are hidden behind your hair, and you wear a face mask for the teeth.

You act like a human, for the most part. But youve never been around another dragon before, and what you had thought were normal behaviors are getting you odd looks. Like whenever price tries to put a hand on your shoulder or nape, and you flinch away.

Or at breakfast, when you get your own food. Everyone else waits for price to serve them, and he makes a huff of smoke when he sees you already have a plate. Kyle has to pull you aside one day and explain "dude, youve got to stop brushing prices instincts off. Its fine if you don't want to be a part of his hoard but at least let him coddle you a bit."

....so all of those things price did that made your instincts buzz was him trying to treat you like hoard. Hm. Tentatively, you allow it to happen and push down any instincts it causes for you. You dont purr when a wind wraps around you, and you dont puff a thanks when he gets you food. You are so good at being human.

Until you aren't.

Until you and price get ambushed on an op. Weapons are taken and hands bound. They put a muzzle over prices face to stop him from breathing fire. They didnt give one to you.

Two gaurds are in front of you, one is behind price with a gun to his temple. You inhale deeply, let it roll around in your lungs. The sound is so subtle the humans miss it, but you know price doesnt when his step falters for half a second.

With a great exhale, you engulf the first gaurd in flames. Compared to other dragons, the flames are laughable, but its still strong as a flame thrower and more than effective. The second you do, price jerks and knocks the gaurd behind him out with his horns. The second you two are secure and the soldiers are dead, price is turning to you with a furious look.

"What the bloody hell was that?" He voice was low, dangerous as he back you against a tree "because to me, it looked like you just breathed fire. But youre not a dragon, aye? Unless youve been lying, so what was that?"

For the first time, you feel a bit scared of price.

You push further into the tree, had your wings been unbound thet would have tucked close to your back. "...I am one. A dragon, that is."

Price curses, slames a fist into the try close to your head then backs away to pace. His tail lashes back and forth over dead leaves in agitation. "You dont have horns. Or wings. Hell, I would have noticed if you had claws or a tail too."

Hes talking to himself, but you still respond. There's no need to lie when its so obvious now. "I do, captain. My wings are uh- bound currently. Horns never grew in."

Prices head whips around to stare at you, and when he exhales its with a cloud of black smoke. Of god hes pissed. Price grabs his com, doesnt stop staring at you. "Watcher-1 this is Bravo six requesting immediate exfil. Its an emergency."

He leaves it at that, waits for laswell to reply before grabbing you by the forearm and dragging you through the trees. You stumble along, mind lagging at the sudden urgency in prices movements. "Exfil? Captain- what? Why-?"

The next puff of smoke has you shutting up. "You're horns havent grown in. Your wings are bound. That pathetic spark you threw earlier. Youre fuckin' deathly sick, kid. We're getting you to medical to find out what the hell you fucked up."

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I like to think Johnny quotes things. Like a happy little guy. A little parrot. A bit of the tism. A little guy. A dude. Kyle is involved in about half

"You, sir, are a fish." When he hauls somebody up out of water.

"Uh yeah I sure hope it does." Obligatory when he sees a road work sign.

"Barbeque sauce on my titties." Whenever he (or anyone) says "I was sitting there-"

"Get out o' mah swamp!" In the showers, followed by towel whips and laughter.

"This bitch empty. Yeet!" When tossing grenades.

"It's free real estate." When getting a breaching window with Ghost.

"What the dog doin'? What the dog doin'?" At Riley.

"A happ-y happy dog, oh just a look at that happy dog." Also at Riley.

"Ms. Felicia! Ms. Felicia! Omfg she fuckin dead." At an EKIA.

"Hi, welcome to Chili's." *stabs someone.*

"I have. A plan. We just need. More money. (Tahiti.)" When there is no more plan.

*Cocks weapon* "Oh I know what the ladies like." (Kyle follows a v dramatic, high pitched moan)

"BOY." At Ghost. As a joke.

"Kept you waiting, huh?" When he shows up 6 minutes late with Starbucks.

"Metal gear!?" At any armoured vehicle.

"Snake. Snake? SNAAKKKEEE!" Dramatic reenactments with Kyle.

"The cake is a lie." When they get fed better bc they're about to go on a shithole of a mission. Or traps.

*Price voice* "We get dirty so the world stays clean." While doing ANY cleaning duty.

I used to be an adventurer like you, then took an arrow to the knee." After getting mildly bruised by a rock.

