#charcoal soap for men

[darknight3904]

Every Breath You Take

Chapter Three- Strangers

Tommy Miller x Fem!Reader, Slowburn!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: Living at the end of the world is never easy, and a simple trip for basic essentials can mean life or death.

Warnings for this part: Canon typical violence, language, gore, and horror. Period products make another appearance. Reader and Tommy being the apocalypse's cutest couple. Check the Series Masterlist for expanded warnings.

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / The Last of Us Masterlist

Word Count: 3.4k

March 2004, Somewhere in the Southeastern half of the US

The bright blue letters on the sign seemed like a juxtaposition to you. The entire parking lot was trashed, overturned cars, dead bodies, and old trash littered the ground as you stared up at the shiny blue letters on the building. 

“Remind me what we need,” Tommy says from the driver's seat 

“Well, basically everything.” You hum, staring at the list in your lap, “You and I are grabbing toiletries and clothes, Joel is on food and camping shit. Oh, we also need oil for the truck.” 

The three of you sit in the truck, unmoving and silent. No one wanted to be the first to leave the safety of the vehicle, entering a fucking Walmart might be the death of you afterall. 

As usual, Joel is the one to lead; he pushes his door open, mumbling about staying quiet and being quick. 

The brothers pry the doors open, and you click your flashlight on. The inside of the store is like every other place, trashed. Overturned carts sit on their sides, contents of whatever people were trying to buy spilling onto the dirty floor. 

As for life forms, infected or not, the store seems relatively empty. A few dead infected lay every few aisles as you stick behind Tommy, Joel turning off to go find what's left of the canned goods and cereal aisles. 

“It’s empty.” You observe as you carefully step around an overturned display of baby diapers. 

“Yeah,” Tommy leers, “Don’t like it, stay alert.” 

Tommy keeps watch as you grab a cart and begin filling it, you clear the toothpaste shelf; there wasn’t much left anyway, maybe twenty tubes at best, before turning and reaching for a big bag of handheld flossers. The next aisle over is nearly picked clean, you sigh and begin grabbing what bottles of shampoo and body wash aren't already crushed and spilling out onto the concrete floor. 

“Not that one.” Tommy directs 

You glance down at what you hold, a men’s three-in-one body wash from Dove, sitting in your hands. It advertises an extra deep clean through the use of charcoal and clay. You look up at Tommy wordlessly, questioning why he’s turning down a full bottle of soap.

“It makes my ass itch.” He whispers 

A snort escapes your lips, and you slap a hand over your mouth, doing nothing to hide your amusement. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, one day it’ll happen to you.” Tommy sighs, grabbing the body wash and putting it back on the shelf.

“What? My ass itching or finding a body wash I hate?” You tease 

“Just…grab that bar soap and get moving, we still need your shit and then we gotta find Joel.” Tommy shakes his head 

You push the cart into the feminine hygiene section, to your delight, whoever came through here last left some products behind. Three boxes of tampons and even a big pack of the huge overnight pads are now in your possession.

“What the fuck is this?” Tommy asks suddenly 

You spin around to see him holding a cardboard box labeled DivaCup in his hands. You lean over his shoulders, equally confused. Turning the box over, you skim the instructions and diagram. 

“Oh, I saw a commercial for this once.” You say, “It's an alternative to tampons, it's this silicone cup that you fold up and y’know…” 

Tommy looks over at you, “You mean…you shove this up there?” 

“Yeah, put it in the cart, I might need it one day.” You say you’ve never used one, but if you ran out of everything else, it might be your only option.

The cup falls into the car with a small thunk as Tommy shakes his head, “Glad I wasn’t born a girl.” 

“Yeah, well, Mr. My Ass Itches, you’re only here cuz of girls and their periods.” 

“I know, I know, just glad I don’t gotta-” 

The sound of something big falling over has both of you shutting your mouths. Tommy’s gun raises slowly, and the joking demeanor he had just moments ago gone. He motions for you to stay quiet and then waves his hand to follow him. 

The cart squeaks as you slowly push it, your hands gripping the handles so tight your knuckles are white with fear. Another thud sounds and you nearly jump out of your skin when something turns the corner, nearly colliding with you and Tommy. 

A young man, maybe your age is staring at both of you. He’s covered in dirt and his clothes are torn. 

“Please don’t shoot. I just…I saw you guys push the doors open and followed you in…I just needed some supplies, didn’t mean to get in your way I just got scared.” 

Your eyes flick to the man's bare feet which are bleeding, most likely from the glass that was shattered from the cars in the parking lot. Tommy’s gun slowly lowers as he takes in the stranger before you. 

“Stay away from us, you can have whatever shit you want.” Tommy says slowly 

The guy nods before fixing his gaze on the gun, “I-Is the store clear? I don’t have any weapons and infected are-” 

“What the fuck is this?” 

Joel. 

You turn around to face the bright light of Joel’s flashlight, it wasn’t working a few days ago, he must’ve found some batteries. Batteries meant that the radio you found a week ago will work, you might be able to get some news of what the fucks going on. The sound of Joel’s revolver clicking into place has you snapping out of your haze.

“W-Wait!” The guy stammers, his arms raised 

“Joel, he’s harmless.” You vouch for him, “He doesn’t even have a pair of shoes.” 

“Can’t be too sure, might be part of a larger group gunning to kill us.” Joel says 

“I’m not, I just need supplies.” The guy pleads

“Yeah if that's true why didn’t you just come in here yourself. I heard you, you said you followed us in.” 

“I couldn’t get the doors open. I’ve been waiting days for someone to come buy and pull them open for me!” 

“Could’ve broken the glass on the doors.” Joel points out 

“And let the infected follow me in? I'm not that stupid.” 

Joel scoffs and you glance at Tommy, hoping he’d help your case. The loud bang of something outside has all of you turning towards the exit. 

“What was that?” You ask, it sounded similar to a gunshot or small explosion 

“S’ a car, backfiring.” Tommy says 

You follow Joel and Tommy who are already sprinting back to the parking lot. Three other people sit in the truck Joel had taken back in Austin, you had been lucky to find the keys sitting in the ignition and before you knew it you were sitting in the back while Tommy and Joel bickered about what direction to go. Now, you watched as a woman and a man were arguing, cables from the dashboard in their hands. 

“Shut the fuck up, Perry, I know what I’m doing! We need the car going so when Isaac gets back we can-” 

You watch as Joel yanks the woman by the back of her shirt out of the driver's seat. She lands on her ass in the dirt as Joel shouts at Perry and the other guy to get out. 

You turn to the stranger whom you now know as Isaac, 

“You were setting us up.” You accuse 

“No! I don’t even know them!” He lies 

You fumble with the hunting knife Tommy had given to you weeks ago, holding it out infront of you as to stare at Isaac, “Don’t fucking move.” 

A gunshot rings out, followed by loud wailing. The woman kneels over Perry, or what was Perry, since Joel has blown his brains across the Walmart parking lot. 

“You fucking-” The third man who was sititing in the backseat when you ran out lunges at Joel but is stopped when Tommy fires a bullet into his upper thigh, reducing him to a sniveling pile of blood and tears. 

Joel lets two more shots fly, and the man and woman fall to the ground. Your eyes widen as you turn to watch the pool of blood form around them. You had seen Joel kill before, or well heard it at least, Tommy was careful to keep you away from Joel whenever you had all encountered other people on the open road, always telling you to turn away or go sit in the truck. 

A heavy weight from behind rests on your shoulders as Isaac grabs you, one arm secured around your neck, the other hand rips the knife from your hand, pressing it to the soft skin of your throat. 

“Hey!” Isaac shouts 

A choking sound fills your ears as you register that it comes out of your mouth. You stumble as Isaac drags you backward, fear filling your system when a prick of pain follows after he presses the knife down harder. 

“Let her go,” Tommy says, his gun up and focused on Isaac, behind him, Joel stands his own gun raised 

“Give me the keys to the truck, and I'll let her go.” Isaac bargains 

“You can let her go, and I won’t put a bullet between your eyes,” Joel says 

“The keys.” Isaac shouts, “Or I cut her pretty throat open.” 

Isaac shifts, pushing you slightly away from him, his scratchy voice whispering something only you can hear as he pulls you back a few more paces. 

“How much are you worth to them? You must be something else if they’re both pointing their guns at me, tell me do you fuck them both at once, or it is it trading situation? You can tell me all about it tonight after I-” 

Warm, wet metallic splatters across your face as Isaac falls to the ground. Your ears ring as you try to wipe the red out of your vision. Tommy rushes up to you, his hands cradling your face as you blearily try to focus on what he’s saying. 

“You alright? I didn’t graze ya or anything?” 

You shake your head and fall into his warm arms, a small whimper escaping you as he hugs you. He runs a hand through your hair as he says something about you being safe again. 

Joel and Tommy work to load the truck up, you lie in the backseat, wrapped in Tommy’s flannel as the brothers toss what you had found in Walmart into the bed of the truck. 

“Is she alright?” Joel asks quietly 

“She’ll be fine, just shaken up, I think.” Tommy says back 

A beat of silence followed by the sound of one of them tossing another something into the bags you kept in the truck bed. 

“We can’t trust strangers. You see that now, right?” Joel points out 

“I know…It’s just…they’re people too. Probably used to work some 9-5 and went drinking on the weekends…” Tommy sighs 

You can practically hear the malice in Joel’s voice when he speaks again, “Yeah, well, not anymore.”

Joel miraculously finds a farmhouse a few hours later. He’d been driving aimlessly, just trying to get away from the main roads, when the sign for “Twin Maple Farm” came up. The farmhouse has seen better days. Someone had already come through and looted it and one of the doors has a sign pinned on it that said don’t open in simple cursive. You had pushed it open anyway and nearly puke at the sight. A half-decomposed man sits upright in bed. He was probably only dead a month or so, his skin bloated and half ripped open by god only knows what. The window by the bed is half open, bringing fresh air in but the scent still has you gagging as you slam the door shut. 

Don’t open was the understatement of the century. 

“What's wrong?” Tommy asks when you reappear to help them unload some of the bags in the truck. 

“There's a body upstairs, half rotted away.” You explain quietly 

That night, in the glow of a lantern, Tommy sits with you at the kitchen table, a couple of baby wipes sit in his hands as he tries to rid your face and hair of Isaac’s blood. 

“Tomorrow, we can see if the shower works. I checked it out, the shower head is rusty, but I think Joel and I can get it going.” 

The idea of a shower, even a cold one, nearly has you crying. You brush the tears out of your waterline as Tommy chuckles. 

“I know, I wanna get clean too.” 

“Yeah, you totally stink.” You mumble 

He laughs harder and runs a thumb across your cheek, “Yknow who stinks more though?” 

“Joel.” The two of you deadpan in unison.

Joel listens to the laughter and hushed whispers that flood down the hall to the living room. Here he was busting his ass, dragging a mattress down the steps and his brother was telling jokes to his girlfriend for fun. Typical Tommy, even at the end of the world he was chatting the pretty girl up instead of doing anything useful. 

Joel sits down on the mattress he’d dragged down the steps, it was a small full size, if the fool upstairs hadn’t blown his brains out, they’d have access to a queen size as well, but no, he was upstairs, rotting away on a perfectly good mattress that Joel could’ve slept on. 

Joel stares at the bags of food and other necessities they’d been able to take from Walmart. All in all, it was a pretty good haul. At least 50 cans of assorted soups and a good twenty bags of pasta, Joel had even managed to snag a few boxes of Pop-Tarts and even a family-size box of Fruit Loops.  He sighs and looks over what toiletries you and Tommy had found, from the looks of it you and his brother had done even better than he had. Many boxes of toothpaste and six bottles of assorted body wash stared at him as he combed through the duffle. One box said DivaCup; Joel had no idea what that was, but hey, if you needed it, it wasn’t his business. 

