#and you get a soap

[partiallysame]

Ghost gets no bitches and he reminds me of whatever that TikTok audio is that’s like “how’d you get her?” And the other person is like “get her? No she grabbed me by the throat and told me I was hers”.

Word count: 800

Warnings: none (ghost being immediately whipped)

So hear me out you’re at the grocery store and while walking down the aisles you see this behemoth of a man. Big muscle sexy, surgical mask covering his face. You want. What to say? How should you approach? Ah yes you need help getting something from the top shelf. Stepping so you’re in his line of sight

“Could you come here?” You ask him and he just gives you a blank stare. Raising your eyebrows clearly waiting for a response he turns around looking for who you could be talking to and who is clearly not listening to you. When he sees no one else in the aisle he slowly points at himself, questioning you. “Yes you.” You smile trying to hold in a laugh. Quickly adding a “please” in the sweetest little voice and he is scurrying over to you.

“Could you please reach that box for me?” Ghost raises his arm up and points to a box when you nod confirming that’s the one you want he hands it to you. “That one too please” he obeys. You have him hand you two more boxes (not needing any of them). Then you try to push your luck a little. “Wait not this one” you hand him a box back and he returns it to the shelf. Before you know it you’ve had this man put all the boxes back just to hand them to you again. A smirk plastered on your face. Not once did the large man question you, not when you were looking up at him with those pretty eyes.

“Ok done with this aisle. Come on.” You start walking and his feet are following you. He hasn’t said a word to you but is following you around the store like a puppy. Down the next aisle you pointed at something (well within your reach) and he handed it you.

“Are you always this obedient?” You watched his eyes go wide but he found himself nodding. He’d probably say yes to anything you ask when you’re looking at him like that, like you want to eat him whole. His answer brought a smile to your face and he swore his knees were gonna buckle. You held out your hand, “phone.” It was a statement not a question and he quickly (fumbling) pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to you. When you saw it was locked you looked up at him moving the phone ever so slightly towards him. You had meant for him to take the phone and unlock it but instead he mumbled out “0000” a small but dramatic gasp left your lips “oh so he does speak.” You typed in the 4 digits and the phone opened. You looked up at him when the basic passcode worked. “Simple and obedient. Just how I like ‘em” ghost swallowed hard. No one has ever treated him like this. Spoke to him like this. Not even Price. He should be offended? Insulted? Definitely not turned on. Right? (mark him down and scared AND horny). You handed his phone back to him, your number and name resting on his screen. He reached to take the phone from you, but you didn’t let go. Fingers touching you looked up at him “you better call me. I’ll be real sad if you dont.” He swore he was gonna pass out. Before you let go of his phone, hands still touching, heavy steps made their way into your aisle.

“Aye lieutenant there ye are. Been wandering round lookin fer ya.” Soap called down the aisle.

Ghost refused to acknowledge his friend calling for him, keeping eye contact with you. Your smile got bigger as you let go of the phone.

“Lieutenant huh? That mean you know how to give orders too?” He nodded again. “Then I’m definitely going to need you to call me. I’d like to see that.” Your eyes shamelessly raked down his figure. Fuck he needs to hold on to something.

Once you finally walked away, Soap approached quickly asking who you were and when ghosted shrugged his shoulders “I don’t know.” (But he’s gonna that’s for sure)

“She’s a fine looking lass I’m gonna go talk to her.” Ghost’s hand moved fast, grabbing the back of Soap’s neck guiding (pushing) him in the opposite direction of you. He was thanking god you saw him first and not Soap. If you had talked to Soap like that, ghost knew you’d have him walking on a leash (who’s he kidding if you had asked ghost would’ve barked)

Part 2 Part 2.5 part 3

[swordsandholly]

Thinking about a mechanic!AU where the 141 boys run a garage and need a new receptionist. They hire you because you’re just so cute (great tits) and have a decent resume but it becomes a slight problem when they realize you’re a bit… dense.

Total ditz to be precise.

But they can’t really get mad when you get the keys for clients mixed up and look at them with those big eyes all teary and a little pout pushing out your lower lip.

Price is the most patient, perfectly content to walk you through how to file paperwork and fill out forms. Instructing you in a low voice while his breath brushes the shell of your ear. It’s really their fault for having such a terrible system, you know? Don’t worry about it too much, dove. He’ll settle his big hands on your shoulders and gently trace up and down your arms. See? You’re getting it. Just needed some more practice, hm?

Johnny is more than happy to show you around the garage, rattling off everything he knows about all those nitty gritty details that go right over your pretty little head. He’ll pop open the hood of some sports car and point to the engine to show it off. No, bonnie, you’ve got tae get in close. Closer.

Until you’re bent entirely over in one of those too-short skirts you wear everyday. It takes all his willpower not to yank you into the supply closet.

Gaz is just so sweet to you. Always bringing you little treats and candies to suck on. To help you concentrate, of course. Always greeting you with a soft ‘baby girl’ at the beginning of your shift. Whenever you’re standing around be it at the printer or counter - wherever really - he’ll slip a hand on your waist. It always trails a little lower, his pinky just edging on the hem of your too tight jeans.

Ghost gets frustrated with you to the point of causing tears to well up in the corners of your eyes. He’s feels guilty, sure, but bloody hell just print the damn receipt. He avoids you for the most part. Until one evening when it’s pouring down. You forgot your rain coat of course, silly girl. He offers you a ride which you take happily.

After that he can’t get rid of you. You bring him coffees (how you remember his order word for word but not where you last left your own cup is beyond him) and giggle at his jokes. When a client gets too snappy or too loud he’s the first to step in - standing behind you glaring at them with his huge arms crossed over his chest until they back down.

[simonbrain]

sitting at the bar with your bestie and jokingly saying, "i wish that was me," when she spews about how her man made her come so many times the other night they almost hit double digits. you doubt anyone is paying attention to the two of you gossiping and giggling like fools, and you share that you haven't been laid in a while.

"it's been eight months, actually." you pout, slapping her arm when she gawks and splutters something about finding you someone to shag in the back alley right away.

if only you noticed the guy with the fuckass mohawk sitting on the other side of you, intently eavesdropping on your personal conversation. he likes your friend's idea; surely you'll let him pull a few orgasms out of you outside before he fingerbangs you in the car on the way home and finally finishes you in his bed.

ten's a big number to aim for, but johnny's nothing if not utterly determined to ruin the pretty girl who's had him rock hard since she walked in.

[beloveds-embrace]

Vampire poly 141 x reader where they don’t tell you they are vampires and you have no reason to suspect they are. Why would you? They are supernatural creatures, you’ve seen all four of them eat garlic bread, their reflections show in mirrors and refelctive surfaces.

But.

Sometimes they say and do such strange things- John talks about historical events almost as if they happened just a few days ago, and he was there. Simon’s storage room has antiques so old you have no idea how they have even survived, and he grumbles whenever you tell him he should sell them to see how much they’ll make. Kyle could navigate through the dark like it was second nature- like it wasn’t affecting him at all, and you’d always just wonder how. Johnny’s hands were always so cold to the touch, no matter tje weather or what he was wearing or where he was.

Still, all of those simply didn’t stick out that much to you. So you never suspected.

But still…

Lately, you’ve been waking up so very sore in the neck, weak and lethargic. Sore in the spot they all seemed to love kissing and nuzzling so much. You are so grateful for their help and care- they ply you with sweets fruits and oily fishes, leafy greens and nuts to help your body, and they hold you in their arms and let you rest as much as you need.

Though it still persists, and it gets especially worse when your period drops by. They are even more attentive, offering massages and forehead kisses and cuddles.

But now you wake up sore in the neck and thighs… as if they’ve been kept in one position for too long. At least you are miraculously very clean when you check, and you have four men spoiling you rotten.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

no more fan-ta-sizing about it! everything's already changed~

[shotmrmiller]

ghost getting himself a cute, soft girl he doesn't talk about much but is clearly obsessed with and price just thinks it's nice he's finally settled down, approves of the home he's made for himself, definitely approves of the one he's taken for himself.

soap asks kyle if he's seen you and he says, "yep. lovely bird he's got tucked away in her little dollhouse. makes great food, too." soap swears there's a subtle shift in his tone when he says "lovely", a hint of something deeper that flickers in his eyes for just a moment. soap simply sucks on his teeth, letting it slide. (although he knows that kyle's always been one to appreciate the good things in life.)

interest gnaws at him, a persistent itch he can't scratch. price likes you just fine, as does kyle. well what about him? he decides to bite the bullet and goes to simon with a knot between his brows, the corners of his lips tugged downwards. they've shared clothes, bullets, beds. if the other two got to meet you, why can't he?

"ya can come over for dinner on tonight. she'd 'ave my neck if she didn't formally meet ya anyway."

soap then asks, out of genuine curiosity more than anything else, if simon would have kept you in the dark from him hadn't he brought you up himself.

"ya meet 'er when i want ya to, boy, and not a moment before." the tone he takes is unmistakeable. his words are a command, not a suggestion, and soap instantly knows to not push further.

soap nods. "ah'll be there."

"course ya will. she'd be terribly disappointed otherwise."

yeah, he'd hate to have that.

soap sits in the living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over the cozy place. with a full stomach and an unfastened belt, nursing a glass of kentucky. he can't remember the last time he ate that well or that much.

maybe it's the alcohol that loosens his tongue, or the fact that he wishes he also had a sweet little thing to keep at his side just like simon's doing with you now, but the thoughts he's been mulling over all evening since he first saw you tumble out of his mouth.

"while ah can attest to yer taste in sweethearts, can't say much about your alcohol. bourbon, LT?" he says, chest warm.

simon's arm tightens around your hips, fingers splayed possessively over your thigh. he shrugs, completely unbothered by the backhanded compliment. "can't be perfect in everythin', can we, sergeant?"

soap's cheeks burn furiously hot when you come to his defense with a smack of your palm onto simon's chest. "be nice to johnny. he's got a face that make up for some of his other flaws."

the teasing lilt in your voice unashamedly gets his southern blood pumping. he can't help it if certain things stir when someone as pretty as you look at him like that. soap swirls the amber liquid gently in the glass while keeping his limpid eyes on you, not even trying to hide the fact that his gaze hasn't wavered since your cheeky little comment.

you then whisper something in simon's ear, your cupped hand not even half the size of his head and soap has to rearrange himself from the outside when your teeth catch your bottom lip. simon looks up at you then, eyes heavy and half lidded, and a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.

"'m not sure, love. you'll just 'ave to ask 'im yourself. go on."

you open that sweet mouth of yours, but simon cuts you off with a decisive wave of his hand. "no. you know how to ask for things."

your reaction to that is visceral, and you're on your knees faster than his alcohol-muddled brain can comprehend. don't look down 'er shirt, don't look down 'er shirt, don't-

"johnny, will you touch my pussy?"

he splutters at your question, completely taken aback, but it seems you're not done just yet.

"hands to yourself, sergeant. tha' not all."

you pout at simon, one that earns you a look that promises consequence, but do as he says.

"will you touch my pussy, johnny? pretty please?"

[soapcloth]

Catching Soap taking pics of you in an airport terminal...

You try to ignore it. Maybe he was taking a picture of the airport in general, maybe it was a selfie- either way, you’re not about to confront a man that looks like bootcamp and protein powder incarnate in the case that he is.

Once boarded, you find yourself beside a kind-looking older woman that lets you have the window seat, the prior incident readily forgotten as you settle in. A flight attendant crouches beside her, but you pay it no mind, too busy prepping your in-flight comforts to watch on while the woman gathers her belongings and vacates the seat.

You lean back, waiting for take-off.

"-here you are, Sergeant- once again, we're deeply sorry about the seating mix-up with your partner- a-and thank you for your service, we hope you'll continue to fly with us."

That snaps you out of your thoughts.

Looking up, you find the man from earlier staring down at you with a pleased grin. After a beat, his head swings back around to the flight attendant.

"Dinnae worry 'bout tha'- just glad it got sorted."

He tosses his carry-on overhead, arms bulging with the movement before he plops himself down into the seat beside you, an exasperated grunt passing his lips. He lifts the seperating arm rest, thick legs spreading out so your thighs touch.

"-um?"

He clicks his tongue and jerks his knee into yours. "Saw ye' looking at me in the terminal, would be a shame t'leave ye' be, aye?"

[jeyumi]

Continuation of this post. (Starstay AU!)

Starscream’s job interview is going great! Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll get the position.

[lemonwrap]

The 141 as text posts + bonus Ghostsoap

[talldapple]

@cod-dump @quietlyignoringyou @lululandd I finished :)

PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. I'M PUTTING TRIGGERS AND IN WHOSE PARAGRAPHS THEY ARE LOCATED IN CASE YOU NEED TO SKIP THEM.