'I lived bitch." This is the start of MW4 actually.

Part 2

[hatsbuckets]

Some more Monster Hunter 141 AU (bc I can't stop thinking about it and finally wrote something else) context: Soap is a seer! And the team knows. He can sense and see supernatural things, but is not one himself. cw warning for a child ghost/spirit but not horror.

Soap doesn’t talk about it much. Why would he? It’s not exactly mission-critical to tell your CO you’ve seen the same ghost dog guarding the safehouse three nights in a row. Or that the base in Kuwait had a woman in a 1940s uniform who stood in the showers and sobbed when no one else was around.

Might be mission critical though if the ghost is actually interfering with gear though. Or if the slime is seeping through the walls and you're the first one to sense it. Or— you get the point.

He figures it started when he was twelve. Or maybe younger. When his gran passed and he still saw her standing in the hallway for three days after the funeral, humming as she folded nonexistent linens.

And then it just... never stopped, for anything.

He knows what vampires feel like. They're off, like looking at a predator through murky water. Werewolves are worse, heavy in the lungs. Slime is just annoying. Demons are hot and all teeth.

But whatever Ghost is? That’s not a feeling he can name. It sits in the back of his teeth like static. Too old. Too hot. Not alive, but not dead, either. Ghost is human. At least that's what Price told him.

When Soap brought it up to his Captain, Price said, simply "trauma can do a lot to a person, Soap, best to let it rest." But Soap knows what trauma feels. For each person it's different. Cold. Sharp. Maybe humid, if he had to describe it. Whatever's coming off Ghost isn't.

And then there’s the boy.

Johnny sees him maybe a few days after their second op together. A kid, no older than ten. He clings to Ghost’s shadow like it’s safe there. He doesn’t speak or try to get Ghost's attention. He just watches. Sometimes points. Sometimes laughs.

The first time, Johnny thinks he’s hallucinating from sleep deprivation. The second time, he watches the kid try to hold lightly at Ghost’s sleeve, hands passing straight through. Ghost doesn't flinch. Ghost's not a seer like Soap either.

Johnny asks once. Like he does sometimes when he sees friends with ghosts hovering. That won't let go.

“You got any family?” It's casual, during kit check.

Ghost doesn’t even look up. “No.”

And that’s that. So Johnny stops asking. But when Ghost’s not looking, he’ll smile at the boy. A quick glance. A soft wave. The ghost kid smiles back, every time.

Ghost doesn’t see the boy. But he feels him sometimes, he can't not. It's a weight in the air. A coolness behind the ribs. Familiar and comforting in a way he’ll never admit.

And such is the rhythm Soap falls into with Ghost and the boy. Sure he's shy when there's lots of people. Hides in that weird ghost space that Soap doesn't understand during loud and chaotic mission. But he always comes back. Soap starts looking forward to sneaking glances and smiles.

It's politeness he's not technically supposed to give those who haven't moved on. Don't want to "encourage their attachments." Unfortunately, Johnny MacTavish is many things. Brash. Loud. Quick to anger and quicker to a trigger. But rude is not one of them.

...

The recon shack was barely a building, a half-collapsed roof, peeling rusted siding, and a wind that kept whispering through the cracks. But it was a shelter.

Soap leaned against the far wall, rifle across his lap, watching through a slit in the tin paneling. The moon was low. Mission still hours away. Ghost had curled up in the corner with his back to the wall, gear on, mask up, sleeping or close enough to fake it.

And beside him, like always, the boy.

He was sitting cross-legged now, little hands folded neatly in his lap. Watching Ghost like he might disappear. His pale face calm and a little sad.

Johnny kept his voice low.

“You follow him everywhere, huh?”

The boy didn’t react at first. Then, slowly nodded.

Soap tilted his head, careful of the conversation he's never actually gotten to have. “What’s your name, wee man?”

The boy looked thoughtful. Like the question didn’t make sense. Then he shrugged. “Dunno.”

“No? That’s alright,” Soap said gently. “And who's this big guy to ya?”

The boy smiled, small and bashful. “Uncle Simon.”

Soap’s throat closed a little.

“Well,” he murmured, “he’s a good one to follow, if you’re choosin’. Tough as hell. Keeps us safe. Even if he growls like a junkyard dog.”

That earned a quiet laugh from the boy.

Johnny hesitated, then reached into a pouch on his vest and pulled out a wrapped biscuit, standard ration junk. He unwrapped it carefully, held it out.

