#animal feed prices

[farmerstrend]

Challenges Facing Kenya's Livestock Feed Industry: High Costs, Limited Raw Materials, and Regulatory Gaps

Kenya has extended the implementation of regulations that allow the country, and others in East Africa, to continue importing duty-free raw materials for feed manufacturing from within the region as the government attempts to address the high feed prices and stabilize the nearly $230 million industry. Treasury Cabinet Secretary Prof. Njuguna Ndung’u said in June that the Kenyan government will…

[gaza-giving-tree]

Video: Hossam Al-Qazzaz has recently given us a glimpse of a day in the life of his family through a video he sent to us, featuring his infant daughter Habiba, son Bashar, and other daughter Diana. Despite their living conditions, Hossam does his best to keep his children's spirits high.

@hanon-qazaz

Story written by @rumiandroses

Imagine being born into a world where the first sounds you hear are explosions, the hum of drones, and the cries of your family fleeing for their lives. This is the reality for Habiba Al-Qazzaz, a precious baby girl who has known nothing but war, displacement, and hunger in her short life. Born in Gaza amidst the ongoing conflict that began on October 7, 2023, Habiba has spent much of her existence so far in uncertainty, hunger, and fear.

This precious little girl is not even a year old, and already, she has suffered through unimaginable hardship.

Her parents, Hossam and Hanan Al-Qazzaz, are doing everything they can to care for Habiba and her three siblings—Bashar (9), Hani (8), and Diana (4). But the relentless devastation of Gaza’s infrastructure has made survival nearly impossible. With no stable income and essential supplies priced beyond reach, the Al-Qazzaz family is fighting a daily battle just to keep their children warm, fed, and safe.

Their GoFundMe campaign has been their only lifeline, allowing them to afford the most basic necessities—food, water, milk for Habiba. Yet despite the thousands of people who have seen and shared their plea, donations have been coming in at a painfully slow pace. Since last year, they have managed to raise only €2,000, an amount tragically short of their €55,000 goal—the sum they had hoped would allow them to evacuate to Egypt with Hossam’s elderly parents and start anew.

Forced to Live on Top of Rubble

Images: (Top) Bashar, Hani, and Diana, still able to smile in spite of the devastation they've been forced to endure. (Bottom) Hossam Al-Qazzaz, as he does his best to clear their destroyed home of debris to make it slightly more suitable for habitation.

As time passed and donations fell short, the family was forced to abandon their dreams of escape. Instead, they now live atop the ruins of their destroyed home, sheltered only by a fragile tent that does little to protect them from the cold, roaming animals, or the ever-present danger of violence. Their reality is bleak, and their options are running out.

On February 8, 2025, Hanan reached out to us with an update on her family's condition:

Image: Hanan's update message to us, informing us of her family's current condition.

The freezing temperatures persist. Her children are crying for warmth in a shelter that provides no protection from the elements.

This is Not a Call for Comfort—It’s a Plea for Survival!

The Al-Qazzaz family is NOT asking for luxuries. They are asking for the bare minimum:

🧤🧣Warmth for their children.

🍞💧 Food and clean water.

🏠🚪A secure shelter.

With further violence looming, the time to act is NOW.

How You Can Help

🔹 Donate to the Al-Qazzaz Family’s GoFundMe to help provide food, warmth, and shelter for Habiba and her family. Every contribution—no matter how small—makes an impact. [DONATE HERE] 🍞💧🍼🧦🧣🧤🏥

🔹 Support the Chuffed Campaign created by our founder, Bethany-Grace, as an additional fundraiser to help the family rebuild their lives. This ensures they don’t have to choose between saving money for the future and feeding their children today. [DONATE HERE] 🌱🏠🛫🕊️

🔹 If you cannot donate, PLEASE share this post. The more people see their story, the greater the chance of reaching someone who can help. EVERY like, share, and repost helps.

The Al-Qazzaz family’s campaign has been vetted by @gazavetters and is #287 on their list of verified campaigns.

A Family of Resilience and Kindness

Hossam Al-Qazzaz is also the cousin of Falestine Asad, another courageous individual struggling to keep her infant child safe in war-torn Gaza. Both Hossam and Falestine are some of the kindest and humblest people you will ever meet. If you can, we encourage you to view and share both of their campaigns, and to donate if possible.

Together, we can help the Al-Qazzaz family find the security, warmth, and stability they so desperately need.

No child should have to suffer like these poor babies have.

Let’s all be part of the reason they make it through another day, and into a brighter, more peaceful future. 🙏🏻🕊️💗

[luvvictoria]

I've been thinking abt a poly!tf141 with a fem!reader who like is from the country side AND I'M CRACKING, OH LAWD!!!

Task Force 141 had seen you kill a man from 700 meters away. They had seen you tear through enemy lines with the precision of a seasoned warrior, your movements deadly and efficient. But what they hadn't seen—what they couldn’t wrap their heads around—was the life you returned to after every mission.

Because while Ghost, Soap, Price, and Gaz spent their leave in safe houses, military bases, or the occasional urban apartment, you?

You went home.

To the countryside.

To your massive, luxurious farmhouse nestled in the hills of a quiet village, where the air smelled of fresh hay, wildflowers, and the occasional whiff of cow.

And when TF141 finally visited, they were not prepared.

The First Time They Saw the Farm : "What the fuck—" Ghost had been the first to say it when you pulled up to your estate in an old pickup truck, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as you parked in front of a sprawling wooden house with a red-tiled roof.

There were animals everywhere.

A massive black and white cow lazily chewed its cud near the wooden fence. Chickens and roosters strutted about like they owned the place. A gray donkey stared at them with judgmental eyes. Two ducks waddled past as if they were on a mission. Dogs barked excitedly at the sight of you, tails wagging. A cat lounged on the porch, stretching in the warm sun.

And then—a fucking horse trotted up to you, nuzzling into your palm like a puppy.

"Price," Gaz whispered. "She has a fucking farm."

"A fancy one at that," Soap muttered, still stunned.

"You lot gonna stand there all day?" You grinned, tossing your duffel bag over your shoulder. "Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready."

They were bewildered. They had spent years with you, fighting side by side, seeing you covered in blood, sweat, and gunpowder—and now you were leading them up the front porch of your cozy countryside mansion like a perfect little housewife.

And the worst part? They liked it.

You, The Deadly Soldier and The Perfect Housewife

Soap had expected you to relax on your leave. Maybe sleep in, drink some tea, read a book.

But no.

You were up at the crack of dawn, slipping out of bed before any of them could pull you back in, dressed in overalls and a white tank top, heading out to feed the animals like it was just another mission.

"Morning, sweetheart," Price murmured, leaning against the doorway as he watched you toss hay to the horses.

"Morning, Captain," you teased, kissing his scruffy cheek before moving on to collect eggs from the hens.

Ghost watched in silence, arms crossed, as you scolded a particularly feisty rooster. "You peck me one more time, and I swear to God, I’m making soup outta you."

Gaz almost choked on his coffee when you turned around and gave them the sweetest, most innocent smile.

"You boys want breakfast?"

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting at a massive wooden table in your warm, sunlit kitchen, eating fresh farm eggs, homemade bread, and smoked bacon.

And Soap was ready to propose.

Domesticity With a Side of Chaos

Price: Loves sitting on the porch with a cigar, watching you work. He helps with repairs, fixes fences, and absolutely adores the peacefulness of your home.

Ghost: The animals are terrified of him at first (except the donkey—the donkey hates him). But the barn cats adopt him, curling up in his lap whenever he sits down.