Thumping footsteps have him glancing up, you and Tommy reappear, hand in hand, as the two of you plop down on the couch across from him. 

“Not bad, huh?” Tommy asks 

“Yeah, would’ve been nice to have some meds though, you two didn’t see any Advil or Tylenol?” Joel asks 

“The pharmacy section was picked clean.” You shake your head 

Figures. Of course, the end of the world happened, and the drugs were the first thing that people swiped off the shelves. 

“I’m sleepin’ first tonight, one of you can take the first watch,” Joel says, eager to be the first one to lie on this mattress, no matter how small it is. 

Joel continues to count the canned goods and other supplies while you and Tommy disappear into the kitchen again, this time to warm up a few cans of chicken noodle soup. 

He doesn’t know what you and his brother have become. Sometimes he catches the two of you making out in the dead of night when you both should be sleeping. Other times he watches Tommy pick a few wildflowers before presenting them to you as a sad pass for a bouquet. In some people’s minds it might be endearing, a budding romance while the world has literally come crashing down. Instead, it has him filled with a feeling that he can only describe as bitterness. Bitterness for the world and the hand it's dealt him. Why should his brother get to be so happy with some girl while Joel sits, haunted by his daughter every time he closes his damn eyes.

 It’s not fucking fair. 

Tommy watches as you dump the cans of soup into a pot, the gas stove already going after he got it going with a match. God, you look pretty like this, barely illuminated by a shitty camping lantern and the blue flame of the stove. Tommy feels his heart squeeze as you give him a small smile. He didn’t think he’d ever really get a chance with you, always presumed you’d written him off as a weirdo and that you’d eventually move off to college and shack up with some Chad in a pastel polo shirt who worked in finance. Guess the apocalypse has its perks. 

“Is there something on my face?” You ask, “You’re staring.” 

“What? Oh, no.” He says, “Just admiring.” 

You scoff and go back to stirring the soup, “Admiring what?” 

“The pretty girl in front of me.” Tommy grins, flashing a smile that usually got him what he wanted. 

He can practically hear your eye roll as you pull a few bowls from the cupboard. He shifts, taking a few small steps to rest his head on your shoulder, his hands circling your waist, gently squeezing the soft flesh there. 

“I think I was wrong, Joel might not be the smelliest one here.” He teases, his nose crinkling as he sniffs you

You shove him off you a laugh escaping your lips, “You’re a dick.” 

The three of you wolf down your bowls of soup. The past week had been rough; you’d been running on nothing but granola bars and stale potato chips. Now, your stomach felt like it might burst as you lounged on the porch with Tommy. He had insisted that he could keep watch alone, but you didn’t think you could sleep anyway, so here you were sitting beside him on a porch swing, your legs kicked up, resting in his lap.

Your thoughts swirl as you stare up at the night sky. You think about what happened today, how Joel had killed those people, how Isaac’s scratchy voice still rang in your head even now. You pick at your fingers, trying to not imagine what would’ve happened if he had gotten the truck and stolen you away from Tommy and Joel. 

“You alright?” Tommy asks 

“M’fine.” You mumble shallowly 

“Now I know we’re kinda a new thing, but I can tell when a girl is lyin’. What’s going on?” He asks again 

You sigh and stare at him, trying to hide the shake in your voice as you speak, “I’m safe here, right? With you and Joel?” 

Tommy straightens up at this, his hand coming to rest on your knee, “Course you are…Do you not feel safe with us?’ 

“No, I do…it’s just, earlier today that guy said some stuff that's been stuck in my head.” You shudder, “It’s just making me think about how I guess some guys are probably using the end of the world to y’know…” 

Tommy nods, he gets it, and you breathe a sigh of relief that he understands you. 

“Don’t know what he said, you don’t gotta tell me if you don’t wanna, but if you ever feel unsafe with me or Joel, you can tell us, but I promise we wouldn’t ever hurt a woman like that, and we definitely wouldn't do that to you.”

You nod, shifting to tuck yourself into his side, sighing when his warm body touches yours. Sometimes you just crave the heat of another person. 

“Joel scares me…He didn’t before, but some of the stuff today, it just freaks me out.” You admit, hoping Tommy won’t be mad, after all, he killed a man today as well, Joel had just looked scarier to you. Besides, Tommy didn’t exactly have a choice when Isaac was standing with you like that, right?

Tommy is silent for a moment, the only sounds being the squeaking of the porch swing as it rocks back and forth. His thumb draws circles on your shoulder as his arm rests over you. 

“He scares me sometimes, too. Sometimes I look at him and I don’t even recognize him, it’s like he’s some…hollow shell. I know why he’s like that, it’s just…I dunno…” 

“Strange.” You finish for him 

“Yeah, something like that…It’s just, he worries me, always quiet and sulking off in a corner. Fuck I mean of course he’s like that, everything with Sarah…it makes sense, I just, M’worried for his mental health y’know?” 

You snuggle closer to Tommy, like the fabric of his shirt will be enough to protect you from the horrors of the outside world, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his shoulder, sighing as you speak, 

“I know.” 

Next Part

I can't find Tommy's official age anywhere. We know Joel is 36 on outbreak day, so in this fic I've written Tommy to be about 29/30 on outbreak day, reader is about 20 and a half at this point.

I came to a realization that not everyone might know what the southeastern half of the US is. Here is a diagram for those who don’t know. I picture the trio in the Kentucky/Virginia area (The states that are the lighter red towards the top of the map)

Comment to be added to the tag list. This tag list is not chapter by chapter; I carry the tags over to each part.

Tags:

@freythecrazyfae @rae-gar-targaryen @keseqna @eniepascal

[mathildeaquisexta]

The price of food, clothing and other stuff during the Consulate and the Empire

Linked post : Military pay and wages during the Consulate and the Empire

Source : forum des Grenadies à pied de la Garde du Consul

Food:

Coffee (per pound): 8 francs

Sugar (per pound): 5 to 6 francs

A piece of venison: 5 francs

Chocolate sweets (per pound): 2 francs

Six oranges: 1.50 francs

One eel: 1 franc

Meat from butcher's shop (per pound): 70 cents

Butter (per kilo): 2 francs

Meat (beef, veal or mutton, per kilo): 70 cents

Bacon (per kilo): 80 cents

Bread (1st quality, per kilo): 30 cents

Bread (2nd quality, per kilo): 19 cents

Bread (rye, per kilo): 11 cents 2/3

Cheese (decaliter): 2.85 francs

Rye (decaliter): 1.90 francs

Butter (per kilo): 1.60 to 2.20 francs (1807)

Cheese: 0.60 to 1.80 francs

Eggs (per dozen): 0.45 to 0.70 francs

Poultry: 0.20 to 0.40 francs (in 1800)

Rabbit: 1.25 francs

Hare: 2.40 francs

Salted sardines (per dozen): 0.80 franc

Herrings (dozen): 0.80 franc

Eel: 1 to 3 francs

Small fishes (per dozen): 0.30 franc

Pike: 2 to 4 francs

Walnut oil (per kilo): 2.40 francs

Sugar (per kilo): 4 francs

Beans (per decaliter): 3 francs (in 1814)

Prunes (per decaliter): 1.40 francs (in 1814)

Drinks:

Ordinary red or white wine (per bottle): 1.97 to 2.96 francs

Champagne and fine wines (per bottle): 3.06 to 6.91 francs

Extra-fine liqueur wines (per half-bottle): 7.90 to 9.87 francs

“La chenette” or migraine: 2.50 francs

White wines: 3 francs

Chambertin: 5 francs

Clos Vougeot: 6 francs

Fine white wines: 8 francs

Vin du Cap : 10 francs

Vermoutte: 10 francs

Extra-fine liqueur wines: 13 francs

Regular Beaune wine: 2 francs

Extra-fine red wines: 18 francs

Livestock :

Horse: 150 francs

Cow : 60 francs

Heifer : 40 francs

Mule : 360 francs

Lamb: 8 francs

Bullock: 400 to 600 francs

Cow: 250 francs

Pig: 100 francs

Calf: 70 francs

Ram: 50 francs

Clothes:

Men's shirt: 3.75 francs (in 1814)

Cotton stockings (per pair): 6 francs (in 1800)

Clogs (pair): 1.20 francs

Shoes (pair): 5 francs (in 1805)

Boots (pair): 18 francs (in 1801)

Pair of sheets: 30 francs

Shirt: 8 francs

One pair of stockings: 4.75 francs

Lighting and heating :

Lamp oil (per kilo): 2.31 francs

Candles (per kilo): 2.33 francs

Wood (per stere): 14 francs (in 1807)

Charcoal (per 100 kilograms): 10 francs (in 1814)

Entertainment:

Admission to the Tivoli (drinks plus show): 3 francs

Also at the Tivoli, a garden party: dances, entertainment, shows, fireworks: 2.20 francs

Hameau de Chantilly (concert, illuminations, games, dances): 1 to 1.50 francs, including 0.75 francs for consumption.

Also at the Hameau de Chantilly, large decadal festivities: 2 francs

French theater :

Lodges: 6.60 francs

Galleries: 1.80 francs

Mardi gras ball 1801 at the Opéra: 2 francs

Other items:

Tea towel: 1 franc (in 1814)

Tobacco (per kilo): 4 francs

Soap (per kilo): 1.70 francs

[lostintransist]

This Bunny Bites | Part 14

Part 1 | AO3

Your piercings rattled around his brain like nails in a can bumping down a hill. While disassembling and cleaning his weapons, he thought. Watching his tea steep, he wondered. Two in each ear he could see. He had messed with your hair the morning before meeting for the first time, so piercings higher on your ear can’t be something he missed. He had not seen a flash or a sparkle at your navel the day you had kicked them out of the club, or when you had given him a dance.

Price surprised everyone by announcing you would be coming over today to work on some basic self-defense skills. He leaned forward on his hands, using a chair as his balancing point.

Ghost looks up from where he had been zoning out on the couch. Johnny stills next to him. His sketchbook leaned against a propped-up knee. The lines looked like nonsense to Ghost.

“Dutson was handsy but he didn’t seem violent.”

Gaz lets a sigh out through his nose, he stands with his arms crossed near Price.

“Turns out the man had good lawyers and at least one judge in his pocket. We found several reports of domestic abuse and some assault and battery charges buried under crazy amounts of red tape."

Price speaks up again, “I had to pull rank twice and had to verify my highest security clearance to have access to the redacted records.”

“We can’t put Bunny in danger like that,” Johnny’s words were sharp, unbending.

The Johns shared a long look that rippled and roiled with the tug of captain, brother, trust me, save my sister, give a little, can’t lose Bunny again. Johnny gave way with a snap of the charcoal pencil between his fingers.

“I will be calling her to start some basic self-defense today,” John pushes on before his sergeant can interrupt as he is desperate to do. “Before she is near Duston again. I will need all of us to push a bit tighter to keep her safe from him. This black book we are being paid to remove from his ownership will be putting him and a lot of people away.”

He stands tall, pulling his phone from a pocket as he types in his sixteen-character password from memory. Price steps onto the back porch and pulls the door shut tight behind him.

Ghost watches as Gaz sits on the arm of the couch next to Soap, he rests a hand on the other man’s mohawk. The casual intimacy comes easy to Gaz.

“I wanna go blow something up.”

Soap’s voice reflected the darkness that hid in the irises of his blue eyes.

“Don’t know that blowing up Duston will get the results we are looking for,” Gaz pushed Soap’s head to and fro lightly.

“Sure would make me feel better knowing he has hands on my sister if I could blow them off when we are all done here.”

No one comments on the knowledge that Soap had done worse to men who deserved it less.

The door opening draws all their eyes.

“Alright muppets, she’ll be here in an hour. We need to get this room as clear as we can and get some mats. I am too damn old to be hitting the floor without adrenaline or a cushion.”