CW: Body Horror (All), Suicide (Just be safe, I'm gonna say all. Explicit in Laswell, mentioned in Price, attempted in Ghost, talking about killing a double self in Soap), Infant/Fetal Death (Gaz), Forced Overstimulation (Gaz), Child Abuse (Gaz), Self-Harm (Ghost), Medical Malpractice (Soap), Medical Torture (Soap), Depersonalization (Soap), Derealization (Soap), Depression (Soap), no paragraph breaks for dialog

This got so out of hand. I’m so sorry. If you need to skip someone's story but are curious, please message me. I'll give you a summary of what they are/what they can do.

Word Count: 10,277

Project Toyetic, starting in 1935, was a monumental leap forward in the world of human genetics. To the majority of the world, it was either titled ‘the next step in human evolution’ or ‘the abandonment of God’s perfect Adam’ depending on what your political belief was. They only saw the success stories; quicker run-times, increased blood flow, more stamina, longer youth: perfect humans. But these were the frontmen the project put up for the public. The minor changes. Only the small benefits to ease the public’s fears of purposeful genetic experimentation.

Like other government projects before them, there was more hiding underneath. The true horror of Project Toyetic hid in S.A.S. Taskforce 141. Where the project’s more ambitious experiments go for test runs, to hide from the world forever, or die.

Laswell is one of Project Toyetic’s child experiments success stories from the late 1970s. Her genetics were modified at the age of 8 to increase the synapses in her brain, increasing brain power. She did enjoy time in the spotlight as a frontman for Project Toyetic briefly but was soon relocated to being Taskforce 141’s handler after their last handler quit in early 1998. She was 28. Her main job: to take control of lead the leftover 141 experiments in their operations. If any of her Taskforce disobeyed, became too costly to maintain, forced her hand, was defective failed, she had full authority to execute handle them immediately as effectively as possible. To be fair, she did do her duty.

One 141 member on record died by her hand; a man named Stahl. Stahl was a successful spider-hybrid experiment: eight eyes, a Yautja-like mouth structure, web production from his fingertips, and the ability to climb on walls and ceilings. While out on a mission, Stahl clearly disobeyed orders. He ran off into the wilderness before anyone had the chance to stop him. Laswell, as was her duty, followed to kill him. After three hours of tracking him down, Stahl jumped out of a tree and kneeled execution-style before Laswell. She raised her gun and placed the muzzle on the back of his head. “Why? Why did you run?” She was just supposed to kill him, but she had to know. Stahl sighed, “There’s a village, two clicks northeast of here. My family lives there. The men we were following had dealings with several corrupt officers there. I went and dealt with them.” Laswell hesitated. If this was true she didn’t need to kill him. He saved innocents. “Just do it,” Stahl mumbled. "I know what I did. The 141 doesn’t need you to get into any trouble." Laswell started to pull her gun away. “I can’t. You did disobey orders but if what you’ve said is true-“ “BUT THAT’S ENOUGH! I'VE SEEN BETTER MEN EXECUTED FOR LESS!” Stahl started grabbing for his own pistol. He had gotten the muzzle into his spilt-open mouth before Laswell shoved it away. "Stop! If what you said is true I don't have to-" Stahl lunged after the gun and Laswell fought to keep him away from it. “Stop, please! I knew what I was doing! JUST LET ME FUCKING DIE LIKE THE USELESS DOG I AM!” Laswell stopped in shock. How the fuck was he so willing to die? He was human, he had a family, why did he insist he was a monster? Stahl was able to scramble on his knees and grab his pistol. With Laswell stopping, Stahl calmly spoke again, "Thank you for the hesitation." "It's the right thing. I don't have to kill you." "No. But you were going to anyways." Stahl looked at Laswell with mournful eyes. "If you had followed protocol and just shot me on sight, I'd be dead, and you wouldn't be protesting right now." Laswell couldn't move. Adrenaline was leaving her system and she was frozen in fear. "I haven't fulfilled that duty yet. I'm in charge. I can change the protocols!" He turned the safety off. “If you want to change how things go around the 141, it’d be better to not turn the gun on us at the first sign of disorder.” He turned to face her with a cheeky smile. “Last chance to fulfill your obligation to Toyetic.” Laswell just sat prone in the mud and shook her head. “No. Don't. I promise you, this will never happen again under my watch.” Stahl’s smile faded. He pressed the gun into his temple. “Then I’m glad to be your first and last." "Stahl, stop it." Adrenaline reentered her system as she scrambled once more to grab Stahl's pistol. "DON'T!" "Goodbye, Chief Laswell. Take good care of them for me.” And with those final words. Stahl shot himself in the middle of the forest. Hours later, Laswell had made it back to exfil with Stahl's body. The entire ride back to base was silent. Laswell was greaving and her men were mourning the loss of their comrade. Before any other 141 members got off, she stood up and spoke. “This should have never happened. I've made a promise to a dead man, and I plan on keeping it. None of you shall die by my hand. I may be your handler, but I am not an executioner.” She looked back at the dead body of Stahl wrapped in a dull military tarp. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Things will change around here. I promise you all that. None of you deserve what has been given to you. You don't deserve to die." This was the only time she cried in front of her charges.

Price is the oldest of the 141 experiments. He was the only successful attempt at eternal youth and invincibility back in 1942. He would have been one of Project Toyetic’s earliest success stories. However, invincibility does not mean invulnerability. During one of Price’s first test runs, he was grazed by a bullet on his left shoulder. The wound bled for three whole months before any scab started to form, and took about one year for the scar to be fully healed. During this time, the wound became infected multiple times and caused Price to be sick every time. Because of his harsh experiment, Price was forever young and unable to die, but his immune system and healing processes were drastically diminished. Over the 80 years of post-experimentation, Price had gotten better at dodging harm like that. But the worst he ever faced was only two years before Laswell became the 141’s handler in early 1998.

Price and a couple of other 141 members were supposed to be the search and rescue for a squad of Canadian soldiers that were two days off from their planned evac from a training exercise. The 141 split up in pairs as Price and his buddy (a failed mitosis experiment with two heads as a result of splicing shark D.N.A.) trekked the area to the west of the evac point. They didn’t find the squad. Instead, both of them fell into a pit of jagged rocks below a shear cliff. Both Price and his buddy became impaled on the rocks. His buddy, due to his failed experimentation, caught the scent of blood and began to cannibalize himself and died as a result. Price was left to heavily bleed out onto the rocks below him. Every time he gained the strength to attempt to pull himself off the spike, it slipped farther into him and even started to push out of the other side of his body. He was stuck there for two and a half weeks drifting in and out of consciousness and constantly draining blood. He finally drifted into a coma just days before they were found by the rest of the force. Price was in this coma for three years.

· · ────────────── · ·

During the last couple of months of his coma, Laswell took charge of the 141. At the beginning of her tenure, she hated Price. According to her job description, Price was a defective soldier: he was stuck in a coma with no way out. It was her duty to kill him. He was wasting project resources. But two things eventually stopped this line of thought. 1) Price was unkillable, obviously. 2) Stahl’s death. After she came back with Stahl dead in her arms, she visited Price every day. She began to ingratiate herself with 141 members. She was there when Price woke up. She didn’t alert the nurses. “Good afternoon, Captain. You’ve been out quite a while.” “Who are you?” “I’m Inspector Chief Laswell. I was sent here a couple of months ago.” “Where’s Chief Pickering?” “He quit.” Both of them stayed silent waiting for the other to break. Laswell broke first, “You don’t want to know how long you’ve been out?” Price shrugged and rubbed his eyes. “Figured it’d be a long time. But that doesn’t matter. I’ve got more time than anyone here could want. The only thing I want to know is how my men are.” Price glared at the young Laswell next to his bedside and growled. “How many of my men have you slaughtered?” A look of sadness flashed on her face, “Truthfully, or on the records?” Price’s glare softened into a quizzical look. He motioned for her to continue. “On the records, I have only killed one: Stahl.” Price frowned at this. Stahl was a good man. His mutations were very helpful on the field and his personality brightened up everyone around him. “And truthfully?” “Truthfully, no one. Stahl killed himself after I refused to do perform my duty on the field.” Price’s anger swelled. “Horse shit! Stahl would never fucking do that! I know I’ve only just met you, but-“ “Let me explain, Captain.” Laswell interrupted harshly, “He disobeyed orders. I was going to do my job, but I asked him to explain himself. It’s against protocol, I know, but I was curious. He would have been my first.” Laswell paused to let the Captian process. “We were close to his home village and he strayed off course to kill a couple of corrupt officials that had deals with the men we were sent to hunt down. Stahl was innocent so I hesitated. In my hesitation, he shot himself.” Laswell and Price stared at each other again. Pausing to wait for the other to break. This time, Price broke. “And he’s the only one?” “Yes. I have not, nor will I ever, harm any of your men.” Price chuckled, “That’s against protocol, Chief.” Laswell smiled. “And killing unarmed men is a crime, Captain. I've only been here eight months, but I’ve learned that you lot tend to bend the rules around here. So I’ve bent a few myself.” Price laid back on the hospital bed. No other handler bent the rules that far. “I think you and I will get along together just fine, Laswell.” Laswell nodded, “My thoughts exactly, John.”

Gaz was a product of one of Project Toyetic’s first in-vitro experiments. Because he was one of the first, they started out with a simple modification. The genetics to heighten one's senses were perfected years ago, but they could only be successfully implanted in children younger than four months old. Gaz was only one of 14 children that survived his birth. The remanding 346 either died naturally or were terminated in the womb to save the mother's life. Out of those 14 survivors, only Gaz lived to legally become an adult. A typical heightened senses success story from Project Toyetic had only one heightened sense; sight, hearing, or smell. Because of the implementation at conception, everything was heightened for Gaz; sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch. Every day, these infants cried and cried due to something being too overwhelming for their senses. To protect the surviving children, each of them was given a 10 by 10-foot room to live in. It was a prison to keep any and all stimuli to a minimum. But this system was never perfect. When Gaz was 6 years old, the researchers started to slowly introduce outside stimuli to the children. 'To help them acclimate to the outside world.' They egregiously overestimated how sensitive these children were.

Researcher Reed always came into Kyle's room with a choice for him. "Do you want to color today? Or would you like to play with the wooden blocks again?" Kyle could handle speaking voices just fine after a multitude of voluntary acclimation sessions, but he still preferred to whisper. "Can we color?" Kyle liked coloring. The stimuli from coloring didn't bother him as much. He didn't know why she suggested the blocks. They tried that yesterday, and it ended in failure. The wood felt like too much, and the sound of them clicking together and scraping on different surfaces paralyzed him. He was able to appear happy and calm during the acclimation session, but as soon as Reed left, Kyle cried for hours. His hands didn't feel right and nothing could get the feeling off of him. Reed smiled, "Okay then. I'll be right back. Do you want the lights brighter or should I leave them dimmed?" "Brighten them, please." He was okay with brighter lights. Brighter lights meant he could see the colors better. He liked the colors. Reed came back into the room with her hands hiding behind her. "Are you ready, Kyle?" Kyle nodded. Reed instead pulled out the bag of wooden blocks from yesterday. They rustled together and the noise made Kyle's teeth start to hurt. "No," he frightfully whispered. "Kyle, we need you to get past this. In order to go outside, you need to get used to uncomfortable sounds." She took two blocks out of the bag and placed them harshly on the play table. Kyle shook his head and placed his hands over his ears. Just seeing them made the feeling of the wood grain crawl back under his skin. The sharp noise of them striking the table hurt his ears as well. "Please, no. I just want to color today." "What do you not like about the blocks, Kyle?" Her voice was too loud. Kyle shook his head, closed his eyes, and curled into himself even tighter. This needed to stop. She spoke louder, "Do you not like the noises?" "Stop." "Which noise hurts the most? The scraping?" Reed scraped one of the blocks on the table. "Please. Stop." Kyle was about to cry. Louder, "The thudding?" Reed took both of the blocks and clicked them together. "I want to color." Kyle was crying as his voice raised to match Reed's volume. Louder, "Is it the canvas bag? Does the rustling hurt?" Reed picked up the bag with all the blocks in it and shook it. After shaking it, she turned the bag over and spilled the blocks all over the tiled floor. "PLEASE! STOP!" Kyle was openly weeping and shouting. It was too much. It needed to stop. It all needed to stop. Reed shouted back, "STOP WHAT? WHAT NEEDS TO STOP, KYLE?" "I DON'T WANT THE BLOCKS! THE BLOCKS HURT MY EARS! THEY MAKE MY HANDS HURT!" The shouting was hurting his ears but he just wanted to be heard. Reed spoke softer now. "I know they do, Kyle. That's why I need to do this. You need to get used to bad sounds if you ever want to leave." "BUT I DON'T WANT TO LEAVE IF THERE ARE BAD SOUNDS! BAD LIGHTS! BAD ANYTHING! I WANT NOTHING BAD!" At this Reed stopped altogether. She started to pick up the blocks as Kyle continued to sob. She picked up the last one and moved to sit in front of Kyle. She held it out to him and whispered, "Can you at least hold it for me? Just for five seconds and we can color tomorrow. No choice." Snot and tears streaked down his face. "Promise?" Reed nodded. "I promise." Kyle wiped away his tears onto his shirt and hesitated to pick up the block. He grabbed it with only his pointer finger and thumb and held it as far away from his body as he could. The grain under his fingertip grated harshly and the paint under his thumb was too smooth. The feeling crawled up his arm and cause him to shake slightly. After Reed announced the five seconds were done (It was actually ten), Kyle dropped the cube and scooted away from it. "Good job, kid. You did well." "We'll color tomorrow?" "I promised. And I never break a promise." They didn't color tomorrow. Another researcher came in with the blocks and they 'played' again.