Soap: Thinks farm life is the best thing ever. He learns how to milk a cow, names every single chicken, and gets way too attached to a piglet.

Gaz: "Babe, I love you, but this rooster is evil." (He got chased one too many times.)

And at night?

After a long day of farm work, you slip into something soft and lacy, curl up in their arms, and remind them that you’re not just a soldier, not just a farmer—you’re theirs.

They Never Want to Leave

By the end of their stay, not a single one of them wants to go back.

"You sure we have to leave?" Soap pouts, feeding the ducks.

"Darlin’," Price murmurs against your neck one night, arms wrapped around you in bed, "Ever thought about retirin’ here? With us?"

Ghost doesn’t say it out loud, but when he watches you laugh, your hands covered in flour as you bake bread, he knows he never wants to be anywhere else.

And Gaz?

He just sighs, watching the sunset over the hills. "I never thought I’d say this, but…I think I’m in love with farm life."

They were all in love. With you. With this. With the life they could have, if only they stayed.

Maybe one day.

For now, they’d enjoy every stolen moment in their countsyde paradise. But what if we make thing spicy ? A little bit, at least.

Ghost Was The First To Break

Ghost had held strong. Longer than the others.

While Soap got weak-kneed watching you bend over to pick up hay, and while Gaz couldn’t stop staring at your thighs in those tiny denim shorts, Ghost had kept his cool.

Until that damn sundress.

White. Light. Flowy. Just enough fabric to tempt, but never satisfy—clinging to your curves, slipping off your shoulders as you carried a bucket of water to the horses.

He had been cleaning his rifle on the porch, but his grip tightened the moment he saw the fabric sway with your every step.

And then?

You had the audacity to look over your shoulder and wink at him.

He dropped the rifle.

Soap Lost It In The Barn

Soap had always been shameless about his attraction to you.

But you?

You were even worse.

It was an accident—(was it?)—when you walked into the barn one night, looking for something. The others were inside, drinking whiskey in the house, but Soap had been alone, brushing down one of your horses.

And then he saw you.

Wet.

Covered in rain.

Your thin white blouse clung to you, completely see-through, nipples pebbled against the fabric.

"Lass," he had rasped, watching as you closed the barn door behind you, stepping forward, voice all honeyed and sweet.

"Johnny," you had purred, voice dripping with something that wasn’t innocence, "I’m cold."

He snapped.

The horse had seen things that night.

Price Was The Most Dangerous

Price was a man of control.

A man of restraint.

A man who knew how to bide his time.

But you?

You tested him.

You liked to push. You liked to see how far you could go before he gave in.

And God help you—you found his limit.

It was late. The others were asleep. You were making tea in the kitchen, standing on your tiptoes to reach a mug from the top shelf.

Price had walked in just as your nightgown slipped up your thighs.

It wasn’t fair.

The soft, white cotton. The little lace trim. The way your bare legs looked so smooth, so inviting—and the sleepy way you turned, so unaware of what you were doing to him.

You looked up at him, mug in hand, and smiled. "You want some tea, Cap?"

And then—his hands were on your hips.

Voice rough.

"You know damn well what I want, sweetheart."

Gaz Had It The Worst

Gaz?

Gaz was a goner the first time he saw you in nothing but boots and his shirt.

You had come in from the field soaked in sweat, hair messy, thighs speckled with dirt. You had tossed your muddy clothes into the laundry room, grabbed his green tactical shirt, and walked around the house like it wasn’t driving him insane.

"Babe," he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, watching you stretch, the hem of his shirt riding up to dangerous levels.

You blinked. All innocent. "What’s wrong?"

Gaz was a patient man. A respectful man. A man who was about to lose his goddamn mind.

"Come here."

You smirked, walking over slowly, pressing your hands to his chest.

"You’re so easy to rile up," you giggled.

His hand wrapped around your throat.

"And you’re about to learn what happens when you push too far."

[lologoinsolo]

Main Masterlist, Cats and Their Men Masterlist, Part 2

Thinking about Simon with a runt of a kitten and it’s barely the size of his palm. Also thinking about the poor cashier that’s stumbling over her words when that hulking man has a kitten fisted in his palm and he just jerks it forward.

“U-Uh, sir, we can’t— I can’t keep that.” His eyes make you shrivel up and you delicately hold the little kitten in your hands. “We uh— the store can’t hold animals we only sell the stuff that animals need.”

He looks at you like that’s not what he’s wanted to hear. Granted you’ve had a couple people come up to try and surrender or drop of their animals like it’s a pound. “I need things for the cat.” He says and you feel like maybe you shot yourself in the foot.

You have a line piling up behind him but no one seems to dare speak up. Why would they when this guy could lay them flat out? Jesus what are they feeding this guy? Steroids and protein powders? You think before swallowing thickly. “I can… I can get my coworkers to—“

“No.” He reaches forward and you flinch when he picks up the kitten and holds it to his chest. “You’ll help.” Nodding off and he starts to walk leaving you dumbfounded and confused. He walks a couple steps before he turns to you with a ‘well?’ look on his face.

You hurriedly grab your pager and call for someone to go through the line while you help this guy. Leading him down the aisle for the litter and you list off the different types. “There’s crystal litter, wood pellets and those are pretty good when it comes to smell. We have tofu litter and that—“

“Does it need something fancy to shit in?” He cuts off the beginning of your speech with a huff. He sounds a mix of annoyed and amused with how you bristle from his remark. You’re tempted to leave, your manager can bitch later about you doing that butttt the kitten against his chest meows and you find that you can’t leave the little thing to suffer because their dad’s a right prick.

“Sir,” you take a breath, “the litter is moreso about preference. Do you want to hide the smell of their… ya know… poop better? Or would you prefer something that clumps or something that’s easy to clean?” You wait… and wait some more before he finally says.

“Pick one.”

You blink at him and he mimics it that bastard. He just stares the entire time you have this little contest. You’re starting to feel like you should’ve called out of work. You knew today would be horrible, your instincts never lie. “Okay,” taking a deep breath and spitefully picking the most expensive and heaviest litter that your store sells. You yank it off the shelf with a groan. If it’s hard for you to lift then he’ll probably have the time of his life having to lug this home. He doesn’t seem to care about the pricing nor the weight though as he grabs the litter from your struggling arms. He shoves the kitten back to your empty hands. “I—“ you stumble over your words, trying to come up with something but he beats you to it.

“Where’s the food she need?” Lifting it onto his shoulders, the muscles bulging as he holds that thing with ease.

“Well she,“ you cough to keep from ogling too much. “Will need some kitten food and maybe some wet food later on. A good kibble would be good to add later on once she gets older,” holding the kitten up gently and her little green eyes blink at you. You prod softly at her teeth to make sure she can handle those foods. You’re hoping she’s not to young or she’ll need kitten formula. You then check her ears and see some red marks. Noticing the little black specs moving about her neck and you cringe. “And a good flea bath. Poor thing,” petting the little baby as you walk off to grab a flea comb. He’ll have to buy it anyways so you’ll make use of it now. You pick at her fur with the comb and squish whatever fleas that you find, you hate those little fuckers. “What’s her name?”

You’ve noticed he’s as silent as a grave this customer of yours. He’s hardly said a peep besides caveman grunts and nods. If it wasn’t for him nearly against your side then you would’ve thought he ran off. That black surgical mask makes him look like he’s something important. Maybe mafia or something possibly dangerous. But… he did come in holding this tiny kitten and isn’t batting an eye at the things you’ve been telling him he’ll need to get for his new pet. Perhaps he’s nicer than your judgement of him is.