Johnny can’t keep his fingers from fidgeting or his feet from pacing. The path from the front door to the back was the longest unbroken stretch in the house currently. He wore it down.

He would try and get some time with you today after training. He couldn’t keep living in this limbo. Sometimes he caught you staring at him, the distance in your eyes replaced with pain and sadness. It tore at his soul. What was left of it at least.

Even God would regret sending him to Earth when He read the accounting of the things John “Soap” MacTavish had done in the name of Queen and Country. The only ones he regretted were the ones that left the chasm between the brother he was and the monster he is.

“MacTavish!”

Johnny knew his pacing pissed off his captain. Couldn’t help it.

A voice joined him in snapping back though.

“What?”

Same tone, cadence, annoyance in the single word. You had arrived while his back was turned.

Head snapping back to look at you, Johnny found your eyes already boring into his head. Seems no one had mentioned to the other you both kept the name to spite the man.

You set your keys in your purse, then both on the table in the front hall. He keeps staring at you as you let your eyes fall to focus on your task.

“I’ll wax one of your eyebrows off if you don’t stop staring at me, Jon Jon.”

The words are said with full intent, but the name? The evil nickname you had found weaseled under his skin as a teen made him want to weep. Maybe, just maybe he could salve the wound of his choices.

“I’m a much lighter sleeper than I used to be,” Johnny lobbed back lightly.

Settling a hand on the wall, you toe off your shoes as you reply.

“Abandoning your responsibilities will haunt a person I’ve heard.”

You don’t see the sticky explosive land and take out a chunk of the man who yearned to be your brother again. Brushing past the corpse still standing, whole to the eyes that cannot see beyond flesh, you are greeted by the group.

Self-defense training with specialized soldiers isn’t all that awful. You actually felt comfortable hitting them with some force. Especially your brother. In return, they grabbed you with rough grips, fisted your hair, and Ghost even pinned you against a wall a few times. Those times were when you pushed the limits a bit.

One hand on your throat and the other in a fist pressed against the wall. He is wearing a skull mask today, the peeling white paint on the chin begging you to pick it off with a nail. His eyes are dark, pulling you in with the gravity of a dying star. This close you can see the lighter tint to his eyebrows. The hair on the top of his head is what you would call ditch-water blond. You would bet good money even the lightest volume of bleach would lighten it right up.

“Were you blond as a kid?” The words pop out before you can think better of it.

Deliciously, Ghost tightens his fingers at your question.

“Why?”

Dropping your voice to a whisper you reply.

“Because when I imagine having your babies, I want to dream them up right.”

He drops his hand and steps back like there is electricity arcing off your skin.

“Okay, what the fuck?”

You smirk as his voice breaks on the last word. Glancing around you find Price watching you with narrowed eyes. You wink at him.

Kyle and Johnny had stepped out to go and get dinner for everyone. Johnny left sporting a black eye from an elbow you had sent to his face. It made the kid in you that cried for a brother feel like smiling. Even if it was a watery one.

Sliding your gaze back to Ghost you answer his question.

“Didn’t you know?” Tilting your head to the side and letting out a shark-like grin, “Self-defense isn’t all breaking bones. A lot of it is awareness — of how to push your opponent’s buttons. You have me against a wall because Duston will try and cop a feel sooner or later. While a line like that wouldn’t get him to back off I knew it would do wonders on you. And it did.”

Ghost looked to Price as if to say ‘What the hell do you want me to do now’? Price shrugged and crossed the room. He gestured for Ghost to step aside.

Waiting for Price to settle himself in the same position you decide on a new tactic. Callouses bump over the skin at your neck and Price leans close. A shift of your hips and you are near flush with him. Running the back of your knuckles up the inside of his arm you glance up at him with big, sad eyes.

Using the same quiet whisper that sent Ghost spiraling, you coo up at Price.

“Am I being punished, Daddy?”

“Fucking hell.” Price draws out the words like an executioner’s sword — slow, deliberate, and ineffectual nonetheless.

Snaking your fingers into the beard where chin turns into cheek you grip it tight and pull him forward as you lightly tap his nose with your forehead.

“Can’t fight as well if you can’t see.” You grin up at him, the sharpness of your teeth dulled by the fact this smile reaches your eyes.

A commotion at the front door ends the lesson they were trying to teach. Both you and Price return your hands to yourself but neither move away.

Johnny and Kyle, both with takeaway bags in their arms, slow as they pass the wall into the living room. Soldier-trained eyes catch the way Ghost stands ready to run, and Price with a bit more weight in his heels.

“What happened here?” Kyle’s eyes bore into yours as he asks.

While it irks you that he automatically blames you for this tension, it was your fault this time.

“Reminded these old dogs that watching your own back means a lot more than carrying a gun or a knife.” Pushing off the wall, you trail your hand along Price’s body. Letting your short nails catch in the bumps of his shirt where torso met stomach. “It’s about learning what makes your opponent tick and using it against them.”

“And where did you learn that?” Johnny drops his brown bag to the counter, the paper arguing its treatment. “The strip club?

Annoyance tugged your real smile from earlier into a sneer. Crossing the room you let the island counter stand between you and your brother as a barrier. Might slap him if you could reach.

“Actually, yes. I learned most of what I know about life and men and how to get ahead in those spotlights.”

“Swinging your arse around for money can’t be that hard.” Johnny aims the words like a fight-winning blow.

The hit lands, much to your chagrin.

“Fine, then eat up and we will see just how hard it is to ‘swing your arse’ for money.” Snatching your phone from your pocket as Johnny scoffs you dial up a friend. Raising your voice you address the men you know are watching, “And that does mean all of you.”

Settling the phone against your ear, you brighten considerably when the call is picked up.

“Sasha! Hey, how are you?” Her reply is as you expected. “Good, I am glad that problem got resolved with the landlord without too much fuss. Now the reason for my call; do you have a room I can rent tonight? I have four men,” Johnny glared at you for the amount of disdain on that word, “Who think what I do for a living is easy.”

Kyle, Price, and Ghost all trail into the kitchen, settling across the counter with your brother. They were his real brothers, the ones who would kill or be killed for him. Not you. Bile splashes the walls of your stomach, a tsunami of realization.

“Heh, yeah you know I’m good for it.” A pause where Sasha gives you more information about the new security system you might have to deal with depending on the time you arrive. “Stellar. Love you, I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“So what are our plans tonight?” Price asks, folding his arms across his chest. You smirk as you notice him rub them back and forth along the trail you left.

“We are going to see if the air force trained you how to shake your ass,” running your tongue along the points of your teeth you snap your mouth into a feral showing.

“Oh my, granny,” Kyle muttered to himself as he opened the bag he rested on the counter, “What big teeth you have.”

Only you laughed at the insinuation you might eat them alive.

Part 13 | Part 15

Bunny Masterlist | Masterlist

Cute divider from @/jimzittos

@leahnicole1219 @notsochillnerd @darling006 @harperstyles @lucienofthelakes @redkarmakai @demothers-empty-blog @cheese-pull @itsmeamysworld @fluffysmiko @w0ede @skeletonsucker @defronix @lilynotdilly @whisperwispxx @stinkii-boii

[inkformyblood]

just for a season (09Ghoap, YoOTP25)

Hanahaki Disease (non-fatal), Historical AU, Mer AU. 09Ghoap, minor John Price x John Soap MacTavish

MacTavish didn’t think he would stay for long at the lighthouse when he’d first arrived on the island. The village itself on the shore just beyond had been more familiar, a low-slung huddle of thatched cottages on the outskirts that congealed into brick and mortar, some storefronts and the bones of a marketplace, a few pubs and he could be content there for a time. The lighthouse had been a scar on the horizon, some artistic rendition of a wizard’s tower thrown on a drunkard’s pottery wheel, and MacTavish had staggered from the small boat sent to ferry him across to it wearing the remnants of his final pint splattered across his boots into the arms of one John Price. 

“Only need you to stay for a season, lad,” Price had said, one hand pressed to MacTavish’s forehead to keep him upright, the other resting above the keys at his waist. “Just a season and we’ll send you off to your nice soft bed with some coins in your pocket and a few hairs on your chest.” 

MacTavish couldn’t say what colour Price’s eyes had been, but he sketches them in charcoal on the corner of tattered sailcloth strung up along the side of his bunk that first night, the roar of lighthouse horn enough to pluck him from fitful sleep minutes before it sounds. He spends that first breakfast tipping forwards into his plate, a fry-up for the first day after a resupply, strips of bacon fried in their own fat and bread neatly hacked from the loaf and toasted in front of the fire, while Price chuckled, wreathed in smoke and salt like some deity of old. His fingers were crooked, weathered and pale as driftwood, but he’s fast with them, smacking across MacTavish’s knuckles with the flat of his knife to keep him awake, to keep him alert, and just because he could. 

He’d hated the man and adored him in equal desperate measure.

One season bled into two, to three, to one bitch of a winter when MacTavish curled up in Price’s bed to steal any memory of warmth from his sheets, and then another.

Then, there was war.

Two men left the lighthouse.

One man returned.

“They’ve asked me,” MacTavish begins, tapping the ash from his cigarette into his mug. It’s mostly paper and char by this stage of the month but he returns it to his mouth all the same, tastes the stale tang of damp tobacco. “If I want to stay on the rock for another season.”

He plucks two cards from his hand, their edges soft with age and warped by the salt in the air, holds them aloft before he adds another, laying them all down on the stool that sits between the two men. It’s a strange configuration; MacTavish slung in the low-backed armchair, the frame moulded to fit a different man’s shoulders, the angle of his hips. He sits forwards, legs spread wide and laces trailing from his boots, half-loosened as the evening stumbled onwards, and sinks back against protesting springs. Riley presses himself upright, the cloying scent of brackish water clouding the air like a lover’s perfume, and the water sloshes against the side of the copper bathtub he’s folded into. If Riley had been any other man, it would be a private affair, MacTavish busying himself with his sketchbook or the snarl of his thoughts. 

Riley blinks at him, first one set of lids — milky white like death’s first kiss — then the other, dark lashes spilling shadows across his cheeks. “What did you say to them?”

There’s dark indentations splashed across his forearms from the edge of the tub, harsh lines woven over the paler sheen of scale and skin. Riley leans closer with a slosh of water, three cards held between thumb and forefinger before he drops them on the stool. He has a way of looking up at MacTavish — a necessity given their seating arrangements but it runs deeper than that — like he’s studying him in the same way a religious man bleeds over his bible. 

“They’re not wrong for asking, there’s meant to be some new blood on the rock for years now.” MacTavish drags blunted fingers over his jaw, scratches at the line of his neck. “Could be a younger man for you to bite at over cards, with a pretty wife and a baby. More interesting company for you than an old man.”

Riley hums, his jaw tight. It doesn’t sit even, the scars at the corner of his mouth drawing his grin jagged, the curve of his teeth constantly on display. “No, you’re fine.”

“It’s like you’re trying t’make me blush.” MacTavish shifts his cards between his fingers, places them all flat on the stool, only to pick them back up again. The evening air is cool, a distant prickle against the nape of his neck, the edge of his wrists, and he considers rising from his seat and crossing the expanse of four steps to the huddle of the stove and throwing another piece of driftwood in. It would burn beautifully, a riot of purple flames devouring the pale sculpture, but that would be a step away from Riley, from the deliberate weight of his gaze.

MacTavish stays where he is.

“What would you do in town?” Riley asks, his teeth exposed in something more than common flesh healed jagged. There’s seaweed tangled in his hair, dark against the sodden curls, never able to fully dry but golden all the same. “Your own pretty wife, a baby?” 

MacTavish laughs then, really laughs with his head thrown back and chest aching from the effort. His ribs had never healed right from his first tumble into a foxhole, fresh blood on his palms (his, Price’s, the laughing lad next to them) and every breath sends a pang echoing through the memory, crashing into the swell of the present. Price had pulled him from the stinking mud, slapped him on the back before his hand rested on MacTavish’s shoulder, keeping him upright, keeping him steady. 