· · ────────────── · ·

Kyle was placed into the 141 as soon as he turned 18. Because of the insistent acclimation sessions, Kyle was able to face the world, but overstimulation was still a threat. He constantly has to wear sunglasses, noise-canceling headphones, gloves, and a compression shirt when off-duty. His heightened senses have made him an excellent marksman and tracker. With enough training in the 141, Gaz is able to 'see around corners'. He can't actually, he can see the heat waves of a body when they are close to a corner. He kept his time off base to a minimum. That was until Laswell opened up an invitation to the whole of 141 one day. "There's gonna be a carnival in the next town over, anyone want to join?" This was part of Laswell's commitment to changing the 141. In years past, other handlers kept everyone locked inside the base unless they were on a mission. That was protocol. But, in bending the rules, Laswell allowed any members free leave with restrictions that they couldn't show the public their mutations. That was easy enough for Gaz, but he still hated to go out. Unfortunately, Price forced his hand on this one. "You haven't left the base in months, son. You need to go out and do something." "And what if I get overstimulated? I've never been overstimulated out in public and I'm not gonna start now. Besides, a carnival would be the worst place for me anyways." "And why is that?" "It's the ultimate place for bright lights, loud noises, and awful smells. I can't go there." "What if one of us was with you?" Gaz thought about it. Having a member of the 141 with him did help calm him down during an episode. And they usually did help distract him from other stimuli. And he always tried his best to make Price proud. "...Okay. But just this once." Price smiled. "Okay. Laswell will stay with you. I think it'll be you, her, and just a couple of others. That sound good?" Gaz nodded. The evening of the carnival outing finally arrived and Gaz got fully decked out in his usual off-base gear. Laswell waved him over to where everyone was standing next to three plain vehicles. Gaz shuffled up next to Laswell. "Okay, boys. Meet y'all there in a half hour. Carnival closes at 0100. All of you better be back here on base before 0200, am I clear?" A chorus of agreement sounded off and the rest of the group filed into two of the vans. "Come on, Kyle. We're heading over in this one." "We get one to ourselves?" "Yes. Just in case you need to come back before everyone's done." "Oh." Gaz climbed into the passenger seat. "Thank you." Laswell smiled and started their trek to the carnival. Their time there was quite enjoyable. Being outside the base had already placed Gaz near the edge of overstimulation, but nothing had pushed him over yet. He was careful to avoid anything too triggering. Gaz had taken to wandering on the outskirts of the fairgrounds looking at the various games of chance.

One caught his eye, a dart toss. Should be easy enough. He was a good enough marksman, after all. Laswell happily paid the $5 and Gaz got his three darts. Gaz took off one of his gloves to hold to the darts better. He couldn’t hold them all at once due to their texture. But one at a time would work. Darts one and two flew easily, hitting small balloons hidden between larger ones. Gaz had difficulty with the last dart though. The texture was off. This one had something slightly sticky on it. Maybe some soda spilled on it a while ago or a kid with melted cotton candy on their fingers threw this dart hours ago, but that didn’t matter. It was wrong. It was sticking. It was too much. It took all his focus to not shiver and drop the dart. Instead, Gaz lifted his arm and missed a final balloon. Before the game attendant could ask him which prize he wanted, Gaz fled. He needed to get it off his hand. He became so focused on the stickiness of his hand that he didn’t notice Laswell following close behind him. Before he could leave the fairgrounds, Laswell placed a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” “Dart.” “What was wrong with it?” “Sticky. Wrong.” "What do you need?” “Need it off.” “I have wipes. Would those work?” Gaz nodded and held out his hand. A wetness appeared on his hand. He vigorously wiped his hands off. It’s gone. It’s gone, but the feeling wasn’t. The dart pushed Gaz over the edge. During his walk away, the lights and sounds became too much. “Do you need anything else?” “No. Fine.” “I can see you’re not. You’re overstimmed still.” “No. Fine.” “Kyle. If you need to leave, we can.” “No. Stay.” Gaz was actually having fun before this happened. He didn’t want it to end. He could get through this. Laswell sighed. “Okay. But let’s at least find somewhere quieter. How does the Ferris Wheel sound? I didn’t see much of a line there.” Gaz looked over and nodded. The Ferris Wheel was over on the edge of the carnival, away from a majority of the louder sounds and brighter lights. It would be a good place to power through this. Laswell was telling the truth. There was barely a line for the ride. "You don't have a fear of heights do you?" Gaz shook his head and Laswell smirked. "Good." She went up to the ride attendant before they boarded. Gaz saw her slip something into the kid's hand. The kid looked down, widened their eyes, and nodded furiously. Laswell then climbed into the cage with Gaz. The two stayed silent as the cage moved around the wheel slowly. At the top, everything was nearly silent, and the lights from the other rides seemed so far away. It really did calm Gaz down. But that feeling was short-lived as they continued their predetermined path. Two more loops and the ride would be done. One more loop and they would be done. Gaz closed his eyes to calm down a bit faster. They made it to the top for the last time and the cage slowed to a stop. Gaz looked around in surprise. "We're gonna be up here for the next twenty-ish minutes. Will that be enough for you to calm down?" Sneaky Laswell. Gaz nodded. He wouldn't be totally calm, but he'd be calm enough to get through the rest of the night. "You're not lying to me are you?" Damn. She got him there. He huffed instead of answering. Laswell smiled softly. "Okay. We're gonna leave after this." Gaz simply stared out onto the fairgrounds below. After a couple minutes of silence, Laswell whispered, "You don't have to suffer, Kyle." "I know." "Do you?" Laswell was staring straight at Gaz. "I'm just so used to powering through it that being on the edge has become my normal." "It doesn't have to be. If you need time to decompress, to calm down, you tell me. I'm here to help in any way I can." She reached her hand to Gaz. An offering to comfort him. Gaz reached past her hand and grabbed her into a hug. "Thank you." Laswell hugged back and the wheel started to move again. "I'm ready to go back now."

Ghost was unlike the majority of Project Toyetic's projects. He wasn't experimented on genetically. Instead, he was the result of the project's forays into other scientific fields: biological nanotech. Nanotechnology was a very recent addition to Project Toyetic’s scope of interest, but it was very quickly adapted into a multitude of various forms ranging from healing to damaging. The experimentation on Simon was to see what would happen if both damaging and healing nanotech were injected into a dying man. The conflict between the two forms of nanotech placed Ghost in a state of undeath and changed the coding of the damaging nanobots. Ghost's heart and lungs were destroyed from his initial death, but the healing nanos keep blood and oxygen flowing throughout the body so that everything else may operate as normal. While it is not known how the coding changed on the damaging nanotech, it is recorded that Ghost now has control over them. Normally, Ghost has them in a dormant state. And at his will, Ghost can activate the nanobots to dissipate into a cloud of smoke-like vapor. He can then control the nanobots to move while suspended in the air and reform himself in another area. Once reformed, the damaging nanobots are shut off again to allow him to rapidly reheal. This process was discovered not long after Simon was declared dead.

Simon opened his eyes. The bright lights of the hospital room only blinded him briefly. An orderly took notice of his minuscule movements. "Lieutenant Riley? Can you hear me?" Simon groaned in response. Under the man's breath, he heard, "Holy shit, you're awake." Louder he heard, "I'll be right back. I'm going to go grab a doctor." Simon groaned again. His jaw and the skin around it were bandaged heavily. In fact, Simon could feel bandages around the majority of his body. He lay there waiting for a couple of minutes before another man entered the room. "Lieutenant Riley! Surprised to see you awake." He had a slight waiver in his voice. The doctor started to give him a small check-up. "I'm going to ask some yes or no questions. You do have heavy bandages around your jaw at the moment, so please grunt once for yes, twice for no. Okay?" Grunt. "Good. Your name is Lieutenant Riley, correct?" Grunt. "Do you know where you are?" Grunt grunt. "You are at Riverside Hospital. Do you know what day it is?" Grunt grunt. "It's December 29th. You've been," the doctor paused, "sleeping for the past three days." Simon's mind was racing: was Joseph okay, was his family okay, can he see them? But Simon only grunted so the doctor could continue. "Okay. Do you remember anything from after the fire till now?" Grunt grunt. "Lieutenant Riley, are you aware you're heart is not beating?" Simon didn't grunt. He waited and felt for his heartbeat. He couldn't feel it. "Are you aware that you haven't breathed in the last 70 hours?" Simon started to panic. He wasn't breathing, his heart wasn't beating, how was he alive? It was at this moment that Simon felt a strange tingling in his legs. It started from the bottom of his feet and traveled swiftly up his entire body. Simon blacked out. He couldn't see anything. Less than a minute later, he opened his eyes again. Simon was standing facing the hospital bed. The bandages were off of him and the doctor was staring at him with fear in his eyes. Simon spoke for the first time in days, causing a massive amount of built-up carbon dioxide to escape his body in a rasp, "What did you do to me?" The doctor was frozen until Simon took one step toward the man. The doctor jumped and ran out of the room. The heavy doors slammed behind him and Simon heard a heavy lock slide into place. Once again that tingling feeling took over his body. Once again, darkness, but soon after, a hallway manifested around Simon. The doctor was running away from him and yelling frantically. Simon growled. What is going on here? Simon ran after the man as the tingling started up again. This time, the man ran into him. Simon grabbed him and placed him in a combat hold. "What is happening to me?" Silence. "Answer me!" "I don't know!" "What do you know?" Simon's grip on the man tightened. "You are dead! Lieutenant Simon Riley died three days ago. You were injected with both healing and damaging nanobots as part of a Project Toyetic experiment. What's happening now is an unexpected side effect." Simon grabbed tighter. "Where is my family?" The doctor had to strain his voice at this point. "I don't know. Once you died, you were taken here." "Where is here? You said I was at Riverside?" "I lied. Toyetic's London division." The doctor was straining his voice and was close to passing out so Simon let him go. After the doctor took a couple of deep breaths, Simon spoke again. "I want to leave." "I'm afraid you can't do that, Lieutenant." This was a new voice: female and right behind him. Simon turned, startled. Simon stood there and stared down the new intruder. "And who the fuck are you?" "I'm Chief Inspector Laswell. Handler of Taskforce 141." Simon's eyes narrowed. "141 is a myth." Laswell only raised her eyebrows. "Well if it is, then we are truly out of a job." Laswell then shifted her attention to the doctor behind Simon. "You can leave. I've got him handled." "Y-Yes, ma'am." The doctor ran off. Simon waited until the man rounded the hallway corner before speaking again. "What do you mean, 'we'?"