You clear your throat, he probably didn’t hear you since he hasn’t tilted his head down. “Does she have a name?” You ask once more and he pulls to a stop, he had came back with a cart earlier when there were too many things for him to hold in his tree trunk arms. It was comical seeing him try to hold a litter box, scratching post, and various foods though.

He doesn’t answer save for the roll of his shoulders that looks like it could be counted as a shrug. You mouth an ‘oh’ before you mind your business. He probably just found her or he’s gonna foster and send her off. Better to not get attached…

You chatter off the things he’ll need to do. See a vet, get her spayed, make sure she has no health problems, the usual things that you mention to pet parents. The little thing in your hands is a curious thing, she wiggles about constantly. Eager to move and escape your hands and arms. Tiny tail flicking about and the meowing and pawing is cute, makes your heart squeeze when he plucks her from your hands and he holds her close. You push the cart along and stop at the toys and bowl aisle.

“Well,” you pull some toys off the shelf, crinkle toys and mouses that should help with those prey instincts. “She’s a sweetheart. I’d probably call her Bailey,” you smile fondly and his brows furrow at your advice. Grabbing the kitten shaped bowls and hurriedly putting them in the cart when you squirm under his eyes. “Oh uh, my brother always wanted a cat named Bailey. It’s a nice name but if you don’t want to call her—“

“Bailey,” he holds her up a little and the kitten paws at his face. Her little nails snag on the fibers of his mask and he pulls them off quickly. “Better than garbage, yeah?” He speaks to the kitten like a human. There’s a crinkle besides his eyes and you realize he’s smiling but when you catch what he said you drop this cactus scratcher you thought he should buy her by accident.

“Garbage?” You look aghast. You’ve heard all kinds of names but never something like that. Quickly picking the cactus scratcher back up and placing it in the piling up cart. “You’d call her that?”

He shrugs his massive shoulders again. “S’where I found ‘er.” Grumbling his reasoning. He glares at the kitten like she’s the cause of his problems. “Couldn’t sleep with’er howling and rummaging about. Made a mess that I had to clean.”

You blink a bit and now it makes some sense why he’s so… snappy? “Well… maybe she knew you’d get her if she was loud enough.”

He scoffs, “she bit and hissed at me.” He rubs his finger over her head and you notice the little red marks on his hands. “Feisty little shit shoulda left ya out in the cold.” She nips at him and he chuckles something deep.

You can’t help the smile that reaches your face. She plays with his fingers and he doesn’t flinch when she bites hard or digs her nails in. He just looks down at her with something akin to wonder and begrudged responsibility.

You pull him to your cash register and his kitten racks up a pretty hefty bill but he pays for it with wads of cash. You don’t speak on the weird crumbled bills nor the faint reddish brown color. You simply bag his items and put them in his cart. “If you need anything, sir. Come find me and I’ll help, okay?” You can’t believe you said it AND actually ment it. What can you say, you love cats more than people and that little thing won your heart as easily as she won his.

He gives a gruff nod and pushes his cart out with on hand. The kitten is pushed into his coat pocket to hide her most likely from the cold outside. She pokes her head out to give a complaint but he just gently pushes her back in. He leaves without waving and you’re left to wonder if he’ll come back. You kinda hope he does come back.

[yeyinde]

also. Johnny is an accidental cockwarmer. he whines and goads you into letting him fuck you before bed every night because he cannae kip wi'oot fuckin' yer cunt. but it's always a bad decision because after rutting into like an animal, panting and groaning into your ear from being oversensitive and chafed (he'd fucked you three times already), when he does cum, he passes out. instantly. won't budge. won't wake.

and in the morning, when he does stir, well. why waste the opportunity, right? he's already buried inside of you, anyway.

Soap can't handle anything other than accidental cockwarming. he tries to have you keep him in your mouth while he watches a game, but ends up face-fucking you after a minute.

Gaz is a daddydom (without the daddy kink) and no one can convince me otherwise. but it's just about the caretaking. the affection. cradling you in his lap as he leans against the headboard, flipping through reruns of Golden Girls and spoon feeding you desert despite you protest because you're so full already, Gaz, you can't—

but of course you can. because Gaz wouldn't give you more than you can handle, right? he knows what's best for you. so sit pretty on his cock and be good for him, yeah?

(he might also be a lil bit of a mean!dom, too, but it's buried under so many layers of affection that you can barely notice it.)

Gaz, like Price, will keep himself inside of you any chance he gets.

and Simon is just mean. likes fucking you until you're oversensitive and raw and then stays tucked inside of you, tucking a smirk into your nape when you whine and squirm and beg him to just pull out already, it's too much.

he won't, of course. because he likes it when you cry yourself to sleep in a frazzled mess of overstimulation and sensitivity, still wrapped up nice and soft around his cock. likes fucking you through the night, too, while you whimper in your sleep, his come spilling out all over the sheets.

(fucking Simon is a razor's edge of pleasure and pain, and you better get used to the ache, the sting, because he's a big boy with an even bigger appetite and who wouldn't like having their little bird roosting on their lap?)

Simon is shoving you to your knees to keep him warm when the mood strikes him, which is usually whenever is most inconvenient to you.

[hermmachinery]

Animal Feed Mill Plant

What is The Pig Feed Mill Plant? Starting an animal feed milling machine has been a profitable business endeavor in many countries. The animal feed production line is mechanical equipment that specializes in making animal feed. For example, it can produce chicken feed, cattle feed, sheep feed, pig feed, horse feed, cat food, dog food, fish feed, shrimp feed, and so on. How to make animal feed?…

[rawan-soso]

My friend drew this story just a few months ago. I still remember how happy my sister was to have this donut without sugar when we were starving. It was a waste of resources and money but it was worth it.

Since the blockade got lifted, Soso has been able to enjoy more food in a way she can’t remember ever doing, because her first memories formed during the famine, before I created this campaign, when all we could eat was grass and animal feed.

But the blockade is back. The border is closed again and the war will resume soon, we all know it. The prices are already rising again. Soso will have to grow up without food again, and for how long?

Please help me make sure we make it through the next famine. I don’t want to hear her cries of hunger every night like I did for more than a year. She’s only four years old, she deserves to grow up happy and healthy like every child in the world.

Please don’t feel hesitant to help me, my campaign has been vetted!

✅Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #347 )✅

PLEASE DONATE HERE

Please don’t let us down, even just sharing helps a lot 🙏

[jgvfhl]

YES PERFECT

Price strikes me as the kinda guy to vocally oppose getting a pet but then after a few weeks you find him cuddling said pet.

Price is very, very confused about the whole opossum and alligator shenanigans the Shadows have going on, but after about a month of him and Graves being together Graves catches him throwing marshmallows into the gator's paddock.

Graves got a photo of it, Price will never live it down.

"Your ancestors ate dinosaurs. Do you know that?"

No reply. Of if there was one then he should be concerned about himself mentally.

Bobby, an thirty two year old gator. He was a senior in the wild, Price had to respect the old man. It wasn't every day you got to see an apex predator that was around three meters in length. Especially one so oddly docile. He was sunbathing at the moment, hadn't bothered to move when Price approached the fence.

From what Graves told him, the Shadows always are in uniform when they go tend to Bobby. Alligators know the faces of their handlers and definitely remember the color of their shirts, so Price made the effort to dress in black in an attempt to get the old reptile to be nice.

Bobby couldn't care less he was there.

"Phil said you liked marshmallows."

He didn't really believe it, which was why he was here. A small baggie of the sweet treats in his pocket, hidden in fear Graves would catch him. He couldn't let him know he had a fascination with Shadow Company's resident crocodilian.