“No, lad.” MacTavish chucks down his cards, clearing his throat before he swallows down the mud of a foreign field he hopes to never see again. He draws another pull of his smoke, the dull glow burning steadily to his fingers, and breathes out through his nose. “No wife, though it wasn’t for a lack of them trying when I was younger. Must’ve told you this before—” He looks to Riley, tipping his head to one side in question. They’d spent countless nights together living in the same cramped quarters, the aging lighthouse keeper and the mermaid in his bathtub, and the details blur together in MacTavish’s memory, faded like an old photograph that’s been exposed too many times and the image beneath bleeds through. Riley shrugs, layering his arms over the edge of the bathtub and resting his chin upon them. Could be an oil painting of a cherub torn straight from the church walls and MacTavish abandons his cards on the stool without a second thought, reaching for the bloated curve of his sketchbook, pencil jammed between the pages. 

“Anyway,” he says, scratching out the blunt beginnings across an empty corner of a page. “When I was younger, back when I kept saying I was only staying on the rock for a season, I had a handful of girls trying to court me.” It had been a heady, if uncomfortable, sensation as a young man, giddy excitement of being craved warring with the bitter panic that something isn’t right, something with no shape or name but it existed all the same. His older sister had brought home an unbroken colt once and he’d felt the same as that beast; trying to flee a world that did nothing but exist. “Few of them were Heartsick over me, wore their flowers in their hair so I’d notice.”

He couldn’t remember their names, but he remembered their flowers, the same ones that would likely litter their pillows in the morning or be chewed and swallowed along with their food, a bouquet of red roses, some pink, daisies, primroses. Their scent hung heavy on the morning air, mixing with the smoke of the incense in church as MacTavish took one hand between his own, lowering his face to whisper a blessing that would be devoured in one starving blink. The affliction wasn’t fatal, a byproduct of God’s love for his creations or some quirk of human biology if the doctors were to be believed, but it could be inconvenient for the sufferers. The radio plays and serials would use it to raise the stakes in their romantic subplots, sending out the fresh-faced female leads with a wreath of roses woven into her hair or the plotting step-sisters with fresh blooms cut from the garden. 

“Although,” MacTavish tears himself free of the memory, the remnants of it clinging to his arms, his hands like dust. “If you’re asking because you’re a siren, Riley, then you’ll have a poor last meal from me.”

Riley chuckles, the sound closer to the scratch of a match than anything a human could produce. His tail shifts, the dark fins stretching above the water to counter his movement, a ripple of muscle down its surface as Riley lifts himself upright, seawater sloughing off his skin. He’s human from the waist up, the sharp concave line of his belly warring against the onslaught of pale scales, his navel blank except for the scars that stretched across it; one set over his hip, another straight up the centre of him, a handful more curving over shoulder and forearms, before the deliberate devastation of his throat and jaw. There’s a few tattoos visible on his upper arms, the edges of one on his collarbone, and another on his ribs, and MacTavish marks them quickly on his sketch, smudges his thumb over the hurried outlines. Riley doesn’t move when MacTavish isn’t watching him, dark eyes catching the embers, the faint glow of MacTavish’s smoke. He holds out one webbed hand expectantly, and MacTavish hands the cigarette over with a rueful sigh. He doesn’t mind, not truly. The end glows a pittance in Riley’s hold, the smoke barely more than a wisp as he breathes it in, the memory of it rolling from the gills in his neck like morning mist inland, pale and barely there. 

“I don’t think I’d see much of you if I left the rock,” MacTavish says, returning his gaze to the cards spread out in front of them, his sketchbook balanced on his lap, his pencil tucked behind his ear. There’d be grey lines over his temple later, dark against the silver shot through his hair. 

Riley drops his set of cards down, nudging them into place before he returns the cigarette to his mouth. It’s down to the paper now, grey ash falling free over Riley’s fingers, floating on the surface of the water like soap scum. “I could go with you.”

MacTavish first met Riley the night after a storm. It had been his second or third season at the lighthouse, his legs growing steady with every step over the slick rocks, the salt crystallising down to his bones. Price had dropped a basket onto his chest, mercifully empty, and sent him out with a smack to the back of his head, Price’s jumper sitting wide on his shoulders and long on his hips. Seagulls wheeled high overhead, shrieking to each other and dropping out of the slate-grey sky to pick at something on the ground, barely visible at first as MacTavish made his way over. He’d expected some fish, their eyes already glassy or missing, just empty husks staring up at a sky they were never meant to see; but what he found was a man, his skin scraped raw and bright over his hip, his elbows, blood and feathers clinging to his palms, his mouth. 

“Fuck off,” Riley had snarled, his voice barely louder than a rasp behind the display of his teeth, and MacTavish only laughed, a mixture of disbelief and wonder rattling through the empty spaces between his bones, the universe reshaping itself because of one chance encounter.

“You’d go with me?” MacTavish asks, leaning back in his chair and letting his legs slide wider. He’s got a small cottage back on the mainland, it had been Price’s like so many things that MacTavish owns now, just another thing folded into his hands alongside a black-edged telegram that was too small to contain the full breadth of the man it trapped in dark typeface, the man who would be forgotten as just another name amongst the war dead. 

It’s big enough for two.

MacTavish hums quietly, reaching for a smoke he no longer holds. He pushes himself up from the chair, the creaking of the springs only masked by the cracking of his knees, a line of pressure caught tight in his back. He staggers his first step towards the low slung cabinet, but catches himself on the second, the third. Another wail of the horn high overhead, the carrion call of some enormous bird, and MacTavish pulls fresh rolling papers, a folded paper package of tobacco. “Another?” he asks over his shoulder, drinking down the shadowed lines of Riley’s features as he slouches against the line of the bathtub, his fingers twisted in the seaweed caught in his hair. 

“No,” Riley murmurs, far gentler than he has any right to be. Drawing him wouldn’t be enough, MacTavish could fill every inch of the lighthouse with his visage, carve the smooth curve of his form into the rock itself so someone, somewhere can dig it out of the ruins and marvel, and it still wouldn’t be enough. MacTavish is stubborn and sullen, a ruined husk of a ship from a bygone age left to rot in the sun, with salt on his hands and an anchor looped around his neck, never more than a handspan away from the terrified lad who breathed in the thick scent of blooming roses and wondered why he didn’t feel anything.

MacTavish dampens one edge of the paper, tapping out a thin line of tobacco, rolls, and lights it. Riley wins the game, his grin sharp behind his facade of indifference, blood scented in the water and leapt upon, and MacTavish blackens his lungs with every inhale, the taste sharp across his tongue. 

“Going to be a storm tonight,” Riley murmurs. The fire has long since burnt to embers, the room cast in pale shadows, and his eyes gleam strangely in the low light, dual eyelids shimmering with every blink. “You should sleep.”

“Aye.” MacTavish stands, presses his hands into the small of his back as he leans against it. Riley lifts himself partially from the tub to sit on the edge of it, the sharp bite of the sea ever present. 

He’s solid in MacTavish’s arms as he lifts him, Riley’s arms locked around his neck and the curving tattoo on one bicep the point of MacTavish’s focus as they breathe in tandem, for a moment, a single entity. The lighthouse howls above them, around them, and Riley twitches, his tail fin flaring wide in a ripple of muscle down the length of it, his jaw clenched tight as he turns his face into MacTavish’s neck, his breath damp against his skin, the fall of his crucifix. 

“You alright, Riley?” MacTavish murmurs as he makes his halting way down the stairs, his shoulders turned to keep Riley’s tail clear of the narrow stone walls. 

“Yes,” Riley answers, his voice thick. His hands twine in the loose strands at the nape of MacTavish’s neck, the sharp edge of his claws scratching delicately at his scalp. 

Their parting is inevitable, the roar of the sea against the edge of the broken sluice gate louder than the lighthouse overhead, the marrying of their two worlds. MacTavish kneels, the stone damp and soaking into the light fabric of his trousers, matching the ocean already emblazoned across his chest and belly, the rivulets slipping over the edges of his spine, and he hasn’t been inside a church in years but here is sacred enough for him to worship. Riley slides from his hold, catching himself on the edge. “Sleep well,” he murmurs, his words almost lost beneath the roar of the water, and then he is gone. 

MacTavish returns to the huddle of his rooms, a thin trail of smoke fluttering behind his every step like a bridal veil. His thoughts are muffled, echoing through shattered bone and tangling around the snarl of his ribs, the stagnant cling of his heart, and he thinks of Riley, Riley in the old-wheeled chair gathering dust in the corner of Price’s, of his front room; the double bed that always felt too big for him so he spent his nights stretched out in front of the fireplace, seeking salvation from cool stone and the distant hiss of the ocean. He sleeps but he doesn’t dream, and wakes with a rose petal between his teeth. 

It tastes like his ma’s perfume, a deliberate steeping of the fresh spring cuttings, and he spits it out into the trembling cup of his palm. Dark enough that he can barely make out of the shape of it in the gloom, the air trembling with the aftermath of the lighthouse’s call, but he knows it by the musky tang coating his tongue, the scent heavy in the air and the space behind his teeth. MacTavish brushes his fingertips over the gentle crush of it and tucks the petal behind his ear, blinking out into the darkness. 

In the distance, inside the emptiness of his thoughts, he hears the roar of the ocean. 

[theirishwolfhound]

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick Headcanons

My thoughts on pretty boy Kyle are actually relatively new. The longer I spend reading and writing about him for my own purposes, the more I absolutely fall in love with this man. As a collective whole here on Tumblr, as far as I’ve seen, we’ve collectively decided that Kyle is the heartthrob of the Task Force.  In this I'll cover the basics that will be prevalent in my own fics, if you wish to use any feel free, they're mostly rambles as is :)

“Oh come off it, sweetheart.”

Age: I wholeheartedly believe he’s older than Soap, but younger than Ghost, so between 27- 33. Personally I think he would be 29-30. With a bit of research it is said he enlisted in 2008 when he was 16, so I’m more inclined to believe he’s 30. (not me having to fix my own fucking story because I fucked the math up and got their ages wrong like a stupid moron) Sexaulity: Omnisexual, like he’s definitely some sort of queer and it’s hard to place him. Would he love a pretty lady or man? Absolutely, just as much as he would love a more rugged woman or man. -As for his own gender, I don’t think he would really care what pronouns he’s given so he could just be a cisgendered man who’s comfortable with himself or he’s just gender nonconforming. Height & Weight: Definitely 6’/182 cm and weighs roughly 198 lbs, I see him as a toned athletic man for sure.  Personality: Just like in the game, Gaz has to be sassy. We love sassy men who can match vibes. He’s the guy you want to go clubbing with, not only because he’s fun as hell but because he makes you feel safe at the same time. You give him an attitude he returns it with little effort and it either matches the energy you gave or it surpasses it. -He’s very comfortable with himself. Secure with showing both masculine and feminine traits. Give the man a crop top and a skirt he’ll wear them for you. He’ll let you paint his nails, do his makeup, ect.  Birthday: September 26th, 1992 (I'm using 2022)

Car Or Truck?: It honestly depends. I feel like he could potentially have both given his current vibes. But I would see him with a car, a nice sleek car with leather seats and a bumper sticker that says: “If at first you don’t succeed, call an airstrike.” given to him by Soap. -Specifically thinking of a core model BMW 740i xDrive Sedan, dark charcoal grey in color, glossy coat and dark windows. Cat or Dog?: He has the silliest dog that stays with his parents. I think it is a boxer, or a boxer mix of some sort, that has almost the same personality as Kyle. Boxers are a hyper and goofy breed of dog, and he is very certain that if he knew Soap before he got the dog he would've named it after him. Favorite Food: Vindaloo, specifically lamb Vindaloo. He just seems like the person who would prefer the more savory foods. As well as spicy foods. And if he had to go with something sweet, he’d go for a lemon drizzle cake.  Favorite Drinks: This man drinks fruity cocktails without fear of judgment just as easily as he drinks whiskey, and for non-alcoholic drinks he's a big tea, latte, and ginger ale fan for sure.  Favorite Music: 2000-2010’s music for sure. This man knows Britney Spears’ Toxic like us Americans know the pledge of allegiance.  Song I think Fits their Vibes: Feel The Way I Do- The Jungle Giants Hobbies: Gives off the vibes of a man who taught himself how to play guitar and jewelry making. Makes Soap bracelets and teaches him how to make them as well. More physical activities might be running and swimming. Fears: Oddly enough, not really, falling. It's not a terrible fear, it just gets his heart racing enough that he steers clear of the helicopter doors until they land. 