Laswell sighed. "With your new condition, you can no longer be operating as a normal S.A.S. agent. Technically, you are now property of Project Toyetic and have been assigned to Taskforce 141." "You can't do this to me." Laswell looked upon Simon with sadness in her eyes. "Unfortunately, I must-" "No. I don't accept this." "Lieuten-" Before he could hear her finish, Simon shifted away. He didn't know where he landed this time, but it looked like a decrepit hallway. Simon picked a direction and ran. He soon heard footsteps making their way toward him. To hide, Simon slid into an empty closet that was next to him. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Simon was panicking. Of course, he had heard of Taskforce 141: horror stories of torture, imprisonment, monsters, and death as a hair-trigger-punishment. He couldn't go there. Not after he promised to be around more for Joseph. Being in the 141 would mean he would never see any of his family again. I need to get out of here. But how? There were the strange movements he was making around the doctor. Okay. But how was I doing that? Focus? Simon closed his eyes and thought about the tingling feeling. Nothing. Shit. I don't think that could've done much anyways. Don't even know the layout of this building. Simon ran a hand down his face and started to look around the closet he had forced himself into. I'm gonna have to run. It was a slim chance, but maybe it had something to help him. Nope. Only cleaning products and leftover office supplies. But scissors do make a good improv weapon. He gripped the handle as he would a combat knife. Not the best, but it was the best he had. Simon placed his ear against the door. More footsteps. "I don't care what that bitch says. Shoot on sight. She's been too soft on them and she doesn't need to be soft on this one." "Dude, watch your words. She's a high rank. I'll do what she says." "Fuck that. This man is a 141 freak. Family fucking signed away his rights as soon as he stepped into the hospital." What? "Besides, he disobeyed her orders. I'm gonna put him down like she's supposed to." "Alright man, your funeral for killing one of Laswell's pets." "Fuck you, Jones." The footsteps retreated. Simon started to hyperventilate. His family abandoned him. They let this happen? Even after his promise? Simon ran over his options one last time: join 141 unwillingly and let them walk all over me, never see my family again, and probably die for putting one toe out of line, get out of the building sneakily or metaphorical guns blazing doesn't matter at this point the scissors are the best I have and I can make do, or I don't even want to think of the last option. Simon looked at the scissors in his palm. If everything is true, if his family signed him away, if 141 is the cesspool it is, the last thing Simon could do was go out on his own terms. Simon tried to blink a couple of tears away. "I'm sorry." He knew nobody could hear him. But he hoped, somehow, his family could hear him. "I'll see you all again someday. Goodbye." Simon lifted the scissors to his wrist and slashed.

The building had been on lockdown for hours. Multiple employees ran throughout the halls looking for the escaped experiment. Laswell, however, calmly walked around. Using 141 resources, she knew Lieutenant Riley was still on campus. Down in a supply closet, covered in blood. When Laswell came upon the closet, she noticed the blood leaking into the hallway from under the door. "Lieutenant. May I speak with you?" No answer. "Lieutenant?" His voice muffled through the door. "Fuck off." "No can do. I need to make sure you're okay." "I'm not. Respectfully, fuck off." Laswell heard a grunt and splattered liquid before she went and open the door. There, sitting on the floor in the middle of a layer of blood with bloodied scissors but no cuts marking his skin, was Simon. His eyes were closed and he sighed as he heard the door open. "Fuck. Off." "Lieutenant..." "Is this why you want me? 'Cause I can't bloody die?" Laswell chose her words carefully. "I know you don't want this. And I can't do anything about it, but you are under 141's command now. You have been transferred." Laswell squatted to look Simon in the eye. "Whatever you have heard about us, I can assure you it's better now." Simon met her eyes. "Are you sure about that? I've heard some shit. Where all Toyetic failures go do hide or die." "That was before my time. Things have changed." They both paused. Just silence. "I overheard you talking about your family. You were carrying one when you passed out, correct?" Simon's brow furrowed. If she fucking threatened them, he was gonna kill her. Laswell smiled softly. "The child. He's okay. You protected him. You were the only person to have severe injuries. They are wanting to see you if you'd like?" Simon's brow twisted to one of question. "But the men I heard earlier-" "Are idiots. They said they checked every corner of this basement. I wouldn't believe a word they said." "They said my family signed me away." "No," Laswell spoke harshly. "Your family had no choice in this. Unfortunately, Toyetic feels that they can float above consequences and operated on you without permission. In the name of 'science'." Simon just sat there taking everything in. "Listen, Simon, I can help you. The 141 is not a prison sentence. You are allowed to do whatever you want." "Except leave?" "Yes. Project Toytic doesn't want anyone us wandering around unsupervised. Would 'damage their brand' and make them 'lose funding'. And I'm bound to that. You can't leave, but you can be normal." Simon sighed. That tingling feeling came again. When it left, he was standing behind Laswell. He dropped the scissors as he turned. "Can I see them now?" Laswell smiled. "Of course, Simon. Whenever you want. As long as it doesn't interfere with missions." "Of course not, Chief. Lead the way."

· · ────────────── · ·

The meeting went well. Laswell explained everything. They all understood that Simon was dead and that he was a part of Toyetic's experiments. That he was a part of 141. Simon's mother, Laura, never spoke through the whole process. Only Tommy and Beth asked questions. Simon was resigned to his fate. In the end, hugs and goodbyes were exchanged. Beth and Tommy's went by with little fanfare, they only spoke of 'goodbyes', and 'see you soons'. Joseph didn't say goodbye. He hid behind Tommy's legs as if he was scared of Simon. "Go on. It will be a while before you see him again." Joseph only pressed his face into his father's leg harder. Simon tried his best to not feel hurt by that. Joseph was just a little kid. All of this was scary. It didn't consume Simon's thoughts that his only nephew was scared of him. At this, Laura walked up to Simon, and instead of hugging him, she took his head in her hands. Simon melted. "Mum." "Don't. Let me talk." Simon looked into her eyes. "I know you, Simon. In your mind, you're making yourself a monster like your father. Listen to me. You. Are. Not. Your. Father." Simon broke eye contact. "I know." Laura pulled his face up. "Look at me. You are my son. That will never change." She pulled his face down to kiss him on the forehead. "Please promise me you won't go far from us?" Simon's voice cracked. "I promise." Laura pulled away and smiled. "There you are. Be safe Simon. Come back to us soon." Simon nodded. His throat was closing. "As soon as I can." Simon felt guilty. 'As soon as I can' turned out to be the next Christmas. It was partially his own fault. He couldn't get Joseph's reaction to him out of his head and he didn't want to scare him any more than he already did. Simon did keep in touch, but he couldn't pull himself to visit. Laswell had finally pushed Simon on this visit. Most of the base had already taken off for Christmas and there were no leads on any current operations. So Simon found himself on a train heading to the outskirts of Manchester and was soon standing outside of a house. Light hung on the outside and shadows moved softly on the inside. Like a cliched movie, Simon just stood there watching, not disturbing the peace his family had found without him. Before Simon could turn away, the door opened. "Simon?" It was his mom. "Simon!" She ran out into the snow and nearly tackled him in a hug. "You're here! You're actually here!" "Uncle Simon?" Simon froze. In the doorway, Joseph appeared. Laura pulled back to look at the young boy. "It's okay, Joseph. It's him." Joseph stayed on the porch. Laura sighed and turned back to Simon. She spoke under her breath. "It's been strange around here. When Laswell said you were dead, he became scared." She snorted. "He has it in his head that you're a zombie back to eat brains, but he has been worried about you, Simon." "To be honest... I've been scared too. I don't want to hurt him." "You could never. Now come on, it's getting cold out here and I left some cookies in the oven. Don't need them burning!" Laura pulled Simon closer to the door. Joseph still stared at him. "Hi, Joseph. It's been a while, yeah?" Simon kneeled down and Joseph nodded. "I've heard you're scared of me? You think I'm a zombie?" Joseph nodded and stepped back a bit. Simon smiled. "It's funny. 'Cause I'm scared of you." Joseph finally spoke. "How can you be scared of me?" "Because I learned some things while I was away. I'm not a zombie. I'm a Ghost." "A ghost?" "Yep. Like Casper. I've learned that when I'm around family members, I can't use my powers. I can only use my ghost powers to fight bad guys." "Like Danny Phantom?" Simon didn't know who that was. Probably best to just agree. "Yes. Exactly like him." At this, Joseph perked up with a smile. "I knew it!" And he ran into the house. Simon chuckled. That was far easier than he thought it would be. But at least it was a start.

Because the dialogue can be kinda confusing without paragraph breaks in this next one, the main POV Soap dialogue will be in Red. All other Soaps will have different colors depending on how many Soaps are in a scene. If there is only one Soap, he will talk in regular color. :)

Remember that buddy that died in Price’s story up above? Remember how I called him a failed mitosis experiment? Well, Soap is an accidental success. Mitosis mutations were discovered when Project Toyetic started experiments on sets of twins. Fraternal twin experiments proceeded as normal; it was the identical twins that produced interesting results. If experimented on at the same time, and in the same room, the identical twins would conjoin. No matter if the test was simple or complex, the results would be the same: conjoined twins with successful results of the actual test. Results varied wildly from the twins only being conjoined by their fingers to one surviving twin having an extra five toes on one foot. Those with less extreme fuzing can easily be separated and live normal lives, but in extreme cases, such as extra limbs, they live with Taskforce 141. Of course, none of this reached the public, and a majority of identical twin subjects were improperly informed about the risks of the experiments. John and Logan MacTavish were informed that they were to be a part of 'the first experiments on identical twins' (this was years into the identical twin research) and that Project Toyetic would be doing a simple genetic swap of hair color (they tried that already, the twins previously subjected to this hair color swap were conjoined either at the hip or had a split halfway up the spine that made them share a pair of legs with the swapped hair color only being on one of the twin's heads. Today they were going to test out what would happen when splicing python snake D.N.A.).

"Do ya think Ma's gonna be pissed when she sees we're blond?" "Na. We can dye it before she can see." Both of the brothers sat on operating tables waiting for the doctors to come in and start the procedures. Even though they were identical twins, John and Logan couldn't be more different. Since the age of 13, John has sported a mohawk and immediately signed up for the military against his family's wishes. Logan, on the other hand, in recent years was growing out his hair: a man bun with an undercut. He made it into college for a degree in software development and graduated a year earlier than predicted. "Good idea. This'll be the easiest £4,500 we've ever made!" A doctor came in soon after. "Hello there guys. Are we ready?" "Ready!" "Okay. Just as a reminder, we are putting you two under anesthesia for your safety. Is that alright with you two?" "Ready with me, doc!" John just nodded in response. "Alrighty then. Lay down and we'll get started." John reached over and punched Logan's shoulder before shifting to lie down. "You are gonna look so stupid with blond hair." "If I look stupid, you'll look stupid, stupid." "Na. I'm prettier than you." "Ya right. See ya on the other side." The doctor slipped an oxygen mask over John's face. "See ya there." John awoke with a scream. He had a leather bit in his mouth as pain flared throughout his entire body. The only thing he could see was a bright light above him. Below his screams, he could barely hear the doctors surrounding him. "It's starting." "What do you think it'll be this time? Last time we tried a snake, they split above the jaw." "Yeah, but that was a cobra that got stuck on the wrong chromosome. Python as an addition to the Y? Who knows, but I'm betting just at the elbow." "Oh, you're on. £15 for shoulder or more." "Deal." The doctors were ignoring John's screams of pain. He writhed around hoping to get their attention. They ignored him. Ten minutes passed. "The second isn't moving. He should be awake by now." "Lemme look." The doctor walked past John's table. John's pleas were muffled around the bit as the doctor continued to ignore him. "He's still alive. Continue as planned." The doctor walked past John. "Can one of you knuckleheads gas him back up? His screams are starting to annoy me." With that, the one betting on just an elbow walked over and pressed more chemicals under his skin. John passed out again. He awoke again. All of the pain was gone, but a new bit was placed in his mouth. It was larger and was forcing his mouth wide open. The doctors from before were surrounding his bed. John tried to wiggle around, but he was strapped down. He knew something was wrong. It was just a gene swap. Nobody said it was supposed to be that painful. His attention soon snapped to the head doctor. "Who are you?" John snarled at him. They were the ones operating on him and they didn't even know his name. "Which one are you?" John couldn't speak with the object in his mouth but he did his best. "Where is Logan?" John shook his head. How the fuck should he know? The doctor looked up at his fellow doctors. "Check again. He can't be-" The doctor hesitated, not wanting to spill anything. "Something has to be wrong." "Unless you want to cut him open and check his guts, everything is perfect. No defects." "An internal conjoin? That's never happened before. Put him under again. We gotta check." John started to scream again before he felt a needle against his skin and he was sleeping once more.