Bobby finally showed interest when Price pulled out the baggie.

"I guess you have a sweet tooth," Price snickered.

He threw at least four marshmallows into Bobby's waters, watching in wondering as the alligator took his time collecting each one. Then he heard a click, right as he was about to throw another one in. In horror, he turned to see Graves standing there, grinning.

"Ya know, he reminds me of you. 'Cept he doesn't talk as much shit."

Price immediately pelted the marshmallow in hand at Graves, throwing the bag next when Graves started laughing.

[solar-sunnyside-up]

Omg let me tell yall about how one act, even if done out of self perservation, can ripple out in the most positive ways.

My friend during covid had her and her family go to a butcher and directly tell them they'd put 400 down every month collectively and they'd just order roughly the same thing every month.

So she's been doing this for like 3 years, still 400ish for like a stupid amount of meat.

But the butcher could do this bc they could regularly supply him and having a garenteed income was such a big deal. Particularly bc that means he could commit that much money to the farmers he orders from, which means those farmers also get that stable income too. So this one act helped all the way up the chain.

It helped her and her family, and friends who they gifted with meals when ppl are sick.

And that butcher offered lower prices to others and could have a steady supply of good quality meat. Because-

The farmer also got a steady income. Free from the worry of getting their next bill covered. They got better feed and could care for their animals better. This improved the lives of the pigs/candle as well as the farmer getting to live a happier healthier life.

This is still happening, this has been happening for years for all of them.

It's baffling that such a small act of community spreads so much stability and joy, ranging from the farmer relaxing to a BBQ at a block party. All bc my friend was sick of grocery store meat prices on chicken.

[quarterlifekitty]

Thinking about always offering the first and last bite of food to the boys, even if it's something small and just a snack. How do you think they react?do they reciprocate?

I hope you’re ready for Gaz to return the favor 😤 he literally thinks it’s so cute to share food and snacks, and you thinking of him like that… it’s peak “this is what we’ll be telling our kids about how we fell in love”. He’s a corny mfer.

Soap is putting your fingers in his mouth if you hold out food for him. I’m sorry, that’s just how it is. He’s gonna slobber on them and lick them clean. And he’s kinda expecting you’ll do the same thing when he tries to feed you.

Simon is about to fucking pass out from how hard his heart is pumping. I think of food as a major love language for him because he grew up food insecure. So the fact that you’re offering something so precious to him, and so freely? You’re gonna make a man get ideas.

Price will humor you sometimes, depending on how much you offer. But if anything? He’s the one who’s more aggressive about you taking bites from his plate. And once again, to the surprise of no one— it’s because he’s thinking of mounting you like an animal and how you need the extra energy for having his cubs. This man can’t be fixed.

[selamat-linting]

Abood Needs Help

Have a heart and please don't skip!

In Gaza, a bag of flour is hard to find, even when its available, the price is $150.

Abood's ( @abood-gaza21 ) family is in a difficult situation. With the bombings destroying their livelihood, they have to rely on our donations. They tried stretching the money they got and make do with their situation, including eating with rotten flour and making bread for animal feeds. But even the rotted flour and feeds has ran out.

The famine is slowly killing them. His wife's health is already deteriorating. A small amount of money is all they asked for today, just to stave off hunger for another day. They'd be very grateful even with just $50 for a day. But I believe we can all chip in and give even more. So please, donate and share

DONATE HERE (43k/85k)

tagging (dm for removal)

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@jothb @bocceclub @kneedeepincynade @gabajoofs @the-oscar-dubmness

@amorseart @aflamethatneverdies @marxistcomedy @ironiccryptid @project-catgirlpillar

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

72 / 2.6k / final part of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

nsfw; dubcon, group sex, toxic polyamory, predator/prey dynamics, degradation, manhandling, sex while on substances, kidnapping. also monsterfucking and sex pollen if you squint.

mentions of violence, dismemberment, and death (to minor characters) in the epilogue.

...

You pull at the restraints around your wrists to no avail. Your rational brain moves your lips over fragments of incantations, searching for one that will bring them back under your control. You've lost your home and the few precious possessions you had tonight. You must have control. If you don't, you have nothing left. But your animal brain wants more. Wants to fuck until your legs collapse.

Ghost's rough hands drag your hips to the altar’s edge. The stone leeches warmth from your back as Price's shadow eclipses yours. His belt hits the ground with a heavy thud.

He steps between your legs and traces the hollow of your knee with his battle-scarred knuckles. His other hand drifts higher. He presses your clit with his thumb and begins circling it with unhurried precision. Your hips writhe despite yourself. Price smiles. "That's it. Use us. Feed us. Make us serve you."

That’s not what this feels like. Consumed by agonizing need, you try to press your hips further into his thumb. Your empty pussy throbs. It wants him inside.

Price grabs your thigh. "Open"

It's not a request. When you don't do as he says, he drags his hand higher and grips a handful of your inner thigh.

"Wider."

Then his cock presses against you. Breaches you. Your back arches off the forest floor as he slowly sheathes himself to the hilt. The second thrust steals your breath.

"Feed," he growls. “Make her come apart.”

Gaz's mouth seals over your nipple. Ghost's calloused fingers press against your lips. Soap runs his tongue up your neck and behind your ear, lapping up sweat. Their arcane aura drapes over you like a burial shroud. Suffocates you. Binds you tighter. No, not just them--something older and heavier that clings to these ruins.

"Come," Price murmurs. "Bare your weakness."

The henbane's fever grips your spine. You climax with a shattered cry, vision whiting out as he fucks you through it. He fucks like he fights: efficient, precise, no movement wasted. Then he pulls out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing. He flips you onto your knees and elbows. "Again," he orders. "Arch."

He pushes into you from behind. You curve back into it, distantly aware of the gluttonous stares and catcalls your obvious need elicits from the others. You come again. Violently. Shamefully. Price's pace quickens.

"Again," he growls.

...

They take turns fucking you all night.

The empty eyes of the chapel's dead saints bear witness. Until the friction exhausts you, until the spiritual well from which you draw to cast and summon runs well and truly dry. Until your body is nothing but a hollow vessel, empty to your very pores, and that arcane shroud settled over you begins to seep under your skin. It molds to your raw need and fills you anew as if you’ve been offered as a sacrifice and then reborn in some ancient cult’s ceremony. It binds to you. Climbing vines and clusters of midnight purple hellebore blooms begin flowering to life, pushing through the ruined tile at the base of the altar.

Gaz’s fingers tangle in your hair to keep your head pulled back. The altar's marble digs into your knees. Then Soap is on his back beneath you, grinning as he guides your hips onto his cock. He rubs torturous circles into your clit as he fucks up into you. Then Ghost bends you over the altar and sinks his teeth into your shoulder as he takes you there, hard; the straining of the shackles rubs your wrists raw until Ghost tires of your pained huffs and rips the chains away from the walls altogether.

He grips the chains dangling from your still-shackled wrists with one hand and weaves the other into your hair. He cranes your head back to make you see Price observing it all from the pews.

"That's it, darling," Gaz purrs to you as Ghost's thrusts stutter, his cock pulsing. "Take every drop. Saints know you've earned it."

He drags you upright by your shackled wrists once Ghost finishes, and he presses your back to his chest. His fingers trace the sigil behind your ear--their claim as much as yours--as he pushes up into you from below.

Once Gaz finishes inside you again--you've lost count of how many loads you’ve taken--Price rises from the pews. He rests your trembling legs over his shoulders, your back flat against marble. His cock splits you deeper than before. He drives into you further and further until your exhausted voice cracks with another moan.