“Not sure you can eat this, mate.”

The boy reached for it, fingers passing through the foil and chocolate like mist. He frowned, a little disappointed. Soap just smiled.

“Worth a shot.”

The boy shifted, glancing at Ghost, then back at Johnny. “He can’t see me.”

“I know.”

“But I like being near him.”

Soap nodded. “Me too.”

The boy, slow and cautious, lay down beside Ghost, curling in like a cat in the curve of his side. Curling in like he could make Ghost's arm fit around him

Ghost stirred.

Johnny turned his gaze back to the slit in the wall just as Ghost’s voice rasped low and sleep-slow, “Talkin’ to yourself again, Johnny?”

Soap smiled, taking a small bit of the biscuit. “Aye. Somethin’ like that.”

Ghost grunted, already half out again. The wind whistled low.

And Johnny watched the kid’s little ghost face relax into something almost peaceful. His eyes drifted shut. If it could be called sleep, it looked like it.

Johnny stayed awake, watching the wind stir the dust. And if his chest ached a little, well he didn’t mind.

Thanks for reading

[hatsbuckets]

Hat i think there might be too much butter in your cookies? Or not enough baking powder?

Nonny, I'm ngl to you. These are Pillsbury pre-mixed cookies dough cookies bc I do not have the patience or ingredients for real baking rn. I don't even have large or medium mixing bowls rn! Or flour!! (😞) Literally just put em on a sheet and popped em in. Mostly I wanted fresh cookies and a chance to work the oven for the first time.

(fun fact! The oven filled my kitchen with smoke in the preheat bc it hasn't been used in months and all the dust burnt off!!! (Terrifying experience lmao))

So there's no telling what is actually in those cookies /j. They tasted good, fulfilled my need for cookie, and let me literally knock the dust off the oven.

Next time though I am def cooking one of my grandma's heirloom recipes bc mmmmmm

But thank you for your concern nonny !!!! But yeah, these are just my substitutes until real fr.

[hatsbuckets]

John comes clean. Nik decides.

cw: severe body dysphoria; internalised shame; very brief discussion of a potential sexual assault that Price denies (not graphic).

Sprawled on his back beneath his helo's belly, Nik patted the floor blindly in search of the wire schematics he was working from. Even though he could do most of the mechanical maintenance himself, he had never been the most confident electrician. One too many shocks as a boy when he had been experimenting with his father's radios.

It was as he squinted at the circuit diagram above his face, the wires dangling out of the Black Hawk's underbelly like the entrails of a wounded animal, that two familiar Salomon boots appeared in his peripheral vision, the laces lashed around the back of the heel with a double bow at the front.

"Nik, y'under there?"

"Da, captain," Nik replied, dropping the diagram to his chest. In the next breath, two tumblers in a worn hand appeared in front of the boots, glass rattling as John shook them.

"Nightcap?"

Nik smiled and began the inelegant back shuffle out into the open as the boots walked away to give him space. When he stood, he was met with what was now a comforting and familiar sight; John Price, de-boonied and shemagh-less, the top buttons of his shirt open and a smouldering cigar between his teeth. Off duty and ready to while away the evening hours together as they had done many a time.

Sometimes they didn't talk. They might play cards or smoke in companionable silence, watching the night crawl in over whatever base or hellish landscape they found themselves in, harsh liquor burning their throats and stomachs, numbing their minds enough for a restful sleep. But as Nik wiped off his hands on a nearby rag and joined John on the flatbed of his Black Hawk, their boots braced against her skis, he got the sense tonight would be a talking one.

John passed his cigar over and poured two full glasses of the whiskey he'd brought. Nik held the smoke in his mouth, allowing it to roll over his tongue and teeth so he could savour the flavours, before releasing it in a slow exhale. "Mmm, Padron?"

"Got it in one," John said, and Nik tried not to stare at his smile. He liked it when John was relaxed enough to show his teeth. It meant he was comfortable. This smile was closed, cheeks perking up to make room for it, but John's gaze lingered, like he was savouring the sight of Nik smoking just as Nik had savoured the cigar. Nik didn't like the sadness sitting in the shadows of his eyes. "S'the espresso, right?"

"And the nutmeg." Nik handed it back in exchange for his whiskey glass, and they drank the first sips together. The cigar was nice, the whiskey less so, but Nik would drink literal paint thinner if it meant spending time at John's side. He waited for John to speak, gazing off into the fading evening beyond the hanger doors.