The bit was still in his mouth when John woke for a third time. The doctors were nowhere to be seen and John wasn't strapped down. Stitched up scars in the shape of a Y lined his torso. He only had a single handcuff keeping him chained to the table. The first thing he did after sitting up was rip the bit out of his mouth and yelled. "HELP! HELP!" No one came. In his yelling, he felt his teeth. His canines had grown. His tongue was now split. "WHERE IS LOGAN?!" John was starting to rip the skin under his cuff. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME!?" John stopped struggling. He didn't yell that. Looking over beside him showed Logan standing up but now his head was cut like his own. "Logan!" John shouted in relief. "What the fuck is going on? Why's your hair cut?" "I'm not Logan, you bawbag. I'm John. Why's yours cut?" "No. I'm John." Both of them stared at each other. Until the one standing up laughed. "Good one, Logan. I'm betting we ain't getting that money, right? This was all just some prank, yeah?" "No. No. I'm John. John Ewan MacTavish. You are Logan Knox MacTavish. You fucking know that." "Okay. Okay. Fine. Keep up the charade. We are both John MacTavish. But I don't believe you. Prove to me you're not Logan." The standing man crossed his arms smugly, believing he had won. John just smirked. "Okay then. We both say our first crush. THE first crush. The one I've never told Logan." "Okay. On three. One..." "Two..." "Three..." Without hesitation, they spoke at the same time. "Mike King two houses down. He had the cutest hair in the grade above us." Both Johns smacked their hands over their mouths. "How the fuck?" "No. No. No! You found out somehow." "How? I had that locked away for good!" "Okay, another one!" "What other secret did I keep from you?" Both Johns paused before the standing John spoke somberly. "What were the last words I ever said to Pa?" The chained-up John shook his head vigorously. "No. This is all just some stupid joke and you want to wrangle that out of me?!" "If it proves that you are Logan, yes. It is absolutely necessary." John paused. "I don't fucking believe this. Fine. Again on three. One." "Two." "Thr-" "We don't remember. We were piss drunk." The formally arguing Johns jumped in fear. Sitting with his head between his legs was a third John. "Something about the neighbor's cat is our best guess, as Pa did say something earlier in the night about getting a new barn cat." "And who the fuck are you?" "I'm John. You are John. He is John. Everyone in this room is John MacTavish." The sitting John stood up and walked towards the other standing John and grabbed his shoulder. In the blink of an eye, the standing and arguing John was absorbed into the former sitting John. He mumbled under his breath. "Can be born out of fear. Good to know." "Okay. What the FUCK is going on here?" The standing John didn't respond. he just grabbed the cuffed John and waited as the cuffed John absorbed into him. A new line of cuts appeared around his wrist where the cuff would be on him. "Injury transfer. That sucks." He went and sat on the bed. He wrung his hands through his hair. He sighed in frustration. He willed a duplicate to pull out of himself. "Rubber duck with me here. What are we missing?" The new duplicate got up and started to pace. "Talk to me. Go over what we know already again."

Another sigh. "Something wrong happened during the experiment. After the live autopsy, we woke up with two of us in this room. We went through the same argument that just happened again. We figured out we were both John after five questions. Soon after, cuffed was absorbed by standing and we started testing after that. We've figured out that we duplicate by either a fear responce or just a thought. We can only absorb one another via purposeful touch. Duplicates can make duplicates. Knowledge can only transfer from duplicate to duplicate after absorption. Injuries transfer as well." The other John stopped pacing. "How about limits?" John looked up. "Limits?" "How many can we make?" "Good idea." He went and stood up. "You start the chain. Sound off. I'm one." The other John nodded. "Two." John watched as more Johns appeared in the room. "Three" "Four" "Five" "Six" "Seven" "Eight" All of the Johns keeled over in pain before another could appear in the room. "Eight of us." All of them were groaning in pain. "Good to know." "Okay. Form up to three. Need more brainstorming." Soon there were only three Johns in the room. "So we all felt that. Limit of eight Johns. Next question of mine, and I know you two will think it's extreme, but what about death?" "Yeah, that is extreme." "He's got a point though. Do we all feel it? Can we absorb our own dead bodies?" "I know, but he didn't have to voice it out loud. Sounds extreme saying it out loud." "That's what I said!" "Oh shut up. But we do need to figure that out. Which of us is gonna die?" Both of the other Johns looked at him. "No. Please." "You spoke first..." "I can't!" "Why not? One of us has to." "But I'm the original John! You can't kill me!" "Are you?" "We can't know that!" "Remember? Every one of you guys has come out of me." "No? The original was chained up? He had gauze on his chest! None of us have gauze!" "Did you absorb the original John?" "What? No! I'm the original John." "Then where is the gauze? None of us have the gauze!" All four of the Johns felt their chests. No gauze. A search was brief. A wad of bloody gauze was in a pile on the bed. None of the Johns spoke for a couple of minutes. "So none of us are the original?" "That answers a totally separate question: can we survive without the original." "Apparently." "But then who is in charge?" "I'll stay in charge. I may not be the original, but I am the oldest. From here on out, whichever duplicate is oldest is in charge." "Are we still John?" "Of course? Why would we not be?" "John is gone!" "Orginal John is dead!" "Stop freaking out. You splitting uncontrollably." "NONE OF US ARE JOHN!" A flash of pain happened again. Screams of pain and fear echoed through the room. "Alright. That's it." One of the Johns stood up and grabbed everyone he could.

A whole bunch of raw emotions ran through his mind as all of the Johns fused into one once more: confusion, anger, sadness. Through clenched teeth and falling tears, he spoke. "We are John. I am John. None of us are the original John. That does not matter right now." He walked to the bed and sat down. A hand ran over the gauze. "We have gotten off track. I have gotten off track. Where is Logan? What happened? What is wrong with us? Me? US?" John stood and punched the bed. "WHO AM I?" At this moment a knock came from the door. John jumped. A woman's voice came through the door. "I can hear you're awake. Can I come in?" "I take left of the door and we ambush her at the same time?" "No. Let's keep this on the down low for now." "Sure. Come in! I can't stop ya." In walked in a middle-aged woman with a short pixie cut. She had a small smile on her face. "No, you couldn't." She took note of John sitting up on the bed and the smile disappeared. "You made it out of your handcuffs." Shit. "Uh yeah. Small wrists." The woman crossed her arms. "And the gauze?" "Itchy. I unwrapped it." The woman just hummed. "Tell you what Sergeant, we are gonna play a game of questions. But, if you lie to me, I'll lie back. Understand?" John huffed. "You seem to know when I'm lying. How do I know you won't just lie either way?" "I won't." John glared at her, but this was his only way of getting answers at the moment. "Fine. Ask away." "What is your name?" "John MacTavish." "No title? Callsign?" John rolled his eyes. "Sergeant John MacTavish. My friends call me Soap. But you already know that." "I did. Your turn." "Who are you?" "I'm Chief Inspector Laswell. Head of Taskforce 141. Do you know of them?" John shook his head. "Nope. Not ringing any bells. Where is my brother?" The woman paused before answering. "In order to answer truthfully, You need to know a couple of things about Project Toyetic..."

· · ────────────── · ·

Most days at the main 141 base were hectic. Today was an exception. Soap was holed up in his room today, just buried in his covers, not wanting to face the day. No duplicates. Just a single Soap. A knock came around 1000. Soap sighed, pulled himself out of his bed, wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, and shuffled to the door. He didn't want to deal with any recruits right now. So imagine Soap's surprise when he opened the door to see Laswell standing outside. "Sergeant." "L-Laswell. What are you doing here?" "I'm here to check on you. I haven't seen any of you at all today." "Yea. I-" Soap sighed. "I'm taking a day off." Laswell cocked her head and became lost in thought. Soap never took a day off except- Laswell looked into his eyes. "It's today, right?" Soap nodded. "Five years." Laswell pulled him into a hug. "Are you okay?" Soap nodded again. "I'm fine. I'm just missing him." "Do you need anything?" "No. I just need to be alone today." "Okay." Soap pulled away from the hug. "Please. If you need anything, you can tell me." Soap nodded. "I'm okay for now. I'll be okay." Laswell nodded. "I'll leave you to it then. See you tomorrow, yeah?" Soap nodded and closed the door. Soap returned to his bed. His thoughts began to stew. Laswell seemed truly worried about him. He had become the happy-go-lucky guy on base since he came here. He had done this self-isolation in years past, but were they looking down on him? "You know they're not." "But do we? You saw how she looked at us. It's been five years! I should be over this by now!" "He was our brother! Grief is not a linear process." "Just because I am telling myself that doesn't mean I have to listen." The duplicate sighed. "So if I say it out loud, you won't listen to it?" "If you're just gonna repeat bullshit from the therapist, yeah. I hear that way too much." "But you'll listen to the thoughts in your head?" Soap buried his head farther into the pillow. "We are having the same thoughts, hermano. It's self-destructive to think like that." "I know." Both Soaps sighed. "How about we make a deal. Three of us go about the base as normal. So far only Laswell knows where we are. You can stay in bed. We can still grieve him. At the end of the day, we can all come back and have one big cry. How does that sound?" Soap sighed and turned over onto his side to face the wall. "I hate how logical that sounds. Go ahead." The other Soap nodded. "Okay. I'm gonna head to the weights." "Aw man, I wanted to go and do weights." "You idiots. You can both do weights. He needs a spotter anyways." "Oh right! That's why you're the smart one." "We're all the same guy, Soap." With that, the duplicates exited his room. For the whole day, Soap wallowed in his sadness. Memories of Logan and him together flashed through his mind: a moment in Nana's backyard garden, Soap playing wingman for Logan, cuddling as toddlers, Soap cheering loudly at Logan's graduation, Logan doing the same at his Sergeant promotion, and many more.

Maybe wallowing wasn't the best idea. He started feeling more and more shitty. Feeling shitty made him want to stay in bed, but staying in bed made him shitty. As Soap continued this cycle the day continued and finished. A Soap stumbled in soon after dark. "How you doing?" Soap just sighed and reached out his arm. "That bad?" "Yeah. Maybe sitting around and remembering the good times is a bad way for me to cope." The other Soap nodded. "Well. Let's refuse. I'm the only one. We all came together before I came in. We've been feeling bad about not thinking about him all day. So maybe your crying and my memories will balance out and today will be okay." Soap nodded as they grasped hands. The memories from both men joined together. Over the years, Soap had gotten good at compartmentalizing the scattered memories, but the dissonance between his memories and those of his duplicates caused him to cry. Scattered between his wallowing sorrows were shots of himself smiling while talking with Gaz, laughing at Ghost's jokes, horsing around on the obstacle course with a couple of recruits, and pestering Price. It was a normal day, but even the little details made a difference. While contemplating the day, Soap missed the knock at this door. Soap hadn’t noticed until a hand appeared on his shoulder. Soap looked up into the face of Laswel, tears openly streaming down his face. He rushed to wipe them away. "Chief!" Laswell raised her other hand to his face and wiped away a tear he missed. "What do you n-need, sir?" "I need to help you. Are you okay?" Soap sucked in a breath. "I'm fine. Just a lot going on today." Laswell nodded. "I saw you running around today. I thought you were taking a day to rest?" Soap deepened his breath. His tears had slowed, but they hadn't stopped. "I did. I was here all day as well." "Four of you?" Soap nodded. Laswell nodded back. "Have you eaten anything all day?" Soap nodded once more. "Had lunch with Gaz and a-a granola bar before I came back so I-I'm okay." Laswell moved to sit down next to Soap. "Okay. You know I do this because I love you, right?" Soap nodded, his throat closing up not used to the love thrown abandonly at him. Laswell wrapped her arms around Soap and hugged him sideways. "You, the 141, all of you are my family. It may be my job, but it's something I've turned into my life. Watching and helping all of you to live with what Toyetic unfairly dealt you. You have grown so much since you came under my wing, John. Please don't forget that." Soap's tears came in full force. He turned and wrapped his arms in turn around her. They sat there, for how long, Soap did not know. He only knew that Laswell's hold on him did not soften until he let go first. Leaning back, Soap took a couple of deep breaths. They sat in silence for a couple minutes more. "Thank you, Laswell." "What for?" "For checking in on me tonight. I needed that." Laswell smiled. "I think I needed that too." Silence again. "It's late. I know you've been in bed all day, but please try to sleep, okay?" Soap nodded. "I'll sleep. Tomorrow is another day, after all." Laswell ruffled Soap's unkempt mohawk. "That it is. Good night, John." "Good night, Kate."

And that's the end! I'm not gonna turn this into a full fanfic, but feel free to use the ideas here for anything you want to do! Just tag me please so I can see! Have fun!

141 is made up of human experiments. They were supposed to be destroyed but it was decided they could be put to use as weapons. Laswell is their handler, she's meant to keep an eye on them and if they get out of hand she's supposed to kill them. But... the thought of killing them didn't bother her when she didn't know them. Before she befriended Price, before she spent time with Ghost or supervised Soap and Gaz at a carnival. They were so human, full of light and wonder. Now she's desperate to make sure her bosses never see the need to have them killed.

[partiallysame]

Ghost Gets No Bitches 2.5

Lil part 2.5 before smut? Why not

Did I know I was gonna make this a series? No. Did I know it was gonna be titled Ghost Gets No Bitches? definitely not but here we are

Part 1 Part 2

Word count: 400

Ghost knew he was a goner when you touched his hand in the grocery store but now your arms are around his neck and your lips are on his. His hands that had been so nervous to touch you, found their way to your hips pulling you closer to him. 