“Why don’t we go this way? Y’know, away from the edge, yeah?”

Familial Relationships: Has a relatively good relationship with his mom and dad, they probably live somewhere closeish to his flat in London. They would have a key to take care of the plants on the inside for sure. Has an older sister and a younger brother. They’re all fairly close and he’ll visit them on his leaves if he has the chance, otherwise they all have a group chat to check in with one another.  Relationships with the team: I definitely think this varies based on what sort of relationship you’re seeking to read/write about. I try to always write polyamory, as a poly-person I like having the representations.  Price: Coming from someone who loves PriceGaz, they are either the best mentor and trainee coupling or the most judgemental couple. They can read each other relatively well and work together rather well. (Though they equally get on each other's nerves.) Soap: Definitely best friends if they’re not dating, they get up to the most interesting shenanigans. They’d go clubbing in matching outfits and are annoyingly catty together.  Ghost: As lovers and friends, they’re totally the ones that would seek quiet comfort from one another. They have secret tea time and share snacks. Totally make fun of Soap's hair if it's in need of a shave.  Love Language: Physical Touch and Gift Receiving/Giving. He'll do a skin care routine with you, massages, and he'll make sure to buy the stuff for it to give to you or you to him if you get him something. He knows what makeup you wear or what size to buy your clothes in to surprise you. 

Civilian or Military Lover: Prefers civilian lovers over other soldiers, but like he’d date other soldiers given they’re the right person.  What would their civilian job be?: I see Kyle being a Paramedic, like he’d be the one I’d ask for if I fell in the shower because he’s not gonna make fun of me and he’s hot. How’s their charisma: Rizz Master, man. I'm convinced he's got a smolder that'll knock the clothes off of anyone lucky. Voice is smooth like honey and sweet to boot, he's an interrogation expert— he's gotta have a way with words. What would your first date be? Hard to say. I think he'd take you out to a coffee/tea house or you'd go get Ramen. But in reality I know it would be put up to a mutual agreement. He’d totally pay the bill and makes sure you never even get to see the slip. What would they call you? “Baby” is definitely one of the top ones, but I think the next contenders are as followed: “Sweetheart” and “Pretty/Handsome”

“Gonna make me feel pretty, baby?”

Size: Gonna have to say he's not the biggest or longest but I agree with the post that said he's the prettiest of the four cocks. A neat 6.5 in, circumcised, hits the right spots and he knows how to use it well.  Kinks: Bondage, Exhibitionism, and Sensation Play Position?: Pretty boy Kyle is a complete switch, though has a more dominant leaning personality. He’ll let you top, but he's gonna boss you around while you do it.  Sharing?? Kyle loves to share. He is inclined to share with his team, after all those are his best friends and his brothers-in-arms, they saved his life many times— just a little peek won’t hurt. Song that fits his vibe in the bedroom:  Swim - CHASE ATLANTIC

[mariamakeslemons]

Spooktober 2024: Day 7 Witch

Warning: Abrupt ending, reader is fem (no mention of genitals, but the Spanish used is for them is feminine)

Could be seen as a canon offshoot of my King Killer story, since all the same rules apply

“I will cry,” you declare to the empty shop, your two wolf familiars looking up at you judgmentally, “I will sob and scream and throw myself into the trash.” The spell you had been working on simply sits there, just off enough to be useless. You huff and bend back over the papers that make up its parts, grumbling to yourself as the charcoal in your hand stains your fingers black again.

“Hola, Señorita Bruja,” the rough voice of Alejandro sounds into your shop, catching your attention enough to look up. He and Rudy enter with two white men behind them, both who look startled at the inside of your shop. You preen a little even as your familiars hurry over to their preferred Vaquero, proud of the careful work you had done to perfect your shop. The structure is made of Abode, like many of the buildings nearby, but the tiles had been carefully carved and painted to create the protection charm that made this and a number of other homes bomb and fireproof. You had worked tirelessly to gain the blessings of all the Gods and spirits that still resided in the area to create foundation of protection and healing within your shop, even creating a portable carving that held that same spell to give to the local hospital.

“Bruja, these are members of Taskforce 141,” Alejandro introduces, scratching at Pollux’s head as the grey wolf pants happily, “Soap and Ghost.”

“Nice to meet you,” you chirp, giving the men a smile as Castor licks at Rudy’s hand, demanding affection. The one with the mohawk offers you an awkward smile as the masked man simply nods.

“An’ you too, witch,” the masked man intones. You nod before turning to your lovers, your smile shrinking worriedly.

“What can I do for you? You don’t come into my shop without reason,” you ask. Ale and Rudy glance at each other before Ale sighs.

“Unfortunately, you’re right,” he admits, “We need something for protection. We’re hunting El Sin Nombre for information and to hopefully shut down the Cartel.” You frown, chewing on your lip thought fully.

“I think I’ve got a few phoenix charms, but they’re older. They won’t hold up to too much,” you admit, “But, they should keep you safe enough to retreat if you need to.”

“Perfecto,” Ale declares, “We’ll need a few of them. How much?” You look at him, one of your loves, before looking over at Rudy, your other love. You blink and you can see these men with bullet holes, staring at you sightlessly and swaying. Blinking again, you click your tongue and turn to find the charms.

“No money,” you declare, “Just return to me.” You find the box full of charms and remove only one, placing it on the table to keep in the shop before walking up to Ale and handing it off to him. He takes it from you, freeing your hands to cup his face and reach over to Rudy’s face as well. You demand, “Both of you. Return to me safely, or Castor and Pollux will find you to make you return.”

“Sí, mi amor,” Rudy agrees as Ale turns his face to press a kiss to your wrist.

“We will return to you,” Ale assures you, “And we’ll take a few days off to simply be.” You look at your loves and nod once

“You better,” you declare with a sniff, before looking at the white men with narrowed eyes and a point of your finger, “And you two, make sure they’re safe or I’ll curse you.”

“Yes’m!” Mohawk yelps as the masked man nods calmly.

“Will do,” the man gruffly assures you. You sniff and wave the two of 141 off, pressing kisses to Rudy and Ale’s cheeks.

“Be careful,” you repeat.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ghost curses as he leans against the wall. Everything’s gone to shit, even with the witch’s charms. Rudy and Soap are dealing with a fucking tank, Price is trapped in a downed heli, and Gaz and Alejandro are getting pinned.

“Shit,” he snarls, peering around the corner and firing at the Shadows that are trying to get to said downed heli, ducking back to avoid return fire. He stops at the sight of a pure white wolf, staring him in the eye before huffing. It takes him a moment, but Ghost recognizes the wolf.

“Y’ Castor? Or Pollux?” he asks. The wolf gives him a completely unimpressed look before throwing its head back and howling. Suddenly, what looks like hundreds of dogs fill the street that was once empty, mostly black and white, but all rushing toward his direction.

“Fuck!” Ghost curses, pinning himself against the wall and closing his eyes like a child, bracing for impact. It never comes, instead the Shadows begin shouting in fear and howling in pain. Ghost opens his eyes and peers back around the corner. The wolf is trotting calmly to the heli as the pack of dogs rip apart the Shadows quite literally.

“I should curse you,” someone says from behind him, actually startling Ghost. Turning, he sees you, wearing a cloak that blends into the night as you stroke the other wolf’s head. You look at him coldly, insisting, “Were I less forgiving, I’d curse you. But,” you pause and soften, “It’s obvious you tried your best. If you hadn’t, the cadejos would have ripped you apart as well.”

“…Thank you f’r bein’ forgivin’,” Ghost can’t help but say. You huff and shake your head, walking onto the battlefield confidently, the wolf that had gone ahead trotting back with a very confused looking Price on their back.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Regrouping is easy with you walking beside him and the cadejos running all through the headquarters, you flicking spells at every Shadow while the pack ripped any apart they found. Price follows Ghost, looking between you and Ghost with obvious questions that won’t be answered until everything is wrapped up.

“Valeria,” you call out as the groups finally regroup.

“Ah, Bruja,” the woman purrs, “So good of you-” She’s cut off by your fist slamming into her face.

“Shut up,” you order, cold and collected as Castor and Pollux growl at her. You turn to Ale and Rudy, fussing over them quietly as the wolves press against the men, whining for affection. Ghost huffs, looking over his shoulder as the cadejos gather.

“Steamin’ Jesus, tha’s a lot o’ dugs,” Soap mumbles to Gaz, the other man nodding as the pack seems to grow bigger and bigger, white and black dogs mingling. Eventually, a tiny white cadejo trots forward and sits in the front as you turn with Ale and Rudy at your side.

“Thank… Protect… We… Love… Strong… Cowboys…” the dog barks out in a child’s voice. Your face softens as Ale kneels down and scratches behind the little cadjeo’s ear.

“Gracias por apoyarnos en este empeño*, ” the Colonel mumbles. The dog wiggles happily before trotting back to the pack and barking once. The cadejos scatter in streaks of lights and darks, leaving the headquarters empty of all but them.

“I thought those were a Mexican or Spanish thing,” Gaz says into the silence that follows, “Why’d they speak in English?”

“¿Cómo?” Ale sputters in confusion, “No, they spoke in Spanish.”

“They didn’t speak at all,” you cut in as Rudy snickers and buries his head into your shoulder, “They’re spirits. How they communicate is different from person to person. If you’re more used to hearing words, they will communicate through the words they remember and it will speak to your soul. Thus, your ears will seem to hear them talk.”

“They explained this, Ale,” Rudy teases with a grin. The Colonel sputters and lunges at the two with outstretched arms, making you shriek and Rudy laugh. Ghost finds himself relaxing, looking over at his team who also are relaxed. What throws him is Valeria, and how she has a look that screams longing. Not regret, but longing.

Ale managed to grab both you and Rudy in his arms, roughly speaking Spanish at both of you with a playful snarl and a shake. You reply softly and Rudy laughs, only for both of you to be silenced under a flurry of kisses from Ale.

“Sorry to break up your reunion,” Price cuts in as politely as he can, “But who’s this?” Ale sets both of you down and glances at Rudy, a smirk curling both men’s faces.

“No, no, don’t you dare,” you immediately start scolding, “I swear to shit, don’t you fuckin-” Both men drop into a pose that Ghost knows is from a picture that one American actor made at his wife. One that screams ‘look at them! This is our amazing person!’

“I hate everything about this situation,” you declare as Castor and Pollux happily sit beside each man.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Thank you for supporting us in this endeavor

[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

October 2024

John was on high alert as his boots scraped softly against the cobblestones, guiding the path through the dark alley. 

He could smell the dank, fetid odor that seemed to cling to the very walls around them. The cold October air bit at his skin, but he barely felt it. Years of training had honed his focus to a razor-sharp edge, leaving no room for distractions.

Soap and Gaz fanned out behind him like well-oiled machine, each moving in complete silence.

He stilled his mind, focusing his thoughts.

He visualized their route based on the maps he and his team had studied earlier today. Two more turns and they would reach the nondescript door that was their destination.

Use your head and not your heart, son.

Her advice echoed in his thoughts. He was aware that this decision could paint him as a selfish bastard, but he wasn't concerned about others' perceptions.