"Come," he growls.

"I can’t," you groan out. You're too exhausted to give him what he wants. "Nothing left."

Price's thrusts slow but don't stop. His hand wraps around your throat not to squeeze, but to feel the vibration of your strained whimpers. "Can't?" He leans down. "You bound demons to your body and starved them, witch. You don't get to abandon our covenant." His hips snap forward. He sheathes himself to the hilt again. Your walls flutter weakly around him. "You leashed our lives to yours. You asked for our protection. This" --he drags his thumb across your eyelid and through your wet lashes-- "is the mercy of that choice." Then he presses his palm on your sternum and splays his fingers wide between your breasts as if to capture your heart. "This belongs to us."

The others gather to watch. Ghost's fingers dig into your arms and holds them over your head as Price fucks you past the point of oversensitivity into a dazed, shuddering haze. When he finally spills inside you, he snarls your name like a curse against your throat. Soap weaves a hand into your hair and tilts your head forward to make you watch Price pull his cock out of you. It glistens with your excessive arousal.

Price rests his forearms against the marble on either side of you. He leans his forehead against your trembling stomach, takes a deep breath in, and lets it out with a rumble.

"Next time you run," he murmurs against your navel, "wear bells. We like to chase you."

Soap tosses a ratty fur over your shivering body. His calloused palm lingers on your thigh. Ghost's claw traces the shackle marks on your wrist. Then he tugs the fur higher to cover your breasts. Gaz chuckles at your utter collapse. "Imagine how tired she'll be when we assess her more comprehensively." 

Dawn bleeds through shattered stained glass. You've never felt such exhaustion in your life--physically, mentally, spiritually. Yet you drift off without fear. Your body is light and your mind is unencumbered by habitual worry. You fall asleep in moments, scarcely noticing what they're saying as they begin to discuss what to do with you.

Price buttons his coat. His gaze lingers on the vines strangling the altar--latent magic channeled through your worn body. What once clung to the walls now resides in you, whether you know it or not.

Price watches your chest rise and fall shallowly under the moth-eaten pelt. "We've made our point," he says. "Now let's discuss the lesson."

Soap drapes himself over the back of the frontmost pew with the ease of a supremely sated man. "Lesson's simple, Cap. Witch learned her place."

"Which is?"

"Beneath us. Always."

Price's thumb brushes your swollen lip. "Wrong." He stands and pulls a knife from his belt. "Her place is alive. Protected. Fruitful." The blade flashes as he cuts a lock of your hair. "You lot forget--she's not livestock. She's our wellspring."

Ghost rumbles. "She poisoned us."

"And we’ve punished her for it." Price tucks the hair into his pocket and tosses the knife aside. "But we don't ruin the well because we're thirsty. We renew it."

Ghost harrumphs. "She'll need a new nest," he mutters. He picks up the knife and begins honing it on the altar's edge. "Somewhere defensible."

"Aye, with thicker walls. And a bigger bed." Soap’s grin flashes red in the sunrise. "More efficient that way."

Gaz crouches beside you and examines the leaves unfurling near the crown of your head. "Won't matter. She'll bolt again. We need to break her proper next time. Chain her to the bed. Fuck the fight out day and night."

Vines curl up the altar near your feet. New buds swell rosy black in the dawn light.

Price plucks one and examines it. "Not so. Restrain the magic, not the witch, and she'll learn to crave the leash." Price crushes the small bloom in his palm. "Gaz, carry her. Ghost, scorch the trail. Soap--stop grinning and scout ahead. North."

"North, sir?"

"Old fort past the marshes. Walls steeped in old blood. The land's... sympathetic to us.” Price lifts you. Your head lolls against his shoulder. Your breath catches--a trapped sound, even in sleep.

Gaz inhales deeply. New arousal. "She's dreaming of us."

"Course she is." Soap licks the corner of his mouth like he wants to lick your cunt up and down again instead. "Gettin' used to her new life already."

…

You never return to the rubble where your house once stood. The villagers never see you again. But they hear whispers--fearful talk of a devil in the tempting shape of a woman, a nymph who weaves through the shadows of the deep woods, rarely seen. They tell tales of the curse that follows any man who watches her too closely and falls victim to her thrall--the way they disappear, swallowed whole by the forest. They tell tales of the beasts who haunt those woods. Crows. Hounds. Wildcats. Screech owls. Black hares.

Mothers hush their children with tales of the witch who walks with wolves, her shadow stretching long even at noon. Men whisper in taverns, ale sloshing as they lean close. Saw her by the blackthorn grove, skin glowing like a will-o'-the-wisp. Followed her 'til the crows' laughter drove me mad.

You tell those who draw close enough not to follow you. You tell them to turn back and leave those cursed woods. But the men stubborn enough to pursue a witch are men too stubborn to listen. They think they can save you.

So you don't hide. 

You let them glimpse you bathing in moonlit streams, your scars silvered by starlight. You let them hear your voice carried on the wind--come closer and lose your life, fool--as you braid hemlock into your hair. They never listen.

Ghost takes the first hunter. Drags him screaming into the bracken, bones crunching like kindling.

Soap claims the priest--peels him apart verse by verse, psalmbook pages stuffed down his throat.

Gaz plays with the lord's son for three days. He returns the boy's signet ring to his father's doorstep, severed finger inside still warm.

Price surveys the forest from your fortress’s highest tower. You stand still against his chest. His hands map the web of delicate silver chains that drape your bare hips. "They'll never stop coming," he tells you. His voice is low, soft, and callously teasing. "Not with the lure of such noble suffering."

The old fort's bones stand like teeth. Ivy blooms black under the moonlight and chokes its crumbling walls. You've learned its corridors--the way damp stone whispers of sieges long past, the drafty chambers where moss devours tapestries, the courtyard where Ghost weeds and burns your strange flora every new moon, lest it choke the forest’s natural growth.

They let you wander the battlements. Not alone, of course. Gaz shadows you as a lynx, dark eyes tracking your every step. Soap perches in crow form on the rusted portcullis, cawing taunts when you linger too near your prison’s gate. At night, Price presses your palm to the fort’s cold stones and makes you feel the old blood in its mortar--the violence sewn into its foundations, hungry for fresh sacrifice.

Your chambers smell of sex, henbane, and hellebore. The bed is a nest of furs and ancient grimoire pages. You kneel to relight the hearth and copper incense burner with a snap of your fingers. Soon enough, one of your familiars will collapse into your bed, boots propped up on your pillow to watch you until he’s ready to drag you into the furs and take you again.

Shackles hang from the canopy. They’re decorative now. Your familiars don't require them to keep you here. This--the bond, the feral devotion and the promises that underscore it--is stronger than iron.

Ghost fucks you against the armory wall, your legs hooked over his hips as he rams into you. He growls deep and low--no longer the tense, violent snarl of a starving beast, but a sound of possessive self-satisfaction. 

Soap takes you on the battlements, your hands bound with his belt as he bends you over the parapet. "Scream loud, rabbit. Let the woods hear who owns you."

Gaz's favorite game is the chase. He chases you through the halls and to the very threshold of the fortress, portcullis raised just enough to taunt you with room to escape, before dragging you back inside by the ankle, your scant robes dowsed with mud. "Almost had it that time, love. Maybe next century."

Price is different. He fucks you slowly in the war room, maps scattering as he bends you over the strategy table. His fingers lace with yours, pinning your hands as he whispers the same words you once used to bind them when you were still a trembling novice with a dagger to his throat.

The longer you stay, the more ivy drapes the crumbling stone. Your magic pulses in the walls. Ghost and Price watch you.