“Why don’t we get out of here big boy?” Your suggestive tone had him nodding embarrassingly fast, anything to have your lips on him again. His brain had turned to mush and he completely forgot the little challenge you had given him and what it meant when he failed it until you two stepped out of the bar and saw Soap sitting on the hood of his car. (ofc the fucker didn’t leave)

Simon had been walking behind you, hands still on your hips as you guided the two of you out. His grip tightened exponentially when Soap approached you two. Offering his name and his hand. You thought it was going to be a handshake until Soap brought your hand up to kiss your knuckles. Ghost instinctively pulled you flush against him.

“Its a pleasure to meet a pretty lass like yourself. Did Simon show you a good time? Not too dull eh?” John’s eyes had left yours to give a challenging stare to Ghost. “I know the bloke can be a bit boring sometimes, he’s not great with the ladies.” 

“Johnny.” Your sweet voice brought his eyes back to you and you took a small step forward, removing yourself from Simon’s body. Your curled your finger for Soap to come closer and fuck Ghost was nervous, remembering what happened when you called him over like that. Big fat smile spreading across Soap’s face as he neared you, stopping awfully close to you. Your hand reached up to grab his face. Hand gripping his cheeks to pull his face just inches from yours. Ghost was going to kill him, Price would understand? Right? The first girl to pay attention to him and Soap is trying to charm you away from him. Simon ready to give up and walk home until you spoke again, face so close to Soap.

“You talk too much.” Soap’s smile dropped so fast as your grip on his face tightened for a split second before you let go and stepped back into Ghost’s arms. Turning to look at the blonde man, “take me home yeah?” 

[sir-heichou-smith]

Johnny thinks you and Ghost only want him for the sex.

He won't tell either of you he's ass over elbows for both his lieutenant and his girlfriend because he doesn't want to make a fool of himself.

No, he can't tell you because he's the idiot who fell in love with the two people he couldn't even dream of having.

No one else has ever made him feel so cared for or special before you two though, and it confuses the hell out of him to the point where he can't help but think he has to leave after every session.

He doesn't want to overstay his welcome, meanwhile you and ghost think he doesn't want to be with you and only wants the sex, which is fine (you'd really prefer that he stayed for aftercare since it is real important to you, you know how Simon could get and it's not easy coming back up on your own from how far he puts you under) but you know something is wrong when he stumbles out of bed and limps to the door after throwing his pants on, mumbling something about having to get going for some thing or another.

One night Simon and Johnny stumble through the door after a few drinks, their hands wandering and teeth clinking out of desperation while you trail after with a hand on each of them.

Clothes are thrown and kisses are traded all the way to the bedroom. You hear Simon utter praises in the Scot's ear, "such a good boy f'me Johnny. Gonna show the mrs how well you can take it for me? Let's give 'er a show."

He shudders in the larger man's embrace, and you think you see something flicker in those baby blues as he kneels to undo Simon's zipper with his teeth.

But you're tipsy like they are and you can only focus on it so much until Simon pulls you in and groans into your mouth, one of his big hands on the back of your head and the other tangled in the mowhawk bobbing up and down on his cock.

That morning you wake up quietly, before either men, and you take the moment to enjoy having both of them in your bed.

Johnny wakes up quiet too, thinking himself a goddamn idiot for giving in to staying the night when he tried so hard not to.

He does his best to untangle his limbs from Simon's meaty arms and your thick, supple thighs. It's so warm and comfortable and everything he's ever wanted and he doesn't ever want to go, but he has to. It doesn't belong to him, you're not his and neither is Simon and he's just in the way.

God he's so fucking stupid for this, all he's doing is making himself hurt more than what he has to. He just can't take what he's given and accept that he'll never have what his heart truly, unrightfully wants.

While you think nothing of it as he slithers down the bed, (assuming he needs the bathroom and he'll come right back into your embrace) Johnny is pulling on his clothes from the night before as quickly and quietly as he can, tears building up under his lash line and threatening to spill over his cheeks. His breaths come in short staccato so he holds it until he can't, breathing out slowly through his nose and in through his mouth.

He needs to leave, can't be here any longer because he's already overstayed his welcome.

Hes not supposed to feel this way, he's just a toy for you and Simon to enhance your guys' relationship. Your beautiful, loving relationship that he's stupid for wanting to get in the middle of because he'd never expect either of you to return his feelings.

He thinks he's in the clear when he looks back and notices Simon's heavy chest still breathing evenly, taking one last glance at his magnificence before turning around for good because he can't put himself through this anymore, he's not enough and he just needs to accept that now before he can never recover from the heartbreak.

"Johnny?" He's hears your low voice come from the cocoon of warmth he craves with ever fiber of his being. Your precious face looks confused and, dare he say it, a little hurt. "Where are you going?"

His heart shatters. "I-I... I'm heading out now. I didnae mean to stay so long. Sorry 'bout that, bon. Nothin' to wake the big guy over."

Before he gets his shirt on he hears you shift. "Johnny wait-"

"No. No, I cannae do this anymore okay?" His chest heaves with what feels like the weight of the world, and the tears start to fall.

"I know my place, and I keep forgetting it when you hold me so close and tell me I'm your good boy. When you kiss me and it feels like nothin else matters anymore. I never wanted to come between you and Si but I overstayed my welcome now and I need to leave so that I can-"

"What are you on about?" Simon blinks his eyes and rolls onto his back, a thick arm behind his head and the other stretched out across the empty space where Johnny just was.

Blue eyes shut and his pretty face scrunches up in pain, but he turns around before he thinks either of you can see. His shirt is hastily pulled over his head and he trips over himself pulling on a shoe from the night before.

He doesn't get to leave after throwing on the second one. A big paw of a hand circles his bicep almost completely.

"Don't think you're goin anywhere now, mate. What's this about?" Tired honey eyes look up in confusion and concern, their owner now sitting up and the thick comforter slides down to meet his naked hips. Baby blues can't help but trace the movement.

Your feet touch the cold floor as you get out of bed and circle around to the Scot. "Johnny when did we ever say we don't want you too?"

His head whips up in confusion and he looks between the two of you. "But.. But you-"

"Baby, take those clothes off and get back in bed." Simon pulls lightly on the arm in his grasp and Johnny can't help but follow.

"From now on it's non-negotiable, you stay here with us and get your aftercare in before you even think of leaving. Not that we ever wanted you to."

Big hands pull at the hem of his shirt and it goes without thinking. You stand behind him and wrap your arms around his naked torso to unfasten his jeans.

"Such a pretty boy, Johnny. You're our pretty boy and we want you just as much. Please dont leave us again." Your words bring tears to his eyes again, these ones accompanied by a bright perfect smile and a small huff of disbelief.

The three of you fall back into bed, smothering Johnny in all the kisses and words of love he never even fathomed could be true.

Limbs and tongues tangled alike, and the morning was spent mostly in bed, the Scot wedged tightly between you and Simon. As if he'd still possibly think of leaving now.

[emmster]

Would you love me if I was a shrimp

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - v

selkie!soap x reader. depression. strangers to "lovers." shower sex. cunnilingus. smut. manipulative soap. oysters as an aphrodisiac. unstable narrator. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

You watch him over an open book.

It’s an old romance, something from the eighties. Classic bodice ripper, billowing sleeves, tight corsets, mullets and heaving bosoms and all. Naturally, it’s set on a pirate ship, the heroine as the unlucky spoils of a merchant ship raid and the hero a lusty captain able to pierce her virgin’s desire for sexual depravity.

It could only have been more pointed at you if it had been set in the North Atlantic—it isn’t—but you glare at Soap’s back anyway.

He must be able to feel it, because he stands straight at the wheel, shoulders thrown back, occasionally flexing.

The freak.

You’d realized the joke he’d been making, once your heartbeat had slowed. Hiding the pelt somewhere obvious enough for you to see it. You live in the age of the internet—you know what it’s supposed to mean.

And you kind of hate him for it. Now, post-coitus, you can’t shove it away into a box—he is the most attractive man you’ve ever encountered. Rugged and handsome, competent at everything you’ve seen him do, seemingly at home wherever he finds himself. Everything makes him smile. Nothing seems to disconcert him.

And a nice big cock he actually knows how to use. Certainly the best lay you’ve ever had.

What every woman traveling solo, you think, longs to encounter on a solo trip across the world, but will never acknowledge looking for. An answer to an unaddressed desire; proof that satisfaction is out there to find, if it’s searched for.

A lover with no conditions. Someone willing to strip your inhibitions away, knowing your protests are only token.

You had not been searching. You’d given up searching.

And now he mocks you—with every satisfied glance he throws over his shoulder.

“Good book?” he asks, all casual and pleased. “S’ one a’my favorites. Tell me when you get to the naval battle.”

You frown. “You haven’t read this.”

He gives a little huff of amusement. “Read all of ‘em, bonnie.”

No, this is where you draw the line. A good cook, a good fuck, and a romance reader? No. No, you absolutely will not take this.

“Sure you have, Johnny,” you grouse, “you read every single stupid book on that shelf. Sure. Hell, you’ve read books that aren’t on that shelf. You’ve read every new release from the last six months, even. Why not.”

He looks at you again over his shoulder, mouth curled. “Aye. Needed ideas, once a’knew you were comin.’”

He says it matter-of-factly, with only a little bit of pride. As if it was a natural step in the process of getting ready for your arrival—renovate the croft. Stock the fridge and pantry. Plan some island excursions.

Study the erotic mind of the average woman to divine how best to seduce her.

Your frown deepens, and you lift the book higher, making it a barrier between you and him. Loser. Couldn’t he just go to the mainland for a few days if he wanted pussy? Not like it would be hard to find, for him.

You resolve to ignore him for the rest of the trip. A petty endeavor, maybe, but it’s the only one you can make.

But six hours is six hours, and you can’t read the whole time. Periodically you have to get up to stretch your legs, and the windows wrapping around the bridge draw your attention to the sea outside.

Johnny drives the trawler at a remove along the coastline, keeping close enough to the islands for easy viewing. The denizens of the Hebrides are out en masse, enjoying the clear weather, joyfully populating the land- and seascape in the absence of human interlopers.

Porpoises, so much smaller than you might have expected, periodically catch the wake of the boat, swimming alongside, playful and curious. Gulls loop in the air above the dunes, fronds of grass fluttering in the breeze. Gannets, stark white, arrow down into the waves, wings folded back pin-straight as they spear their quarry—silvery fish that boil the surface of the water in their frenzy.

Some removed part of you enjoys their pleasure secondhand. The normally-grey ocean is vibrant in the sunlight, crystalline and sparkling and as blue as Johnny’s eyes.

He seems to be in a good mood, too, although that could just be because you let him fuck you. You feel his eyes on you even as you refuse to look at him, dancing along the curves of your body the same way his fingertips might.

At one point—“Bonnie, I know you’re sulking an’ all, but c’mere.”

He gestures you over to the cockpit, and—embarrassed at being called out—you join him. He brings a hand to the small of your back, stepping behind you and pointing over your shoulder.

A gray wall of passing cliffs, and crags of rock jutting up from the churn at their base. You see ten or twelve grey-and-white seals lounging across every available flat surface, some cuddled in groups of three or four, apparently unbothered by the periodic spray of breaking waves.

“No’ where I’d choose to have a kip, personally,” Johnny says, sounding amused.

You turn your head to look at him, hard. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and he tilts his head to kiss you, undeterred even when you flinch away from it.

His hand tightens across your back, fingers digging in. He sucks your bottom lip between his and caresses it with his tongue, as he edges beneath the hem of your shirt to spread his hand across the warming skin of your back.

“I’m mad for ya,” he murmurs when he pulls away, blush high on his cheeks.

“It’s been two days,” you deadpan.

He presses up behind you, open hand sliding around to press into the low part of your belly, right at the sensitive crest of your mons; you can’t help your gasp when, at the same time, his erection nestles into the cleft of your ass.

“No’ to this,” he purrs in your ear. “Feels like it’s been forever, for this.”

When his fingers start making their way beneath the waistband of your pants, you grab his hand and wrench it away, scoffing.

“You’re just a fucking horndog,” you sneer, betrayed by the heat spilling through your core.

“Aw, you break my heart, bonnie,” Johnny simpers, but there’s a mocking edge to it. As if he knows exactly what you’re hiding.

You step away from him, folding your arms across your chest and staring out at the basking seals instead. Then—

“There’s one in the water,” you say.

A few meters away from the rocks, a round head pokes up from the surface, bobbing with the rise and fall of the waves. Its eyes are slitted closed, nostrils dilating.

“Aw, he’s bottling,” Johnny says affectionately, when he comes over to look. “Look at his wee face.”

You remember suddenly your encounter of the previous day—another lone seal, resting apart from its fellows.

“I saw one on the beach,” you say, “yesterday, after you dropped me off. A big one. You didn’t say they might show up.”