He had to keep in mind that this was his mission, not about Charlie. 

Or was it?

"Bravo-Six to Alpha-One, we're clear. No sign of civilians," he said gruffly in his quiet tone as he keyed his radio.

"Roger that, Bravo-Six. Engage at your discretion," Gabby said in her cool and collected in response.

Dressed in his fitted black hoodie and a dark beanie, along with a charcoal-gray combat jacket that had extra padding on the shoulders and forearms.

The jacket featured deep pockets where he stored extra ammunition, a multi-tool, and a combat knife at his hip. His legs were fitted in dark jeans, and his sturdy boots made almost no noise against the pavement. He always has a comms earpiece and is ready to respond through the channel at a moment's notice.

John had always preferred the practical over the flashy, and tonight was no exception. Dark, muted colors he preferred. Tools he knew inside and out. If things went south, he was ready.

Soap moved beside him, equally prepared but sporting his style. He wore a black tactical hoodie beneath a lightweight combat vest, which was loaded with magazines and decoy grenades—choices he made since this operation wasn't as serious for tonight.

His dark cargo trousers were scuffed at the knees, and his boots were laced tightly for speed. Soap carried his preferred HK MP5 SD with the suppressor attached to the end.

With an added combat knife strapped to his thigh as a backup for close encounters. His messy mohawk peeked out from beneath a black beanie, and despite the missions, he always made him look comfortable.

"You look like you're about to break into a house, Soap," Gaz had quipped earlier.

Soap had only grinned.

"Aye, if you need someone to kick the door open, that's Price for ya. But tonight, I'll need to focus," Soap said. "Still, you look sharp, Gaz."

"Not all of us want to look like an extra from Ocean's Eleven," Gaz said calmly but with a slight lip curled at the end.

He wore an all-black tactical jacket with a support vest underneath, and his sleeves were rolled up to showcase his gloves as he held his SIG P320 X. His appearance was neat and streamlined, featuring cargo pants designed for speed and boots instead of bulky gear. A thin communication line ran from his earpiece down to the compact radio clipped to his belt.

The men had moved to the entrance of the apartment building after John entered at ease. Gabby mentioned that Harkin's apartment was located above the fourth floor, so they took the stairs. The building looked almost rundown, making it safe to conclude that no one would question or catch them, as the few witnesses around would likely be asleep.

Above them and far behind, on a rooftop across the street. Simon—Ghost—loomed over the scene from his overwatch position. His eyes were focused through the scope of his rifle, scanning the area below.

From his vantage point, he wore dark gear with an added tactical combat vest reinforced at the knees and elbows, allowing him to blend seamlessly into the night. His AX-50 sniper rifle rested on the ledge before him, its long barrel fitted with a suppressor.

Every piece of his gear, from his gloves to his boots, was designed for dark stealth. The skull mask he always wore gave him a menacing appearance, as if he had come straight from a nightmare.

From his bird's-eye view, Soap and Gaz followed John from behind as they entered.

"I've lost visual contact. You're on your own now," Ghost said.

"Keep an eye on the perimeter and ring us if Harkin approaches," John said through the radio.

Inside, they moved quickly and quietly until Soap reached the front. With his lock-pick kit in hand, he dropped to one knee beside the rusty door and leaned in to work on the lock.

"Give me ten seconds, Cap," Soap muttered as he worked the lock.

John gave him a curt nod and continued looking out until Gabby's voice crackled softly through their earpiece.

"I have visuals on my screens and access to the CCTV," Gabby reported, sitting alone in the white van where Ghost was also present outside. "You're clear for now."

"Rog," Gaz replied.

"If anyone poke their heads out, I'll say hello," Ghost said coolly.

Gabby giggled quietly.

Finally, with a faint click, the lock gave way, and Soap gave a triumphant grin.

"Easy as pie," Soap said, picking himself up before pushing the door open to enter the dark interior.

The lights came on as John flicked the switch, revealing the apartment he had expected. The dingy space felt like a cheap place to live with mismatched furniture. A worn-out couch sagged in the center of the room, its fabric faded and fraying at the seams.

The rugs beneath his feet were threadbare, their vibrant colors long faded to dull grays and browns, as if they had absorbed years of neglect. The air was thick with a stale odor, a mix of mildew and something faintly sweet.

This was a space meant for hiding—a refuge for those needing a place to crash or sleep or drink or whatever the hell Harkin uses this space for.

"Move," John ordered, stepping inside first, his pistol raised as he scanned the room.

With his hand rested on the grip of his M1911, his thumb brushing the safety instinctively. This sidearm wasn't just a weapon; it was his trusted companion, one he'd carried through countless missions. The M1911 was a classic. A .45 ACP, its weight in his hand, was his friend.

The single-action design, precision, and stopping power made it a weapon John preferred over modern sidearms.

Where others might choose a polymer-framed pistol for speed or convenience, John valued the solid reliability of the M1911. With a suppressor on the barrel, he had added a measure of caution, a much-needed for a quiet infiltration like this. He liked how the gun felt like an extension of himself—balanced and lethal; it was one he'd chosen and carried through years of service.

When younger soldiers mocked its old-school design, he'd simply show them what it could do. Every time he pulled the trigger, it reminded him of his roots, where he'd come from, and the lessons he'd learned along the way. It wasn't about having the newest weapon but knowing the one you had inside and out.

John moved silently, his footsteps muffled by the worn carpet. He kept the M1911 steady, his finger resting just outside the trigger guard.

Soap moved to the right, checking the kitchen area, while Gaz swept left toward a small living room and then moved to the laundry room. John stayed in the center, eyes scanning every corner and darkened nook.

"This place is a shithole," Soap muttered in comment.

"I'm not here, but Soap, try not to touch everything like a toddler in a toy store. I'd rather not have your fingerprints in some police report tomorrow." Gabby said.

Soap snorted. "That's what gloves are for."

"Not when you're leaning on shit like it's your gran's house," she deadpanned.

"Focus," John said sharply through the earpiece to Soap and Gabby before switching the channel to Ghost. "Ghost, we're inside. Keep us posted on any movement outside."

"Copy," Ghost said. "No sign of Harkin yet, but I've got eyes on the window where you are."

"Heard," John said before continuing to sweep the apartment. His gaze flicked over the mess of papers on a nearby table of what he assumed was Harkin's bedroom. The remains of empty food takeout containers scattered across the floor. But none of it caught his attention.

"Find anything that gives us intel on Harkin," he ordered gruffly through his comms.

"Roger, Cap'n," Soap obeyed.

Using his small flashlight attached to his combat vest, John moved toward the messy desk and searched through the piles of papers. His mind wandered back to the intel Laswell had sent him. Something had been off—vague, cryptic references to arms deals in the area but no concrete information. John had been suspicious, but the pieces began to click into place now that they were here.

Outside the bedroom, Soap crouched by a battered wooden crate tucked in the corner of the coat closet he had opened. He lifted the lid slightly, and his eyes widened as he glanced inside before pushing the button at his ear.

"Price, I've got something here."

John heard and moved out the bedroom to find Soap crouched down and took a look with him. Inside the crate was a small arsenal of weapons—military-grade, clean, and clearly meant for more than just personal defense.

His stomach twisted.

"Fuck," John cursed through his gritted teeth.

This wasn't just a small-time arms deal. These weren't just for street thugs looking to sell out these illegal weapons. These were meant for more organized operations. He had seen weapons like these before, in places where insurgencies would use them for revolutions.

"What is it?" Gaz asked, coming up beside them, his eyes scanning the crate's contents.

John didn't answer right away. He was putting the pieces together in his mind, Laswell's vague intel flashing through his thoughts. The arms deal. The cryptic messages. It was all starting to make sense now.

"Harkin is involved in an arms trade," John said, his voice laced with grim realization. "These aren't street weapons. Someone's supplying him, and it's not local."

Gaz's eyes widened. "Fucking hell. What's the plan now?"

John's mind raced. If Harkin was dealing with weapons like these, it meant there was a player in the game—someone with connections who wanted these weapons on the street.

"We need to find out more about the lead, Rich," John began, his voice stern and controlled. "Anything that ties him as a main supplier. We need names and locations. Gabby, are you getting it on your end?"

"I'm pulling up, stand by." Her voice came through a second later. "He's been in contact with a few known associates in the arms trade, but nothing concrete yet."

John stood up, his eyes scanning the rest of the room. Her voice returned through their earpieces.

"Harkin's been in contact with some known arms dealers, but no local," she explained, typing audibly through the channel. "His messages reference shipments, but there's a delay in the payout—like he's still waiting on confirmation from the middleman, aka, second-in-command chain before shipping it to the main supplier."

Soap then moved and picked up the stacks of papers on the coffee table. He was rifling through them, his brow furrowed in concentration before turning to John over his shoulder.

"I found something here. I don't know what the fuck it is, but it looks like some kind of ledger."

John moved quickly to Soap's side, scanning the document through his small flashlight (still on). It was filled with names, numbers, and symbols—likely coded, meant to disguise the true nature of the transactions. But John recognized the format. It was the kind of account book used in the black market to track sales without leaving a paper trail.

"Harkin has been keeping track of the shipments," John pointed out.

"Supply chain?" Gaz guessed.

"It must be."

"Which means Harkin's has experience in logistics, given by his job experience working in supply chain retail company before being laid off. Groping somebody's ass and being an asshole with egoistic mindset. He's a pawn in this arrangement," Gabby stated. "Someone bigger is pulling the strings."

"Then we cut the strings," John said firmly. "First, we take Harkin. Then we find out where the thread leads."

Before they could say more, Ghost's voice crackled through the comms. "Heads up. I've got movement outside. Harkin's coming back, and he's not alone."

His heart rate spiked, but he kept his voice calm. "How many?"

"Four men, five total," Ghost replied, his tone measured. "Few are armed. Looks like they're heading your way."

Shit.

John exchanged a quick glance with Soap and Gaz. They didn't have much time.

"Alright, we're moving out. Now." John ordered in his hard tone. "Ghost, keep your eyes on them. We'll slip out through the fire escape and regroup."

"Copy."

As they move, they slip out the window to the balcony stairs and move down swiftly. The alley behind the building was narrow and cluttered, a maze of garbage bins and dimly lit street lamps.

John's mind was running at full speed, calculating their next move. They had the intel, but now they needed to get out without causing a full-blown confrontation.

"Ghost, where are they?" John spoke into his comms, scanning the alley for an escape route.

"Harkin headed inside, possibly going upstairs to his space. You've got a ten seconds." Ghost said. "I've got eyes on four players. If you're quick, you can make it before they spot you."

"Move," John ordered, signaling the Sergeants to trail him further until they landed on their feet from the fire escape stairs. They moved silently, but as they neared the corner, the sound of footsteps coming from the opposite direction caught their attention.

His muscles tensed, instincts firing as one of Harkin's men rounded the corner. One of the thug barely had time to register what was happening before John closed the distance between them. His fist came up in a clean arc, connecting squarely with the man's jaw, dropping him to the ground with a thud. The man was out cold before he even hit the pavement.

"Ghost, we've got company!" Soap keyed into his radio as more footsteps echoed through the alley, faster now—closer.

Fucking hell! 

John growled as he pulled his sidearm, ready for what was coming next.

"I'm on it," Ghost said quickly, and they could hear the faint click of a sniper rifle being positioned far from the rooftop.

Seconds later, two more of Harkin's men appeared at the far end of the alley. But, one last of the thug immediately spotted John and the others, his weapon raised as he prepared to open fire. But before the last thug pulled a trigger, aiming at John.

Ghost's rifle cracked through the night, the sharp thwack of a bullet whizzing through the air.

The last man went down, clutching his shoulder, his weapon clattering to the ground. The other thug, who was knocked out from John, barely had time to react when he picked himself up and another shot rang out, this one hitting his chest, sending him crashing to the pavement.