John took another draw from his cigar and his words came out in puffs of silvery grey. "At the bar the other week, I... uh, I owe you an apology."

"You do not need to apologise for declining my offer," Nik said, pausing over the rim of his glass to snatch a glance to his right. John was staring at his lap, cigar slanted through his fingers, both hands cupped around his tumbler.

"Naw, it's not that. It's... I didn' tell ya the whole truth, Nik. An' a mutual friend pointed out that I was bein' a bit of a..."

"Muppet?"

"Fuckin' arsehole was her actual phrasin'."

Nik recalled the conversation he'd overheard from outside John's office, and smiled ruefully. It was then that he heard it. The barest shuddering breath as John steadied himself. It was a noise completely alien to the man next to him; John was stalwart, decisive. He was impossible to shake. "John?"

"Nik, when I said I were deformed, it... uh, s'a bit more 'an that. It... uh..."

There was that tremor again. So very faint. A coil of tension had sound through John's shoulders, and he was looking off into the evening. Nik followed his gaze, giving him some space to gather his confidence.

"I weren't... born like this. Like I am now. The... uh, medication I take, it makes me like this, an' if I were t' stop, then... uh, I'd... not look like this."

"I... don't understand," Nik murmured.

"Fuck, this never gets any fuckin' easier," John rasped, scrubbing his hands over his face. He drew in another of those shaky breaths and Nik realised John wasn't just anxious, he was terrified. "Nik, I weren't born a man, alrigh'? I had to make myself one. I... don't... I don't have a prick like yours, or a set of bollocks, I... Nik, I were born female, an'... I, uh... I ain't got what yer need. That's... that's why I said no."

Nik blinked at John in disbelief. He narrowed his eyes at the bearded face cast in shadow as the daylight failed, and turned the information over in his head. Born female. Made himself into a man. Nik looked back into the evening and took another sip of whiskey before he replied. "You are transexual."

John swallowed, squared his shoulders. He was expecting a fight and that made Nik's heart ache. "Yeah, Nik... 'm one'uv those."

Nik let the revelation sit between them. He drew in a deep, steady breaths and kept his posture neutral, allowing John to take a breath too as his body coiled up defensively. Like allowing a beaten shelter dog to realise the hand held towards it wasn't curled into a fist. Eventually, John drew on his cigar instead, and Nik continued tentatively.

"Why did you say 'deformed'?"

"'Cause that's the truth of it, Nik. Lookin' in the mirror an' seein' ev'ryfin' that god got wrong. On the outside, clothes on, I feel like me, but the moment I take off me keks, I... 'm still... that part ain't, uh... it ain't right."

"Are you healthy?"

"Wot?"

"Are you healthy? Does it cause you... physical pain?"

"Naw, uh..." John's cheeks reddened, "...s'all sound. Last I checked."

Nik nodded. He took another sip of whiskey. "I have never been with a transsexual man before. I would need you to show me how to please you."

John had been taking a drink at the time and choked on it. This was becoming a habit, Nik feared. He watched John put the glass to one side, hiding behind the slant of his forearm as he wiped his mouth. "S'not funny, Nikolai... Don' be bloody cruel..." John looked down at his cigar as he said it, the hurt tight and raw in his tone.

"I did not make a joke."

John stared at him, his blue eyes glistening in the dark. He wouldn't cry. Nik had worked out by now that whatever wounds that had scarred over in John's head made that difficult. But he was struggling. Really struggling. Nik took a chance. He reached out slowly to slide his hand over the top of John's. There was a flinch, like John's body had been ready for violence and couldn't quite adjust fast enough for affection.

"You see yourself as... something deformed, but even with your own logic, I could not turn away. If you had been born as you wished to have been, and an operation had wounded you in a similar way, I would still want you, John."

"But I... Nik, 'm not... 've never even shagged someone wiv all me kit off." He was desperately clutching at straws, unable to comprehend the offer being laid out in front of him.

"That one time, you said..."

"I dropped me jeans and let 'im go at it, 'an I bloody well blubbered after, didn't I? 'Cause it was... before."

"Did he...?"

John yanked his hand away, irritated. "It weren't rape. Don't start."

"John..."

"It weren't, Nik. I was tryin' t' prove some'fin' to meself an' jus' did the opposite."