“Male?” he asks, and you nod. “Peripheral male, then. I’m no’ surprised.”

You sigh. “And that is…”

As if magnetized, his hands find you again, this time settling on your waist. It seems that Johnny’s touch is something impossible to escape, in his vicinity. He drags them down over your hips and back up almost idly, as if he’s not even thinking about doing it.

“There’s dominant males, and then there’s the rest of ‘em. Only the dominant ones get to breed at the rookeries, see? And the rest of ‘em have to wait around for the females to leave to have their chance.”

He leans into you from behind, nose in your hair, and you hear him inhale as his hands tighten.

“Once a peripheral male finds a female alone, separated from the colony, ready to go back out to sea—well, that’s his chance to pounce.”

You frown, mostly to yourself. “No matter how the female feels about it.”

“We’ve been over this,” he chides.

He brings his lips to the curve of one ear, then the soft spot behind it. His nose finds the juncture of your neck and shoulder, where the capillaries that he broke with his teeth still throb whenever you press your fingers to them. He inhales again, deeply.

“Why do you do that?” you grouse, unwilling to give him the win.

“Like how you smell,” he says, doing it again.

His tongue caresses the bruise before he closes his mouth over it—but he goes no further than to kiss your neck twice more before returning to the wheel. It leaves you reeling, half-dizzy with arousal, and when you stomp back to your seat with a frustrated growl, he only glances over at you, smirking, and laughs.

He finds a berth in the early evening to park the trawler, and at that point you’re thankful for any kind of solid ground to set your feet on, as well as enough open air to disperse whatever pheromones have saturated the enclosed space of the bridge.

You’ve been half-tempted the whole time to make him drop anchor and drag him belowdeck toward the nearest flat surface big enough for the two of you to share; as it is, you’ve simply stewed in your own juices instead, hot with angry arousal and ignoring the slick pooling in the gusset of your underwear.

Johnny steps out into the cooling air in his usual kilt and sweater, and you once again huddle in his jacket, aromatic with his musk, as he leads you onward. This time, unlike the last excursion, he insists upon holding your hand the whole way, callused fingers worming their way between yours, the captured air hot and humid between your palms.

Callanish turns out to be a henge of standing stones.

Meters-tall megaliths, squarish and narrow like broken teeth, surrounding a burial site and extending in two directions as if lining a road. Inevitably evocative of its cousin Stonehenge, with the notable exception that you are allowed to go up and touch the stones with your bare hands.

“They used ‘em for that TV show,” Johnny informs you as the two of you circuit the main ring. “Well, no’ these, they probably had styrofoam for that, but they got the idea from these.”

You lay your free hand on the nearest stone; it’s cold, and rough to the touch, a day’s worth of sunlight evidently not sufficient to warm it. Tiny spots of moss and lichen cling to the old stone, green and eggshell white.

“Why are we allowed to touch them?” you say. You think of bronze statues, rubbed to a golden gleam by millions of tourist hands.

“That’s Lewisian gneiss, bonnie,” says Johnny, laying his hand, much larger, next to yours. His thumb teases the side of your pinky. “Doubt you could make much of a mark on it. This rock here? Three billion years old.”

You look at him, seeing his profile. The expression on his face is soft—not unlike the way he looked at you earlier, on the way here. He spreads his fingers over the stone, tendons furrowing down the back of his sun-weathered hand.

“No’ just older than us,” he continues. “Older than what we used to be, a’fore we were us. Was there when we first made fire. Was there when we came down th’ trees. Was there all the way back when we left the ocean for the first time—”

He looks at you, then. The setting sun catches in the dips of his irises, setting jewel blue aflame.

“An’ it’ll be there, bonnie, when we go back.”

The wind curls around the stones with the chill of the oncoming night. Even despite the jacket, despite the walk up to the site—you feel it penetrate beneath your skin, deep into your bones.

You choose derision, to reject the shiver.

“And you have this all memorized,” you say.

Johnny doesn’t respond. He continues to stare at you, mouth in a relaxed, but inscrutable line.

You suddenly remember that you do not know this man; though he’s told you enough about himself to fill out his background—you don’t know him. You don’t know how he feels about most things, what’s important to him, why he may find one thing or another meaningful. Not the way you’d have to, in order to understand why the gaze he fixes on you feels so significant.

Whatever you’re supposed to understand in the way he looks at you now, you don’t have the ability to discern. The only thing that occurs to you is that, perhaps, you’ve finally managed to offend him.

It does not satisfy you as much as you might have imagined—

In fact, the thought drops through your belly like a rock.

Again. You did it again.

In the one place you thought you’d never have to face this—you did it again. Here is someone who seems to like even the worst of you, and you somehow found an even uglier side of yourself to show him, a squirming thing that cannot help but sling itself around with no heed for the damage it can cause.

But when you open your mouth to say something reparatory, something that certainly won’t fix what you’ve broken no matter what he might say, his expression softens into something thoughtful.

“Visited when I first came here,” he says. Completely unbothered. “After the discharge an’ all.”

You blink. Sharp heat and the numbness of cold, warring across your face.

“Why?” you ask.

“Dunno.” He shrugs, and lifts his hand from the stone, smiling ruefully. “I was a bastard back then. Didnae wan’ anything’ to do with anyone anymore. Mad at the world, a’was.”

Shucked like an oyster; scaled like a fish. Heat wins out, even in the growing chill. Tender skin scalding itself.

“And what,” you say, reflexively nasty, panic whirring up behind your breastbone, “you thought—you’d get some sort of, magical insight here?”

Johnny laughs. “Naw, a’was just pissing my money away, bonnie. Thought I’d come up here an’ try t’ knock one over.”

Tight chest. Can’t breathe. You step away from him, far away, hide it like you’re looking at another of the standing stones, but a stabbing pain spears upward through your diaphragm.

In—count—hold—out—

“Could you?” you ask, wringing something like a normal tone out of your voice.

“Nope. Paid for it later, though.”

He says it casually. He hasn’t noticed. You reach out to the new stone, drag your fingers overtop of the rough surface, imagine every little bump flipping the friction ridges of each print like pages of a book. Cold—the rock is cold. The wind is cold, and sharp with the smell of rain. The jacket is heavy on your shoulders.

The jacket smells like Johnny.

“I’m sure the park wardens weren’t happy,” you say, feeling your heart slow in your chest.

“No,” he says, and—with the silence of a lightning strike—“I drowned, afterwords, first time I went to sea.”

You look back at him. The wind picks up, ruffling the ends of his mohawk; on the horizon, a rind of darkness splits the clouds from the earth.

“You drowned?” you repeat.

The hem of his kilt flutters and dances. His gaze is intense—the angle of his brow unreadable.

“Aye, bonnie. I did.”

Your ears begin ringing—as you stare at him, you get the sense of dreaming. There’s a distinction to Johnny that contrasts the landscape framing him, a sharpness so focused that everything else lenses around him.

“Why—why are you here?” you find yourself asking, though you’re not entirely sure why. The question leaves you as if surfacing on its own power.

The corners of his mouth quirk—although for once, he doesn’t smirk at you, the way he always does.

“You tell me,” he murmurs.

He holds you in the tilt of his head; in the depths of his eyes, currents pulling you downward. You inhale, and expect, for some reason, water to pour into your lungs.

Then a gust of wind buffets the two of you. Johnny turns, surveying the sky. Breaking the spell, he says, “Come on, let’s get back. I don’ like the look a’that storm.”

Halfway back down the path, the front overtakes you; rain begins sheeting down, ice cold, needle-precise into your hair and down your collar. Johnny grabs your hand again even as you start worrying about slipping, and though the torrent veils the way, the both of you make it back to the trawler in one piece.

Back on the bridge, a red light blinks on the panel by the wheel. While Johnny attends to it, flipping a switch and bringing a microphone on a curly wire to his mouth, you squeeze your hair out over the sink nearby.

“This is Soap on the vessel Sea Ghost,” he says, and waits for a response.

“Soap. Drop anchor somewhere. Looks like a storm’s coming in,” a gruff voice comes in.

“Yeah, Cap, we noticed,” Johnny says with a laugh, turning and smiling at you. “We’re moored, dinna fash.”

“Good. Looks like it’s just for the night. Clear enough in the morning.”

“Barry. You got everything? Shops’ closed tomorrow.”

“Never will understand why. But yes.”

“It’s a holy day, Captain,” Johnny says pleasantly.

Price grumbles something about damn Catholics and their damn rules, which just makes Johnny laugh.

Then, “Gaz is here. Made it in after you left.”

Johnny’s posture shifts. Similar to a dog hearing the turning of a doorknob; amorphous attention coalescing, finding a target to point at. Anticipatory. Tail twitching, winding up to wag.

It’s a new reaction, to you—you’ve never seen it before.

Johnny lifts the transmitter to his mouth. He holds it there for a silent moment, before saying, “And Simon?”

No response from the other end of the line, pulled taut, as if snagged. Then Price responds “Haven’t heard yet.”

Something passes over Johnny’s face. Some flex of the muscle in his jaw. An expression held in check.

That’s—

That’s familiar.

“Alright. Back tomorrow then.”

“See you.”

He replaces the mic on its hook.

Thunder claps somewhere over the distant, open ocean. The trawler creaks and groans as the wind swirls around it. Yellow lamps illuminate the warm, wooden space, but are unable to penetrate the lowering blackness outside.

Tension—you can feel it drawing tight, see his shoulder blades shifting closer together. It aches in the muscles of your own back. He faces away from you, like you’re not there—

He turns to look at you. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t look quite real. As if he’s forcing the expression on his face.

“Poor bonnie,” he croons, looking you up and down. The tenor of his voice is saccharin-sweet and thick. “How’s a hot shower sound to warm up, hmm?”

Your belly pinches. “Sure.”

He leads you down a steep flight of stairs into the stomach of the boat, showing you into a single bedroom. The space is cramped, wedge-shaped—barely enough room for the double bed shoved into the middle of it, sheets and blankets gathered in rumples across the top. The unique musk of its occupant wars with the smell of lacquer; the walls are lined with orangey planks, evoking the sailing ships of old.

Directly to the left of the entrance, an open door leads into a small bathroom, into which Johnny guides you, hands on your hips.

“Go’ plenty a’ drinking water stored upstairs so take all the time you like,” he says. “Here, lemme show you how the taps work.”

You half-expect him, after the instruction, to stand there and watch, waiting until you undress. And he does hesitate for a moment, hovering in the threshold, before giving you a practiced grin, telling you to enjoy yourself, a closing the door behind him.

You stand in the middle of the tiny room for an uncertain heartbeat. Assumptions lurching. Almost—hoping.

His heavy footsteps climb back up the stairs.

So, you peel off your damp clothes and drop them into a pile on the floor, stepping naked into the shower. It’s far less mildewed than you might have worried of a single man living alone. Hot water chases cold out of your hair, streaming with pressure far superior to the cottage’s installment.

You realize your toiletries are still above deck, in your bag, beneath the two paperbacks Johnny packed that you haven’t gotten to just yet. You could step out after him—

You don’t do that anymore. You promised yourself.

The floor sways as the shifting sea rocks the trawler in its berth. You reach for the bar on the wall to steady yourself.

One version of yourself is sometimes able to fool the other. The truth is, you could have told him to stop at any time. Put your foot down, hard. Just because he owns the house you’re staying in doesn’t mean he gets to decide what your entire vacation is going to look like.

You scoff at yourself, without any humor. Vacation. Like you’d ever believed this was anything more than self-imposed exile.

The truth is, water takes the shape of the container it fills.

There’s a chill still present in your hair follicles. Impossible for you to identify until now; live with an ache long enough and it stops registering, until it’s balmed with a moment of relief. This is where the addicts begin; experiencing, for the first time, a complete absence of pain, as if it had never been there in the first place, and, once that pain is restored, the ruthless pursuit of its elimination.

Cold rain outside, warm rain within. You stand in the flow, listless. Steam rapidly clouds the empty spaces around you, gathering in droplets on the wall, drizzling down again.

That’s where the mistake is. Pain is never defeated—only deferred. Its panacea provides only diminishing returns, until it’s useless. Until you might as well be swallowing sugar pills or drinking seawater to assuage your thirst.

But you keep doing it. You remember too well how it felt. You chase it down because now you know how it feels.

At some point you have to understand that it always ends poorly.

The bathroom door opens again, and then the shower door, spilling yellow light into the shadowed recess—

Johnny.

The expression on his face is inscrutable; mysterious, as his gaze moves down your body, following the streaming water. Your arms curl around your chest in a perfunctory attempt to conceal yourself, even despite the futility of the effort.