"She's getting stronger," Ghost says.

Price lights his pipe. "Aye. Best pray she stays tame."

Later, he watches you press your palm to the fort's oldest wall. The stones hum. Winter roses--false roses, lovely and toxic--turn their petals up to listen.

Price watches. "Still trying to domesticate us? Or survive us?"

You hum. The brambles curl toward his voice. "Same thing."

Carcasses of would-be heroes decorate the gates. Hellebore blooms from their eye sockets in warning. One midsummer night, a knight arrives. The holy symbols etched into his armor and sword are the same ones worn by the stone saints in that abandoned church where you once fled in a vain bid for sanctuary. That well of magic inside you recognizes the ancient blessing singing in his blood. He could help you. You could warn him, you realize as you meet him at the tree line. But you don't.

"Demon bride," he spits, blade raised. "The only freedom left for you is death."

Gaz's wildcat form takes him at the knees. Soap's raven plucks out an eye. Ghost's hound teeth rip out his Achilles tendon.

Price lets the man live.

You kneel beside his twitching body. You tilt his chin up with a bloodied hand. "Rest."

Hemlock sprouts between his teeth. The vines drag him underground. Your familiars watch from the shadows with dissatisfaction gleaming in their eyes.

Soap scoffs. "Again? Boring. You never keep our gifts."

You rise and absently wipe your bloody fingertips off on your robes. "Next time."

You return to your bedchambers. The furs on your bed pile higher and higher, soft and inviting. The shackles gather dust.

You dream of running.

You always wake up caged.

...

end <3

...

← part 4 / [part 5]

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[cryingpariah]

@mjrtaurus @wyvernslovecake Dragon's favourite toy growing up

Fisher price transponder snail 🐌

[gaza-giving-tree]

Imagine being forced to choose between feeding your starving children or putting a roof over their heads.

Images: Hossam Al-Qazzaz and his family live atop the ruins of their beloved home in Gaza, which was destroyed by the conflict.

@hanon-qazaz

@hanoon-gaza

Written by @visionsofaselfmademan (new blog @rumiandroses )

This is cruel reality for the Al-Qazzaz family in Gaza: Hossam, his wife Hanan, their four young children (Bashar, age 9; Hani, age 8; Diana, age 4; and Habiba, just 4 months old), and Hossam’s elderly parents (both in their seventies, one of whom was badly burned and requires constant care). Their lives were forever changed when their home was destroyed by war. Now, they live amidst the rubble of their former life, sheltered only by a flimsy tent that fails to protect them from roaming wild animals and the ever-present threat of violence. The winter rains soak their makeshift shelter, leaving them all cold and vulnerable.

Images: (Left) Baby Habiba cries from hunger, as the family cannot afford milk or even disposable diapers. (Right) Little Bashar has been bitten by rats that invaded the family's tent in the night.

The Al-Qazzaz family once dreamed of escaping Gaza to rebuild their lives in safety, but the costs of evacuation—estimated at €5,000 per person—are insurmountable. So far, their GoFundMe fundraiser hasn't raised even enough to get one of them to safety, let alone all eight.

Realizing that escape was out of reach for the moment, they shifted their focus to building a modest room amidst the ruins of their home. But even that small hope has proven unattainable. With donations coming in too slowly to make any substantial change to their living situation, and prices for food and basic necessities skyrocketing to astronomical heights, the donations to their GoFundMe campaign must now go toward survival, leaving no resources for rebuilding or dreaming of a safer future.

My name is Bethany Grace. (Though some of you might also know me as "Liam.") I am the founder of The Gaza Giving Tree. I have encountered so many amazing people since I began this project, but the Al-Qazzaz family's humility and selflessness, despite overwhelming hardship, have earned my deepest respect. They ask for nothing beyond the bare essentials—food, shelter, and safety for their children.

This second campaign was not their idea (though I DID get their blessing to create it!). This precious family was fully prepared to patiently struggle on their own, and use their GoFundMe donations to merely survive.

NO FAMILY should have to endure this. NO PARENT should have to decide between feeding their child or giving them a safe place to sleep. The Al-Qazzaz family deserves more than this relentless struggle for survival. They deserve a chance to rebuild their lives, to live with dignity, and to dream of a future free from fear.

That’s why I have created a separate Chuffed campaign for them, dedicated solely to raising enough money to either help them evacuate to safety, or rebuild a secure home. This gives the Al-Qazzaz family a designated fund to help save for their future, while allowing them to continue to survive on the GoFundMe campaign in the interim.

Every donation, no matter how small, moves the Al-Qazzaz family closer to the stability and peace they so desperately need. If you cannot donate, sharing their story can make an enormous difference, as it can help their story reach people who can assist financially.

Let’s show the Al-Qazzaz family that they are not alone in their struggle. Let’s give them the chance to dream, to rebuild, and to live with the dignity that EVERY HUMAN BEING DESERVES.

Thank you for reading, caring, and keeping their voices alive. Together, we can make a difference.

You can donate to the Al-Qazzaz family's Chuffed campaign [HERE].

You can also donate to the Al-Quzzaz family's original GoFundMe campaign [HERE].

This campaign has been vetted by @gazavetters and is (#287) on their list of verified campaigns.

[fireya-x]

heavy, dirty soul

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a long mission, John is exhausted, bruised and distant. You take care of him. ✦ 3.7k words ✦ tags/cw: hurt, comfort, emotional intimacy, intimacy without sex, nsfw but no smut, nudity, injuries, showering together

He looks like hell.

Grimy, worn out, and the kind of tired that settles in a man’s bones and makes him older than he is. His shoulders hunch beneath the weight of his tac vest, stained from whatever hellhole he clawed his way back from. Dirt crusts the hem of his sleeves, and a dark smudge clings stubbornly to his jaw, half-hidden beneath the unkempt mess of his beard. His eyes – those deep, sharp blues – barely flicker when you step through the door.

You set the takeout down and say nothing.

The scent fills the office quickly: warm rice, spiced meat, a trace of soy and citrus curling up from the sauce. Something hearty. Something grounding. The kind of meal you knew he’d need after a mission like that. You’ve seen it before – how he gets afterward. How he forgets to eat, to breathe, to let go of the op and come back to himself.

The room is dimly lit, blinds half-shut to keep the afternoon sun from glaring off the tablet screens scattered across his desk. Papers are messily stacked, half of them likely reports left untouched. The takeout’s aroma gradually overtakes the faint smell of cigar smoke.

He sits across from you, staring at the food like it’s the first real thing he’s seen all day. 

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t even shift in his seat.

You pull the container open for him, the heat unfolding slowly. Your fingers brush against the flimsy plastic cutlery as you fish out the fork, which bends slightly in your grip as you spear a piece of chicken, dripping with sauce.

His gaze follows the motion, but his body stays slack and unmoving.

So you lean forward, holding the fork right to his face.

“Seriously?”

His voice is low and dry, scraped raw from disuse – or maybe too much yelling. There’s a rasp to it, the kind you’re used to hearing when he comes home after long briefings or training days that stretch well past what anyone else would consider reasonable.

His brow twitches, eyes flicking up to meet yours with something close to disbelief, though it’s dulled at the edges.

“Eat, John.”

It’s not a request.

He stares at you for another second, then exhales hard through his nose. A faint smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth, but it dies quickly as he leans in and takes the bite.

You hold the fork steady as his lips close around it. He chews slowly, jaw tense, like he doesn’t trust that the first real food he’s tasted in days will stay down. He swallows. Licks the corner of his mouth, where some of the sauce clings.

“Good?” You ask, softer this time.