"Targets down," Ghost said in his usual calm tone. "Non-lethal. They're still breathing."

"Is that some CIA shit you got from Laswell before?" Gaz asked.

"What do you think?" Ghost said blankly as if the answer was obvious.

"I can never understand how non-lethal shit is still useful," Gaz commented on it.

"Some of us don't enjoy leaving a trail of corpses behind everywhere we go, Garrick." Ghost's voice crackled back through their radio, "I know that's hard for a man of your subtlety to understand."

Soap snorted from his position, glancing over at Gaz. "Subtlety—aye, that's a new one for you, mate."

Gaz rolled his eyes, his hands tightening on his pistol. "I'm plenty subtle when I need to be."

"Right," Ghost shot back, his voice dripping with annoyance. "And that time in Morocco when you tripped over a goat and knocked over a market stall? That was real covert work. MI6 should be proud."

"Oh, shit! I forgot about the goat!" Soap's face beamed, and he almost chuckled when he glanced at Gaz.

"It wasn't my fault!" Gaz gritted his teeth, shooting a glare toward the rooftop further as if he knew where Ghost was perched, though Gaz couldn't see it. "The damn thing ran right into me!"

"Keep tellin' yourself that." Ghost said, unconvinced.

"Alright, cut the chatter," John interjected, his eyebrows furrowed. "We've got a job to do, and the last thing I need is you boys arguing about goats and shit."

"He started it," Ghost said, his tone suddenly professional.

"Fuck you," Gaz replied back with a scoff.

John ignored the rumbling from Gaz after he exhaled.

Ghost had done what he'd needed him to: take them down without killing them and allowing the authorities to find out who did it. Neither do they want to be thrown into jail for that without a clearance. But just as they were about to escape, Harkin appeared at the mouth of the fire escape from his window. His face twisted in anger as he spotted his injured men on the ground.

"You broke into my fucking space!?" Harkin spat. His eyes locked on John below, and a scowl flickered across his face for a split second.

"Well, it's nice to meet you again," John lifted his gaze and said casually, but his tone was stern. "But I would like to chat with you."

Harkin growled back before he gets himself down from the escape. And when he rushed down before landing on his feet, he stalked toward him.

"You've got some nerve showing your face here after what you pulled," Harkin snarled.

"I'm just here to talk," John said evenly. "No need for things to get messy."

Harkin let out a harsh laugh.

"Bit late for that, don't you think?" He gestured at his men lying unconscious on the ground. "You should have thought about that before you decided to snoop into my business."

John met his glare steadily. "Your business? You mean illegally selling weapons to the highest bidder? That tells me a lot about you in one night."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Harkin demanded. "You special forces types are all the same. Think you can police the whole damn world?"

"Maybe someone has to," he said casually in return.

Before Harkin opened his mouth, John was faster as his fist connected right at his nose to his face. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and Harkin doubled over, gasping for breath before picking himself up. John swung again, landing a solid punch to Harkin's jaw. The young man staggered backward, dazed, before dropping to the ground.

Soap and Gaz watched behind as John stepped forward and lifted Harkin by the shirt collar, pulling him close.

"You should've picked a safe job instead of this," John hissed, his nose flared while his icy blue eyes stare coldly at the young man. "This could've gone different if money wasn't your motivation."

Harkin's eyes were glazed. When his mouth twitched to say something, but John swung one last time as his fist connected to his face, making his unconscious body drop to the ground with a dull thud.

John inhaled and exhaled hard through his nose as the adrenaline began to subside. With Harkin unconscious at his feet, his mind had to became clear.

"Cap'n, you good?" Soap asked, stepping up behind him. His eyes scanned the alley for any remaining threats.

"I'm fine." John flexed his fingerless gloves as the tension in his body slowly ebbed away.

"What do we do with him?" Gaz joined them and asked.

His mind was already moving to the next step. They had what they came for. The intel was in their hands, and Harkin was out cold.

"Take him," John commanded.

Soap grinned, clearly pleased with the outcome. "Looks like this guy's in for one hell of an interrogation."

"Agree." Gaz glanced at Soap before looking at the unconscious figure.

In his mind, John had everything he'd found tonight—the weapons, the ledger, the confirmation that Harkin was involved in something much bigger than he'd expected.

"Ghost," John said into his comms. "We've got Harkin."

"Copy that," Ghost replied, his Manchester accent rumbling through their earpieces. "I'm two clicks away from exfil. Out here."

"Soap, Gaz, pick'em up. We're going back to the van." John ordered before he began walking away.

Soap groaned as he grabbed Harkin under the arms, the dead weight of the unconscious man proving to be more of a challenge than expected.

"Fucking hell, this guy weighs a ton. What's he been eatin'? Cement bricks?"

Gaz grabbed the legs with his own grunt, adjusting his grip. "I don't know, but I swear he's denser than he looks. This is all you, Soap. You've been slacking at the gym."

"Oi, I'm carrying the hard part!" Soap shot back, his voice strained as they shuffled forward. "You've got the twiggy legs. I've got the shoulders—built for real work."

"Twiggy legs?!" Gaz glared at him, adjusting Harkin again as the man's weight threatened to slip. "Keep talkin' and I'll drop this sack of shite and let you carry him solo."

"You think he's heavy? Wait till we're done with him. I can always make him a bit lighter—one way or another." John said harshly, who had been walking a few paces ahead, turned slightly with a frown.

Soap paused mid-step and shot John a wide-eyed look. "Dark as ever, Cap'n. Don't go droppin' him in the Thames just yet."

"Who said anything about the Thames?" John replied dryly before turning away. "I was thinkin' somewhere quieter. More remote."

Gaz muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he struggled to keep Harkin's legs up. "You are a bloody psycho like Ghost."

"And Gabby," Soap added quick.

"You're not wrong," Ghost chimed in through their comms. "But at least you blokes are carrying the bastard. One of you are struggling."

"Cheers," Gaz grumbled. "Any chance you can stop being our backup critic and actually help?"

"Negative," Ghost replied. "I'm leaving overwatch. My grim reaper wife is waiting and I can't risk my sniper rifle carrying itself. You're doin' great, though. Real teamwork."

Soap let out a wheezy laugh. "Gaz, you're gonna need a long soak after this. Maybe even a pint." 

"You boys done bickering? Or do I need to carry him myself?" John turned back over his shoulder, annoyed. 

"Oh, no, no," Soap quickly said, struggling to move faster. "We've got him, Cap'n. Just makin' memories!"

"Memories my arse," Gaz grumbled.

"We're almost to exfil," John cut in and turned his gaze away to the front, his patience thinning. "Ghost, you still got eyes on us?"

"Yeah, and I also got eyes on a bloke down the street looking a little too interested in your direction," Ghost replied casually. "Either he's waiting for a bus or about to get nosy."

"And we know how you feel about nosy people, Bravo Six," Gabby added dryly.

John swore under his breath. "Ghost?"

"Say no more."

A second later, a quiet thwack cut through the night, followed by the distant sound of a body crumpling.

When they left the alley and reached across the road, avoiding being seen by the streetlights. Ghost waited at the extraction point, his back against the white van, he was hugging the rifle on one of his muscled and long sleeved arms. He saw them coming forward before Soap and Gaz dropped Harkin at his feet with a collective groan.

The door of the white van opened as Gabby finally appeared.

"Took you long enough," Gabby remarked, looking down at Harkin's crumpled form. "Thought you were training for the Olympics there."

"Next time," Gaz grunted, rubbing his shoulders, "you can haul that bastard."

"I don't do grunt work," Gabby said flatly. "But me and my hubby offer excellent moral support."

Gaz shot them a glare before kicking Harkin's boot lightly for emphasis. "Still unconscious."

Standing over them all, John took a final glance at Harkin. "He's lucky he's unconscious. Saves him from hearing how much of a pain in the arse he is to carry."

"A-firm," Soap agreed last.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 45✨

👉🏽 Return to Main Post (RTMP) 👈🏽

[panchulien]

Bruvski I just fucking realized your main was moltage /dead anywho back to the regularly scheduled fuckery!!!

Idea one) Nik watching Price curse and swear as he struggles to wrap presents for his boys (read kids) and his sweet daughter Farah (read daughter we all know where she stands) and slapping patch work all over the gaps of the presents to cover gaps. Far to much effort that won't last more then a minute when the men get their hands on it. Not to mention the utter TIME devoted to find the perfect gift for his men.

Ghost, A shiny Charmeleon card just to fuck with the man (I saw the sloppy head post about Charizard) last year was a Charmander. As well as a new oil for the mans equipment. He always was fond of the Egyptian brands. Smoother than silk and fires like a dream.

Gaz, sweet baby boy Gaz the second favorite always, A new cap since he loses his all the time. As well as a vintage Scotch older than him. Got a love for it after joining Nik and Price for late night drinks after helping plan ops. And a new harness, his dumb ass isn't falling out of a helicopter again. And he's not going to forget about it dammit!

Soap, a British flag blanket, hands down. Need to see the bloke froth and bark and grumble before he gets to the good presents. Only if he's a good boy though. The good stuff being, an expensive set of colored charcoals for the ADHD mutt. And a box of bandaids that labels him as an 'idiot, stupid, crybaby' for all the times he gets hurt. And, reluctantly, and a rather poor decision on Prices part. Silk boxers with Scotland's flag on the ass. It takes a stick and threatening to shoot the man for him to not to drop his pants then and there to put them on. Not this Christmas MacTavish!!

Farah, the beautiful best daughter, and sassy brat. Does not get a gag gift, last time Soap and Gaz almost got shot for trying to give her Russian candies. No, Farah gets a new scarf, gun oil like Ghost, she likes a gun with nice performance. This one from Germany. Germany, not Austria I promise. No one brings up Austria. And a small box of chocolates from France. Sweet tooth courtesy of Kate, and enough to take back and share with her friends.

Nik, the man will take everything with grace and remembers to pay it forward, with interest 😉. But in reality, what is there to get a man who buys anything and everything he wants on a whim. Answer, anything because it's the thought he cares for more.

Has the drawings and art Soap has gifted him framed on his walls at home. And all the safe houses he lends the men, his favorite is a small sketch of Nik and Price sleeping while leaning on each other. kept over his heart and easily his favourite.

A dark burgundy Sherpa coat for his trips from Gaz. The man is all class, and will and has shown it on numerous occasions.

And Ghost? Claws up the oldest vintage Vodka and Kvas no longer in circulation. Along with a few notes on some... Rats, so to speak and other fun things. But that's between Nik and Ghost.

It's always agonizing trying to buy for Nik, so Price has given up and learned the best method of buying something for the man. Is the moment he sees something and it makes him think of the man? BUY IT. It's become a game between the two, watching as Nik slowly rolls the item between his large warm hands. A thoughtful and warm look on his face as he mulls over what memory such an item had triggered. The boys being quiet and listening, it's rare to hear Nik speak with such a fond and soft voice. Like a bear settled in to hibernate, half asleep and cheeks red from the liquor.

His favorite? A bar of chocolate, not even made anymore. Rebranded six times before they finally shut down. Only two bites taken out of it and stashed away in a lockbox with his important trinkets such as his grandmums wedding ring. His old dog tags. And a broken knife a fallen comrade had left behind.

This year? A small pair of red mittens, not fitting anyone's hands. But to remind the time the two men had accidentally ran into each other when Nik was calming down a lost little girl. Helping fix her warm mittens on her hands before he looked up and caught Prices gaze. It was easy enough to find the little girls family. But that brief moment, walking around with the little girl on Niks shoulders to try and spot her family. A hand on her back so she didn't fall from Price. It was oddly domestic and something they held close to the heart.