He’s naked, and half-hard, a refrain on the previous night. One hand holds the travel-size soaps and gels that he must have dug out from your bag. He steps in behind you—enclosing the two of you in together.

“Sorry, bonnie,” he murmurs soothingly in your ear. “Had t’make sure we were tied up for the storm.”

The space is not even suggestive of being big enough for two people. You hear the squeak of the shower wall against his shifting back, hot skin slipping against yours as his hands draw you back against him by the hips.

“Dinnae want you t’slip an’ hit your head,” he murmurs, massaging the fat of your pelvis, as if there’s any reason to make excuses for what he’s doing.

Half-raised hackles petted down too easily. You relax into his touch, even as you disdain it. Your heart tremors in your chest.

“What’s going on tomorrow?” you finally ask. “Who’s Simon?”

Pathetic. A jealous lover, after less than forty-eight hours.

“Old task force,” he answers, kissing the back of your head. “Little reunion, food an’ beer, mostly.”

You half-expect him to go immediately for your breasts, or maybe your pussy. His cock is stiffening against the small of your back. But instead, he opens one of your bottles, squirts some pearly body wash into the palm of his hand. Rubbing a little to lather it, he puts his hands back on your hips, and begins massaging it into your skin.

Inward, up your stomach. Pressing into the soft parts of it, with the water slicking his way. His mouth touches the back of your neck—softly. Tenderly. With all of the languor you rejected the previous night, and not enough space for you to slap it away again.

His lips press inward, looking for the bite he left, which he lays his tongue on as if in contrition, licking it like a dog with a wound. The comfortable warmth of the shower swelters with his added body heat; the steam pulses in time with the heavy beats of your heart.

One hand slides up your body, fording your thoracic arch, the wedge of his hand ascending the length of your breastbone. He cups your jaw, bubbles between his fingers, one of your breasts nestling between his bicep and forearm.

He tilts your head to the side as he cranes his head further into your neck, lipping at the space behind your ear, kissing delicate, sensitive skin, as his other hand drags soap around your ribs, beneath and over both breasts, up into your pits and back down again.

A doll in his hands, bent along the shape of his will. He shifts his hips, frotting his erection against you.

“Johnny,” you breathe. “Johnny, this isn’t anything. This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Aye, bonnie,” he hums. “Whatever you say.”

He licks a hollow in your throat.

His other hand dips lower, sweeping down into the crease of one thigh to round the lower swell of your hip; then back up again, fingers spreading.

The stall compresses your arms close against you; the only space you have available to lay your useless hands is on his arms. The dark hair you find with your fingertips is coarse, wiry, plastered to hot skin with water. The spray seeps between the both of you, streams in the runnels of flesh pressed together.

Between your legs, your clitoris heats, awakening even though untouched. You give a small whine, and Johnny huffs a little chuckle in your ear, suckling your neck as his fingers make the descent back, rinsed in the falling water, teasing your pubic hair before nudging your folds apart.

He finds you slick and aching. He only dips lower briefly to wet his fingers, and then, as he settles a light touch over where you’re most desperate for it, relief razes through your nerves in a sudden wash.

You search for the back of his head, slotting your fingers into the ends of his mohawk at the nape of his neck. He hums against you, hand dropping down from your jaw to cup one breast in his palm, weighing it, thumb flicking around the pert nipple in the same tight circle he draws around your clitoris.

Orgasm, usually so obvious on approach, sneaks up on you, quick and quiet, but when it takes you it floods you, rather than knocking you down. You tremble all over, the follicles on your scalp standing on end, the nerves down your back and sides bending like dune grass to a wind.

Your long, breathy cry reverberates against the shower walls, and you lean heavily back against Johnny’s body, grip tightening where you have your hands on him.

He twitches against your back, but he makes no move to chase his own climax. He only turns you carefully, when you recover, and lays his hot, open mouth on yours, tugging your hips close enough to trap his cock against your belly. This time, the wall is cool at your back, the crown of your head moving against it as Johnny angles himself deeper, sliding his tongue between your lips.

“C’mon,” he says, when he finally pulls away. His pupils are huge, black dilation swallowing the blue. The spray fills the empty spaces between the strands of his mohawk, fluffing the hair a little as it courses down the shaved sides of his scalp. “Need to get my mouth on you again, bonnie.”

This time, when he eats you out, he does it at his leisure. Licking honey off a spoon. So lightly that you whine at him, find the energy to bitch at him to do it like he means it, but tonight he does not indulge you.

No—he mouths at you, eyes closed, curly lashes against his cheek as you lay belly-up on the rumpled sheets of his bed. The heat of his tongue in your cleft is the only source of warmth you have as the rain lashes at the outside of the trawler, but the hot shower still lingers in your skin—

Humid. Sticky. Sweat gathering beneath Johnny’s palms where he holds your thighs to his ears, as if mimicking the way your sex will clutch around him when he enters you. Slick and tight and viscous.

When he crawls up your body—nosing at your belly, your breasts, inhaling as if your musk is something he’s trying to get drunk on—he fucks you slow and deep. You stop being able to tell if it’s the storm rocking the boat, or the weight of his hips rolling against yours, one of his hands on the headboard for leverage and the other on your mons, pressing down with the heel of his hand to feel the head of his cock moving in you.

Tacky skin catching on the grind; heart speeding up as he grins at you from above, thumb tapping your clitoris. Enough to wind you up. You reach for his hips with your clawed hands, digging your nails into the meat of his ass—firm, muscle tensed, twitching every time he bottoms out.

“Johnny,” you finally beg, on the edge of a sob, “please, Johnny, please—”

Breath leaves him like a steam valve turned, pressure carrying an uninhibited moan. He ignores your plea, hips rolling slow, forcing you to feel every inch of him in and out of you, every ridge—every vein pulsing on the surface of his cock.

His eyes are closed still; when the widest part of him catches the rim of you around him again, his mouth drops open, lips pink and bitten.

Lost—he’s lost in pleasure, in the feeling of you around him, pulling him in. You watch his chest as it heaves, the flex of his stomach as it tightens—the twitch in the muscles of his arms as the impact of each thrust ripples up his body.

Look at me, you want to say. Look at me. I’m right here. Look at me.

“Again,” he groans, choked, restrained, hands gripping your hips. “Say it again, bonnie—”

“Please—” you whine, on the edge of a sob, “please, please, please—”

Thumb metronoming at a quick tempo where you need it—you seize, back arching, tightening around him so narrowly you could force him out—

He snarls, sharp and hard, thrusting into the resistance, hands falling to fist in the mattress. Breath coming rough and fast, sweat dripping from his forehead into the cups of your collarbones and down between your breasts. Hard and fast now, pushing in as far as your body will let him, and a final, long moan tears from his parted lips, liquid heat flooding you as Johnny goes rigid with a climax following only moments after your own.

Pelvis flush with your thighs. He doesn’t let a drop escape, pushing against you, lifting your hips from the bed.

“Tha’s right,” he slurs, eyes hazy when they open. “Tha’s right, that’s where it belongs.”

He collapses on top of you, almost crushing you with his weight, as he seeks your mouth out with his. He moves his hips against yours with shallow thrusts, whining in his throat.

“Didn’t you—” you pull your lips away, too hot, too cold, buzzing and exhausted, “didn’t you just finish?”

He tongues at your cheek instead, and then down your neck. “Doesnae matter, is no’ enough. C’mon, bonnie, wrap your legs aroun’ me, please…”

After he is finally spent—long after you’ve had enough energy to do more than lay beneath him and let him use you as he pleases—Johnny diverts briefly to the galley, bringing back with him a plate of oysters and a pry knife. It’s his bed, so you don’t complain about shell fragments, but you resolve to make him change the sheets anyway, shifting uncomfortably to find a spot that isn’t soaked.

“Was on this boat,” Johnny says, as if picking up the thread of a conversation only recently dropped. He picks up one of the oysters and shucks it open. “When I drowned.”

The way he says it, you’d think it was a casual thing, something he barely thought about anymore, but the line of his brow is low and serious.

He hands you one half; you bring the shell to your lips and tip it upward. Brine slides across your tongue, flesh smooth and buttery. Johnny watches you with soft eyes before having his own.

“Price was with me. I told him to fuck off, but he said he wasnae gonna let me take it out alone the first time ever. I was a bastard back then, I told ya. We went out in a storm, like this one, even though any eedjit could take a look outside and know it’d kill him.”

You flick at the edge of the shell with your fingernail, looking down at your hands. “Why’d you do it?”

“Dunno. Had somethin’ to prove, I guess.”

“That you could still do stuff like that?”

He doesn’t respond, so you look back up at him. He angles his gaze toward the mess of your hair—the new hickies he’s left on your neck—the bead of your nipples in the cold. The hard angles of his face soften.

“All my life,” he says, measuredly, “all I wanted to be was a soldier. An’ I couldnae anymore. Even though I was better. Hell, I was better than better. But I couldnae go back. That was it. It all wen’ on withou’ me.”

He breaks open more oysters as he talks, hands steady and deft around shells and knife. When he finishes, he slides the plate into your lap, and reclines to face you on his side, propping his head up with his hand.

“We wen’ out when the waves were as tall as a man, an’ us hangin’ onto the railing for dear fuckin’ life,” he continues. There’s a faraway quality to the tone of his voice. “Only life wasnae so fuckin’ dear, was it? I could’ve held on tighter, I think. I fell off.”

“And Price pulled you out?”

That feeling again, meeting his gaze; caught in the arms of a whirlpool, being dragged down. A vial in a centrifuge, constituent parts separating.

“No,” he says, “he didnae.”

“Then…”

“Eat, bonnie.”

There’s a stillness to him that feels unnatural. Johnny is a man who should be constantly in motion, gesturing with his hands, bouncing on the balls of his feet, tapping any available surface with rolling fingertips. Instead, here in front of you, he’s still as a statue. Chest softly rising and falling, but otherwise completely placid.

He gazes steadily at you, down at the plate, and then back up. You sigh, and pick up another shell.

“I don’t remember exactly what happened. I remember getting pushed down deep, real deep, then getting forced up again, on a current or something. Not far enough to get any air, mind. I thought, I’m gonna die out here, an’ I didnae want to.”

He shifts then, a little forward toward you.

“That seemed important, you know? I didnae want to die. Dinna think the sea would’ve given me up f’ I did. It knows. Sometimes it doesnae care. But I guess that time, it did, ‘cause after I blacked out, next thing I know I’m wakin’ up on the shore.”

Something hard shifts in your belly.

“Cap found me a bit later, bringin’ the boat in. Gave him a real scare. Think it turned some of his hair gray overnight. After that…a’was no’ the same. How could y’be, after that?”

You—you don’t want to know any of this. You don’t care. You didn’t ask. His story drops expectation on your shoulders, heavy, custom-tailored, laden with understanding that sands your abraded nerves.

All of this is too much. The damp sheets beneath you, the food, the sex. The fact that you picked the last place in the world thought you could ever meet anyone, let alone someone who—

“And now you have a seal fetish,” you sneer.

Who understands.

Indulgent. This is indulgent, reckless, idiotic in the extreme.

Soap reaches out, and wraps a large, sun-brown hand around your wrist, the one still holding the oyster. Pulling it towards him, he opens his mouth and then tips the flesh from the shell. He slurps it down, noisily, mimicking the sound of his mouth and tongue on your pussy.

“Something like that,” he says, with a sharp, cocky grin.

He changes the sheets. Dims the lights. Plasters himself around you as the storm blows itself out, arm heavy over your waist, thigh and knee nested inside yours.

He’s warm at your back, musky with the mingling aroma of dried sex and sweat.

Sturdy. More real than anything that’s ever put its hands on you.

Johnny, who the sea loved so much it spat him back out. So treasured by the world that a bullet to the brain couldn’t even take him away from it.

Who, by the sound of it, means so much to the people in his life that they would follow him to the middle of nowhere just to keep an eye on him.

Bile churns in your stomach.

next chapter early access

a/n: two chapters left!

[shotmrmiller]

getting a cute mistletoe navel ring because 'tis the season except ghost saw it so naturally he's shoving you in a broom closet to uphold tradition of kissing under it (just last week he said he strongly disliked yuletide) and before you can tell him to lock the door, he's tossing both your legs over his shoulders and eating pussy like he gets paid to do it then tugs his mask back down as if it isn't sopping wet with your come and leaves you behind sans the underwear you saw him pluck off the ground and stuff into his vest pocket.

(then price catches a glimpse of it too then tells you to stay behind for a sec only to simply hook his fingers into your waistband, murmuring something about not wanting bad luck. maybe enforcing the mistletoe rule that one time with kyle had been a mistake.)

[reds-skull]

Soap "dog-coded" MacTavish my beloved

(This took 5 weeks help)