He nods but doesn’t look up. Instead, he pulls the takeout container closer and starts eating like a starving animal, like his body just remembered it needed food to survive.

Something in the way he moves tells you he hasn’t eaten properly in days. Like feeding himself was too far down the list.

You move around the desk without a word, crouching beside him, hands already going to the buckles of his vest. He doesn’t stop you, just tilts his head slightly to give you better access. 

You slide it off his shoulders, careful not to tug too hard where you know he’s probably sore. It slips free with a bit of resistance, then drops to the floor with a heavy thump.

Underneath, his shirt clings to him like a second skin: sweat-darkened, stretched too wide at the collar, the fabric worn thin in places. There’s a patch of blood on the sleeve – old, maybe his, maybe not. You don’t ask. You never do.

Your hands move to his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle there, working over the tight knots hidden beneath the surface. His body responds slowly, with a slight shift and a barely-there sigh, but his eyes close, and he leans into your touch with the kind of trust that always takes you by surprise – that quiet, unspoken surrender.

And somehow, that’s what nearly breaks your heart.

Not the blood. Not the bruises. Just that – how rarely he lets go, and how much it means when he does.

“That tough?” You ask, even though you already know the answer.

And the silence answers for him.

So do the little things – how his head dips forward slightly under your hands, his fingers curl into fists, and he breathes a little deeper with every slow pass of your palms over his shoulders.

This is routine. Nothing new.

You’ve done this countless times. Brought him food when you heard they were back on base, sat beside him in silence until the weight of it all began to slip off his shoulders, piece by piece. You don’t mind. Not for a second. Because he lets you see him like this. Because he trusts you with the aftermath.

And that means more than anything ever could.

Then his hand comes up slowly and covers yours where it rests on his shoulder. His thumb begins to rub slow, lazy circles into the back of your hand, and the movement is so gentle, so unlike the man you imagine he has to be out there. There’s no pressure, no urgency. Just a quiet ‘thank you’ – a wordless gesture of gratitude.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, your fingers trailing down the nape of his neck, massaging in slow, steady circles. The skin is warm, a little damp. His hair is ruffled from his hat, sticking up in odd places, flattened in others. You smooth it without thinking.

“Don’t remind me,” he murmurs back, and there’s no bite in it. Just exhaustion.

Your hands skim lower between his shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in, and you feel him unravel slowly, like a spring wound too tight, finally loosening. 

You pause, resting at the hem of his shirt, toying with the edge. “John,” you say softly. “I’m serious. You need to get out of this. All of it. It’s disgusting.”

He hums low in his throat. “You volunteering?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you strip the shirt over his head and drop it to the floor, revealing the full expanse of his back.

You suck in a breath.

His skin is a patchwork of bruises, old and new. Faint yellow blooms along his ribs, a fresh violet welt at his side, a jagged scrape near his shoulder. There’s dried blood near the collarbone, a rough streak of grime trailing down his spine, and the smell of smoke still clings to his hair. You’ve seen him like this before – battered, filthy, freshly returned from god-knows-where – but somehow, each time still cuts a little deeper like a bruise under your own skin that never quite fades.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

He exhales hard, and it almost sounds like a low and shaky laugh. “S’not as bad as it looks.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, your palm brushing lightly over the discolored skin, dusting off some dirt. “You need to get this shit off you.”

“I’ll shower later.”

“No,” you say, firm but not harsh. “You need to shower now . There’s blood on you. You reek. You’re not just gonna sit in it.”

He stares at the takeout box, jaw tight, like he’s weighing whether to push back or let you win this one. You ease closer, fingertips brushing his forearm, voice dropping with it.

“I’ll come with you.”

That makes him glance up. Something loosens, not in surrender, but in trust. That’s what this has always been with him. Not letting go because he’s weak, but letting you in because you’re the only person he lets see past the grit.

He nods, barely more than a breath of movement. But it’s enough.

You don’t say another word as you reach for his hand, and he takes it without hesitation. The trip down the hall is silent, his steps just slightly heavier than yours.

Inside the single-use washroom, he stops just inside the door while you lock it behind you. His shoulders slump in that particular way he only lets happen when no one else is watching, like the last thread holding him upright has finally snapped.

You step toward him, hands going to his belt. You make quick work of it – there’s no seduction here, not meant to be – just the firm, practiced touch of someone who’s done this before, who knows he’s hurting and wants to get him out of his own skin before it closes in on around him.

You open the belt, unfasten the button, and guide the zipper down. The fabric is stiff with dirt and sweat, heavy as it slides from his hips. You crouch to help him step out of the cargo pants and briefs, easing them over his bruised legs, and you try not to wince when you catch the red-scraped line along his thigh.

He says nothing. Just lets you do it.

You undress after, folding your clothes on the bench. His eyes are already on you when you straighten, not with hunger, but with that same wide-eyed exhaustion. Like you’re the only still point left in a spinning world.

You reach for his hand again and step beneath the warm stream of water.

The water flows down between your bodies, hot enough to sting, to chase the ache from your joints. It splashes off his shoulders in thick rivulets, soaking the floor at your feet and catching in the creases of old scars and bruised muscle.

You move slowly, your hands gentle as they glide over his skin.

You start at his collarbone, lathering some soap until it turns slick between your fingers, then work your way down, tracing over muscle, bone, scar. You now know each line of him – the ridge of his sternum, the subtle rise and fall of his ribs, the old scar that curves beneath his pec.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to. His eyes are closed, lips parted, breath steady but slow, so deliberate, like he’s trying not to miss a single second of it. Like if he keeps still enough, this moment might last longer.

You ease your hands to his waist and turn his body gently until his back is to you.

And there it is.

The map.

You know it by heart now. The constellation of healed-over bullet wounds, the pale ghosts of shrapnel near his lower ribs, the raised, silvery slash across his left scapula – the one you first traced with trembling fingers months ago, when he finally let you see it in the daylight.

But there are new stars on the map tonight.

A black-purple bruise like a boot print blooms over his lower back, raw around the edges. Two smaller, thumb-sized bruises sit along his left flank – grip marks, maybe. His right shoulder bears a scrape that looks half-healed, dirt still stubborn in the raw skin.

You press your palm lightly to his spine, just between the old scars, grounding him.

He doesn’t flinch.

Your fingers skim over every mark, cataloguing them silently. You don’t ask what happened. You already know. You’ve learned the language of his body, the different hues of pain, the quiet story written in scars and skin.

You dip the soap in your hands again, rich lather clinging to your fingertips, and move down the line of his back. He’s quiet, letting you tend to him like he’s something sacred. Like he knows he can’t hide anything from you here.

You drag the suds across the worst of the bruises, careful not to press too hard. Your hands work lower, over the curve of his hips, the muscle of his thighs. You handle him like someone would a broken thing. Not because he’s fragile, but because he’s been through too much to be treated with anything less than absolute care.

“Turn around for me.”

He does, slowly. Steam curls around the line of his shoulders as he faces you. His eyes open – heavy-lidded and damp – tracking every motion you make, gaze quiet and unreadable.

You take him in like this: bare, open, bruised and battered, and beautiful in the most brutal way. His chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. The water sheets off his skin, trailing down the ridges of his ribs, catching in the hollow beneath his throat, darkening the thatch of hair on his chest.

You lift the soap again and step closer.

Your hands move over his chest, gliding through coarse hair and the slick heat of his skin. You know this terrain just as well as his back – that faint scar under his right pec from a close-range shot, the shallow dent near his collarbone where bone once broke clean through. 

You drag the lather lower, across his abdomen, the ridged muscle beneath softening under your touch. 