Nik nodded slowly. They sat in silence as minutes ticked by. When Nik looked up again, he saw John gazing longingly at the hand he had shrugged off, trying to be covert but failing. Nik turned it over, offering his palm, and John's eyes flicked up, a little panicked in his vulnerability. "You haven't had a partner since your sex change."

"Fuckin' 'ell, if the kids 'eard you talkin' yer'd be bloody mobbed." John sounded amused but it didn't reach his eyes. "Don't fink yer allowed to call it that any more."

Nik shrugged. "I am old man, with old words. Teach me new ones."

"Yer askin' the wrong transsexual." John placed his hand into Nik's, and Nik tightened his fingers around John's calloused ones, savouring the strength and warmth in his skin. John's shoulders eased as he spoke. '"I get it wrong 'alf the time. 'm jus'... me, I can't... My own 'ead is tough enough. Don't bloody well belong anywhere, not wiv the rainbow crew, an' not wiv everyone else."

"You believed I would reject you."

"I lost ev'ryone I ever cared about when I changed, Nik. Me entire family. An' even now, people claim t' support people like you 'til that support actually has t' be some'fin' beyond wavin' a bloody flag."

"You are, what is it, preaching to the choir."

"Yeah, I... sorry. I know ya had yer own shit, an'..."

Nik didn't know what possessed him.

Perhaps it was the fact that John looked so raw, broken open and trying to gather the pieces into an order that made sense to someone else outside his head. Perhaps it was the warmth of their hands wound together, John's thumb was occasionally sweeping across the hairs on his wrist. Perhaps it was the shared experience, a moment of connection over such a specific and intimate loss.

He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to John's bearded cheek. John startled and turned to look at him, blue eyes impossibly wide, studying Nik's like he was searching for the punchline.

"Are you okay?" Nik asked, worrying perhaps he'd overstepped too quickly.

"Yeah, uh... that were me first kiss, like."

John's accent had thickened. A combination of alcohol and being pushed so off kilter he had forgot himself.

"He did not even kiss you?"

John shook his head. The embarrassment written deep in the lines of his face. "It weren't me finest hour, Nik."

"Then that was not a first kiss."

"Well, 've never..."

"Can I do it properly?"

"Properly?"

"Da. Properly."

John scratched at the bristles on his jaw, and studied Nik's lips. He wanted it. Nik could see it in the tilt of his eyebrows and the way he chewed on the inside of his lower lip. But it wasn't just a kiss, was it? Nik remembered what Laswell had said in John's office. How people had failed him before, perhaps at his most vulnerable. Young and stupid.

"Nik, I..."

"I don't have the answers. And it will not be perfect. But I want to try to be better where others have failed you," Nik said, trying to choose his words carefully. When he leaned in, he felt John's stuttering breath against his lips and bumped their noses together. "Vot moyo serdtse, solnyshko. Ono polno lyubvi."

It was John that closed those final millimetres, mouth closing on Nik's with held breath, like a man about to submerge in cold water. His chapped lips were soft, a little dry, tinted with whiskey and expensive cigar smoke. It was so timid. A sharp juxtaposition to the peerless captain that commanded the field without fear.

This was an area of John's life he kept buried deep because it felt so far beyond his control, so vulnerable. He had been failed so many times, probably by people he believed would have his back; the knife twisting deep, breaking off parts of him each time.

But he had decided to trust Nik with those frail, broken pieces of himself, laying them out in a timid kiss, broad shoulders collapsing down into Nik's arms as Nik pulled the rest of him across his lap. He wanted to hold John close, to wrap him up so the world couldn't reach him. It didn't deserve him.

John's booted heels squeaked against the floor of the Black Hawk, and his hands fisted the front of Nik's shirt, a shake running the length of his torso. When Nik finally drew away, leaving a final kiss on his lower lip, John's eyes were a little red. "You broken?" Nik asked.

"Oi, tha's my bloody line," John croaked. Nik raised an eyebrow and John swallowed, eyes flickering away, before he slowly nodded. There was a long pause as Nik drank in the gravity of the admission, and then John spoke quietly again. "You... uh, still want me?"

"Da, ot vsego serdtsa," Nik leaned down to nuzzle his face into John's hair and offer the whispered translation. "With all my heart."

"Right... uh, then, I 'spose we could give it a go."

Nik smiled, smoothing a hand through John's hair as he sat up, admiring the glimmer of red as it caught the dim hanger lights. "I would like that."

[hatsbuckets]

My reaction to a fucking breaker box's trauma:

JFC I've only been playing for 4 hours WDYM we're already doin this