So much I'll have to do a part two in a bit after breakfast 😭 enjoy the word vomit my dear 💖 still gonna be my pan pan 😤

liaaa this is insane. you spoil me. 😭🫶 also yes the main is moltage, where i post about my silly penguin show hehe <33

Price carefully picking every single gift (most time went for Soaps) only to butcher the packaging ahaha. Nikolai is just watching with a smile as the captain swears his ass off at the messed up wrappers.

I love the ideas for gifts also! Ghost and Farah's fit so well (shoutout to Jack for the Pokemon idea even though I didn't understand much of it. It's so sweet hehe)

Gaz too, (although he's gonna roll his eyes at the harness. ''IT WAS ONE TIME, NIK!🙄'' ''Captains idea actually. 😁'') Him joining Nik and Price for drinks is so sweet. Would love to hear what kinda conversation would go around between them. Mostly Nik and Price telling stories of their early days... which Gaz would roll his eyes like ''You guys sound more insufferable than Ghost and Soap.'' earning a belly laugh from Nik and a roll of eyes from John.

Soap is gonna... have a fun time opening those presents lmaooo love that also. Bet his ass had it coming with what gifted people in return.

And Nik's part oughghhg😭 the man cherishes every little thing. Every memory he had with the TF141. And John getting him something because ''it reminded me of you'' ? Are those tears in Nik's eyes? Nope. Just allergies, okay. :)

Nik, ya big softie. I love him so much. Thank you for this Lia! Enjoy your breakfast, I would love to hear a part 2. <3

[sc52]

I truly believe I have a sensory processing disorder because as I get older more and more shit unnerves me. The one that's bugged me out the most in the last five years is deodorant. There is not a brand of traditional deodorant that I like. At all. It all feels gross and wet and sticky. But even though I don't mind my overall natural smell and other queer men might love it, the general populace does not deserve that

Lo! A beautiful solution. Activated charcoal soap. It fucking works. There is not one smell to me but the coco butter lotion I put on. And I mean ZERO. Not even the smell of the soap. Just clean skin. I may have found my miracle of this stuff works. Will post results later.

I truly believe I have a sensory processing disorder because as I get older more and more shit unnerves me.

Could be or you're just gotten older and know what works and what doesnt. Also you give less fucks internally and externally.

There is not a brand of traditional deodorant that I like.

SAME

It all feels gross and wet and sticky.

Glad you've replaced it to something that works, BUT why did you put up with feeling like that for so long?

A beautiful solution. Activated charcoal soap.

You know what, I believe you, cos I used to use this expensive roll on for years but since covid it just got progressively even more expensive year on year.

So I switched to this bargin charcoal stuff you gotta rub on and it works almost as well or just as well as this expensive shit and its so damn cheap.

Granted the old one lasted like 6 months but this stuff is so cheap why would I got back. I should try other activated charcoal stuff...

Will post results later.

👍

idk why you sent me this ask but good for you.

maybe it was to do with musk stuff Ive talked about years ago???

[thetoaddaddy]

☕ Give us the tea, o wise sage!

“I never totally understood the whole ‘manly’ smell stuff. I guess I never had the money when I was young to really care if my packaging was black with burly forest or spice scents. It’s not like it lasts that long on you anyways. I got a feeling that most men who buy these things do so because they feel they have to rather than liking the smell. Buy the citrus dream or the gentle cleansing oat with honey, no one with shit to do really cares and those who do are people you probably don’t talk to on a regular bases anyhow…. I do like hard soaps. Those travel well. I just happen to get the charcoal and rose one. Best of both worlds and the ingredients don’t damage the rivers I usually wash my ass in.”

[yandere-islandvn]

These men were trapped on the island for 6 months, so how does hygiene work, like brushing teeth, showering, washing hair and even washing clothes?

( the research I have done and PLANNED for... Finally asked about (⁠~⁠‾⁠▿⁠‾⁠)⁠~ )

Alright! So, they have access to running water, but they also have access to plants with saponins, which are plants that have that bubbling soapy ability and were used to clean back before soap was a thing.

The game takes place off the coast of California, so I'd say they have access to soap lilies.

(these plants right here)

Anywho, that's how they'd clean their clothes, hair, and bodies!

As for their teeth, they use a cloth, charcoal, and water to keep as clean as they can. (Fun fact: the only one with an actual toothbrush on the island is Icarus.)

[thebigcomed0wn]

help i just happened upon a “women use exfoliating charcoal mango milk scrubs and men use stale 3 in 1” thread im laughing my ass off IM THE BOYFRIEND HORROR STORIES IN THESE SITUATIONS…. sorry about my 1 bottle in my shower and Bar of soap. are you mad atme

[augment-techs]

Closet (Location Prompts) - SkullBilly

Sketches of young men and young women in charcoal. Little scribbles of poetry and songs and phrases that both sounded familiar and foreign when spoken aloud. Stretches of beach towels and knitted blankets in something like a nest on the floor that looked incredibly comfortable as Billy carefully eased the sliding door to the side to let in his head and only a little sliver of light.

Stretched out and pressed back into the body pillow Kimberly had gotten him in a fit of empathy she showed often towards the other Rangers, but almost never towards anyone else, Skull's exhausted figure looked a little bit like a painting from the salon in the 1800s. Pale skin, flushed face, hair fluffy but in a flyaway sense; Billy knew the young man wasn't wearing any clothes underneath the silk auburn sheet covering him from toes and up to the little back of the tiny figure perched on his chest. Both the tiny baby and his mother-father barely looked to be breathing, which set a shock through Billy in the paranoia reigning supreme in his psyche since the violent and completely unplanned pregnancy and birth, the seemingly never ending surgeries for Eugene in the aftermath, and the anxiety of what the new parent was supposed to do now that his "mother" had kicked him out of the house. (Billy had offered his bedroom point blank; but Skull refused the bed and instead took up the closet so as to feel better about two things: not feeling like he was in the way, disrupting Billy's life and keeping the impression that being in the dark and out of place would keep the two safe.) But then he looked again, and found tired, but warm, fairy blue eyes blinking up at him, the tiniest smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "Please come in," he whispered, smoothing the palm of his hands along his newborn's fluffy pitch black hair and the inhumanly smooth skin of his back; smiling wider at the little puff of air he gave as he snuggled closer to his parent's skin, curling up tight like a kitten, "And shut the door. I've got a bit of a headache, and I don't want him to wake up asking for his breakfast too early." Billy practically launched himself forward, steady on tiptoes, and utterly silent as he closed the door as requested. Carefully, still so carefully, the blond got down on his knees and hands and eased himself into a better position as Skull lifted his arm to wrap around Billy's shoulders as the other young man set his back against the incredibly comfortable pillow (damn, Kim must have spent a small fortune on the thing; Billy could fairly make out the feeling of goose down and creamy sheep wool) and his cheek and forehead along Skull's neck. He tried not to focus on the smell of sweat and the milk Skull was still getting used to producing, a small tang of iron from the blood that could not help but bloom from the baby's teeth when he suckled. Instead his brain insisted on pointing out that, yes, Skull had followed through with his promise to take a shower when the baby had gone down for his nap while Billy was out at Promethea and helping Miss Sterling. He could smell the sweet honeysuckle and goat's milk triple milled soap Billy had gotten for Skull especially; and as Billy brought a hand up to mirror Skull's along the baby's back, he could also pick up on the plain, natural smell of Skull's hair air drying in the little space. Their fingers weaved around each other, both trying to commit the memory of tiny spine and ribs and arms to memory, and Billy settled more fully against Skull's side as the taller of the two closed his eyes to ease against the headache. "I'm really glad you came here, Eugene," Billy whispered, out of the blue and seemingly out of nowhere, but not at all embarrassed. Skull tilted his head, almost floppy and kissed the side of Billy's face, right where the the shape of his glasses always stalled the creeping of a sunburn until only recently, as Billy had started wearing contacts because the baby kept trying to steal and break them. "I'm really glad you asked."

[daincrediblegg]

2 and 10 for Lady Terror!

your wish is my command nonnie!!! FEEL FREE TO SEND ME MORE OF THESE

2.What is their grooming routine? (how do they treat themselves in private) Well, on Erebus she has her own wash basin in her cabin, so she does a quick cloth wash every other day or so. She has a supply of castille soap (very lightly scented with lavender), and does her hair at least once a week (powdering it on the off days when she can't find the time to fully enjoy her time at the basin). Has a lovely monogramed boar's hair brush, and a toothbrush and powder she also uses on her wash days. Occasionally she's been offered the use of Sir John's tub in the forecastle on Erebus, but greatly prefers to cloth bathe at her own basin. Favorite part of her day honestly is splashing her face with cold water in the morning when she wakes and at night before she goes to bed (and she usually bathes at night- less bustle and more privacy than she'd be given during the day).

10. What objects do they always carry around with them? (What do they need for their normal, day-to-day routine? What does ‘normal’ even look like for them.)  There are a few objects that tend to stay on her person throughout the day. She carries a ribbon in her pocket for tying her hair back should the occasion arise (though she tends to keep at least her forelocks tied back neat so they don't get in the way of her work), and she is almost always seen with a stick of pressed charcoal and her notebook in which she writes her own scattered observations and inquiries to be investigated later, as well as some sketches she has done both of the landscape and the men on the expedition at work, and some brief poetical scribblings. She also has her father's old navigation instruments (a Golden sextant, for example, and matching spyglass), and carries around in her waistcoat pocket an engraved pocket watch he had made for her (a gift specifically for this expedition). Most of her daily duties as a Junior Ice Master change from day to day. Usually employed by Mr. Reid (or, more often than not, Mr. Blanky- who engages more amicably with her and respects her expertise more as a pier than Mr. Reid) with assistance in filling in their maps and charts and other menial tasks fit for her station, including recordings of atmospheric interest. At night, however, is when she tends to work most with her own chart of the arctic stars for her own publication upon her return to England and her in-depth record of atmospheric phenomena. (Also of note, that she does not keep on her person but rather tucked away in her drawers away from the other books in her library is a handful of early erotica novels for her own leisure (some even inscribed to her as gifts), as well as some manuscripts from her friends in the literary world- including some from Edgar Allan Poe.

[y-the-youthful]

all texts <3

㊁ : emergency

[TXT: B-e-a-uuuu-tiful]

Something's wrong with the doors, they won't unlock, we can't get out.

♡ : endearing/affectionate/loving

[TXT: B-e-a-uuuu-tiful]

How are you so adorable when you sleep? You're all curled up like a kitten and sound like a really little lawn mower.

👅 : sext/suggestive

[TXT: B-e-a-uuuu-tiful]

[It's just a selfie]

♪ : musical/lyrics

[TXT: B-e-a-uuuu-tiful]

I'm starving, darling Let me put my lips to something Let me wrap my teeth around the world

★ : wrong number

[TXT: B-e-a-uuuu-tiful]

It might be an idea to get B involved. No, I'm not biased, shut up, I'll eat your soap, he's a reliable individual especially when it comes to spitting on the legacy of Wammy's House.

☯ : angry/hateful

[TXT: Bastard.]

You think I want to stay in this wretched pit of misery? You bastard, how dare you leave me behind. I hope we both die.

♖ : drunk/drugged

[TXT: Bastard]

I know you don't answer this number anymore, but I got something scary to tell you. I have enough ibuprofen in me to kill ten men and I just got shot in the head. It went straight through my brain. My hands aren't shaking. I don't think I'm human anymore. I'm going to sleep.

♛ : worried

[TXT: Bastard]

Even at your most disguised and vicious I can smell you out of a crowd. It is distinctly you. Wood ash and charcoal with the distinct sour undertone of orange. What I am saying is I passed by you last night and you look terribly thin. Please eat.

♘ : late night

[TXT: Bastard]

I'm sorry I said I hope we both die. I hope we both come out of this hell better. I think we're overdue a damn break.

[milkyraewishes]

Dove Men charcoal and clay bar soap makes me feel like a tomboy fkhjhfdjkshds

feminine gender euphoria from male geared smell lmao