He just watches you. Jaw slack. Eyes impossibly soft, like he’s still trying to understand how this moment is real.

You lather the soap again and reach between his legs.

Your touch is slow. Careful. Not teasing. Not meant to arouse. This is different – gentler than anything else, more intimate than sex. You wash him the same way you’ve washed every other part of him – thorough, tender, respectful. Like this is just another part of him you want to take care of. Another place where the world left its mark, and you’re here to make it clean again.

His cock rests heavy against your hand, softened by exhaustion and heat, twitching only faintly when your fingers glide down the shaft to his balls. You cup him delicately, run the soap through every crease, every fold. 

His breath catches once – barely a sound – but it’s not from pleasure. 

It’s from the way you hold him like he’s something worth cherishing.

When you rinse him, your fingers guide the water with the same reverence, making certain nothing is left behind. 

No blood, no sweat, no grime. 

Nothing of the outside world. 

Only the clean, worn-down man standing in front of you.

You glance up at him, and the look he gives you guts something inside you.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only person who’s ever touched him like this.

Who has seen him like this.

And loved what you saw.

You reach for the sprayer again, adjust the angle, and wash yourself. He doesn’t look away. His eyes follow every motion, how you drag the soap across your chest, over your hips, down your thighs. You scrub briskly, working through the fatigue now also settling deep in your limbs, but his gaze never strays.

He watches like he’s memorizing you all over again.

With nothing but awe.

Like the steam has made everything holy. Like he’s standing in a church, and you’re the only thing on the altar.

You rinse clean, slick and glistening under the dim light. 

When you step out, you grab the towel and wrap it around yourself, water still trailing down your legs. Another towel is pressed into his hands. He takes it without a word.

The silence between you now is different. It’s heavier. Thicker. 

Full of everything you haven’t said. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said.

He dries off slowly, watching you the whole time. His hands move a little clumsily, like he’s not entirely sure how to be in his own body anymore – like he’s still trying to catch up to the tenderness he’s just been given.

When he’s done, you cross the small space between you and place your hands on either side of his face. Your thumbs sweep gently beneath his eyes, brushing away the dampness there. It’s not really tears.

But something fragile. Something honest.

You press your forehead to his. For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to this: damp skin, quiet breathing, the pulse beneath your fingertips.

Then you kiss him.

A slow, careful press of your lips to his. 

He doesn’t pull you closer, doesn’t deepen it. He just lets it happen – like he understands exactly what it is. Like he knows it isn’t meant to spark anything but stillness. A stillness he can’t give himself, but craves all the same.

Without a word, he hands you one of his sweatshirts, and you pull it over your head. It swallows you, the sleeves brushing your fingertips, the scent of him baked into the fabric – clean laundry, cigars, and something warm beneath it all that’s just… him.

It’s comforting. Familiar.

Something that makes you feel closer to him, even when exhaustion has pulled him somewhere distant and quiet inside himself.

You followed him back to his office under the pretense that he forgot something – the tension already rebuilding in his shoulders. Each step is heavy, like he’s pulling against some invisible chain, drawn back into the familiar orbit of responsibility he can’t seem to escape, no matter how many bruises or wounds he carries.

You almost don’t believe what you’re seeing.

Like a machine, he walks back to his desk, as if the shower never happened. As if your hands hadn’t just touched every broken inch of him, hadn’t washed the blood and dirt from his skin with reverence. Like none of it reached him. It was as if the threshold to his office reset him, and all it took was one look at the desk for the weight of the world to settle back on his shoulders.

He sinks into his chair with a sigh, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight, and immediately reaches for the paperwork scattered haphazardly across the desk. 

“John,” you say quietly, gently, but not without an edge of warning.

He glances up, meeting your eyes briefly before he sighs, already anticipating your next words. “Don’t start,” he mutters, turning his gaze back toward the paper. “This won’t take long.”

“Right,” you scoff. “We both know you’re lying. You’ll be here all night. Again.”

He huffs, trying for irritation, but it barely carries any weight. “You’re relentless.”

“Only because you’re stubborn,” you counter. You tilt your head, watching him carefully, aware of every lingering bruise beneath his clothes. Your voice softens, concern seeping through. “Come on, please? Lie down. Get some rest, or I swear to God, I’ll drag you to bed myself.”

That finally makes him look at you properly, a flicker of amusement surfacing behind the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Bet your team would pay good money to see me try,” you add, a grin forming despite your seriousness.

He snorts, shakes his head, a smile tugging briefly at the corners of his mouth. But his shoulders remain stiff, and his voice drops again. “Can’t yet. There’s still work –”

“Bloody hell, John, that can wait,” you interrupt. “You’re barely awake as it is.”

His jaw tightens briefly, that familiar flicker of pride flashing in his eyes before giving way to weary resignation. 

“I’ll stay if you want,” you offer, meaning it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes and reaching for his hand across the desk. “John –”

“You never sleep well here,” he says, voice rougher now, protective frustration bleeding through. “Those bunks are shite, and you always wake up sore. It’s not happening.”

You laugh softly, stepping closer. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” he says without hesitation. The fierceness in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“John,” you murmur again, just his name – but it’s enough. A soft plea, steady and warm, tugging him toward you even as he tries to hold his ground. “I’m staying with you tonight. And if you don’t move right now, I will drag your stubborn ass down the corridor.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but the look in your eyes seems to drain the fight from him, replacing stubbornness with reluctant acceptance. He sighs deeply, head bowing slightly, and finally allows you to tug him gently from his chair. 

You lace your fingers tighter with his, feeling the calloused warmth of his palm pressed against yours, and lead him out of his office into the empty corridor outside.

It’s late enough that nearly everyone has left for the night, and the low buzz of lights overhead is the only sound accompanying you both as you slowly walk toward his quarters. Beside you, each step John takes feels heavier, slower – like the exhaustion is finally catching up to him, dragging at his limbs, weighing him down with every breath he takes.

When you finally reach his quarters, you push the door open and guide him inside, flipping on the single lamp beside the bed. The soft yellow glow spills gently over the sharp edges of his tired face, brightening the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

You lead him silently to the bed, nudging him down until he sits at the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floor like he’s not quite sure how he got there.

“Lie down,” you demand, your voice soft as your hand presses gently on his shoulder. He lets you guide him, shoulders easing back until they finally meet the pillow. The mattress dips beneath him, but his body remains rigid, like he’s waiting for something. A call. Another demand, another battle. An alarm that never stops ringing in the back of his mind.

You climb into the bed and shift toward him slowly. You barely fit onto the mattress beside him, so you let your arm slide carefully around his waist. Your chest is pressed against his side, and your head finds that familiar spot tucked perfectly against the curve of his neck. 

His muscles remain locked tight, like part of him doesn’t believe he’s allowed this. You. 

You sigh softly, pressing closer, and lift your chin to kiss the line of his jaw. A familiar gesture, one you’ve done countless times when words weren’t enough to reach him.

It’s a promise: I’m here. You’re safe. You’re with me.

And the moment your lips touch his skin, something in him finally breaks.

He exhales – long, deep, a breath dragged from somewhere buried. The sound carries the weight of the entire day, or maybe, of too many days. His arms come around you slowly, then fully, wrapping you in a firm, unspoken need. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, the words carrying more than simple gratitude – they’re heavy with trust, with love, with quiet awe at the simple gift of your presence.

You smile softly against his chest, pressing closer still, your fingers drawing slow, soothing circles along his side. 

And only then, with you wrapped safely in his arms, your heartbeat anchoring him, does he finally, quietly, drift into sleep.