In All Timelines And In All Possibilities 🫶🏻

beautiful work, as always! Now what if I nonchalantly slip my hand down their pants? Like a stress toy....or ball, I guess....stress balls?

Gaz: the flincher. He’ll always be a little tense if you slip your hands in there without warning and grab his balls. He’s one of those people where if the cops drive by he’s like “this is it they’re gonna take me away” even though he literally hasn’t done anything so when you grab his balls he’s like “this is it I must’ve done something and now my nuts are gonna get gorilla gripped”. And what’s crazy is that he accepts that fate straight away.

Soap: he’s getting hard about it the minute the tip of your pinky breaches waistband.

Ghost: the number 1 fan of “just playin’ with ‘em”. Loves to mindlessly paw at you just to relax. So he’ll be 100% into you treating him like a stress toy.

Price: laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah, sweetheart, they’re still there.” Also in the very back of his mind he is wondering if there’s a chance testicular massage can contribute to rate of conception but he’ll never say that.

simon riley pisses on your leg when you shower together and he either does it and has a smug little grin when you turn around with a blank stare (unamused but also unbothered, used to his antics by now) or he’s standing super close, one hand on the back of your neck to force very direct eye contact, and the other holding his dick to your thigh… he might even aim the stream just below your belly button

he's marking his territory. he's probably ticked off because some asshole smiled at you when you were out running errands and you didn't immediately snap at him that you already had a man.

thinks it's funny when you squirm and try to pull away because it's gross, you say. that's the point. he's gonna get it through your thick skull that if you're gonna entertain men by being cutesy and flashing your pretty smile at them then you have to deal with the consequences.

Welp, since absolutely no one asked

Here are the types of bodies I think the 141 have ✨

TF141 x Female Reader

Tags: cum eating, blow jobs, oral (fem receiving), cumming in pants, multiple orgasms

Warning: NSFW imagery beneath cut

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

As far as sheer beauty goes, Gaz might top them all. I head canon Kyle as being pretty lean, body composed of sculpted, sheer muscle. He's got a slim frame, like a runner or boxer.

Graceful. Strong. Built for endurance and agility.

What's more? It's fucking effortlessssss. Like, legitimately. When he was a middle schooler, he might have been told he was skinny once or twice. But the minute he hit his growth spur and shot up like a bean stalk, no one could say shit.

Why?

Because Gaz looks like a goddamn male model and he doesn't even have to do anything to maintain it.

Perfect skin? Yep. He uses five dollar lotion.

Legs like a ballerina? Uh-huh. The only training he does is for work.

Sculpted, mouth-watering abs? Check. They were built by McDonald's fries, Netflix, and the grace of God himself.

Let's face it. Gaz looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine purely because the lord has favorites. Let's move on.

Now, Gaz might only go the extra mile when it comes to work training...

But those muscles didn't just come from anywhere.

And the first time Gaz gets you underneath him, cock pounding into you for what feels like hours, you finally fucking understand.

Gaz's body—slick, strong, and slim—is built for agility. For endurance.

It's built for trapping you beneath the length of his covetous frame until you're too exhausted to struggle. For holding you down until he's dripping with sweat, until every muscle in his shaking body screams for a break.

Until his long, aching cock is slowly dripping semen onto the flat of your stomach.....for the third time in the past hour.

Gaz might loathe running the track, but he'll have you fucking like bunnies until you manage to buck him off.

The man has stamina that could rival a racehorse, and god help any woman that found herself in his grasp.

"Sit still, baby," he pants loudly, wrenching the globes of your ass in two of his model-esque hands, "M'not fuckin' done yet. One more...I just—need one more."

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Now Soap? probably the exact opposite of Gaz.

When body building became popular online, Soap jumped right on the bandwagon. Perhaps he grew up as the youngest brother in a horde of boys...or perhaps he was just tired of being the shortest boy on the football team...

But the minute he was old enough to afford a gym subscription, he was there. From dusk 'til dawn, practically. To Johnny, the gym is more than just a hobby. It's a lifestyle, and one that he enjoys immensely.

Soap is bulky, built of bulging muscle, broad shoulders, and thin hips. Every inch of it, from his plush chest to his cut abs, was painstakingly earned by hours of pumping iron.

He goes lifting six days a week, tracks all of his nutrition down to the last calorie. Everything he puts into his body is tracked and monitored--and that's the way he likes it.

He'd never say it aloud, but if it were up to him, I think he'd be the type to participate in those fitness/body building competitions.

In simple terms though? Without all those fancy words? "Macros?" "BCAAS?" What the hell is that?

In layman's terms...

Johnny has arms like tree trunks and ass for fucking DAYS. With the bulk and cut cycle, he oscillates between beautifully fatty in the thighs....to shredded like a piece of paper.

You can't help but watch him go back and forth, mind reeling with the change.

In the winter, you rest your head against the soft plains of his stomach while you lap at the head of his cock, soft and squishy from holiday cookies and hot cocoa. You like him like this.

Full. Rosy cheeked. Cock leaking strings of slick in the dip of his belly button, semen thin and stringy in your mouth.

In the summer? God help you.

In the summer, Johnny's out more than he's in, running himself ragged between his diet, work, and the gym. When he comes home, he's grumpy and agitated, balls achingly full, and semen thick after months of careful water intake.

His caloric intake might be down...but he prefers a different type of eating, anyway.

Good thing he has all those muscles. All the better to hold you down while he fucks you on his tongue.

"Johnny—" you mewl, shoving at his head when his tongue curls around your clit again, "It's past five already—aren't you ready for dinner?"

His lips pop when he pulls off of your swollen clit, eyes glazed over while he watches the way your pussy leaks.

"M'not hungry, doll," he mutters, "Got more than enough to eat here, anyway..."

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Simon Riley....

Now, he's just a big fucking boy. Like, 6'4, over 250 lbs type of big.

Hear me out. Contrary to popular belief, I think Simon has more trouble keeping weight on than keeping it off. I wholeheartedly believe that when he was a teenager he was a thin guy.

Like, he'd fully grown into his height, but just didn't have the nutrition to support it. Simon doesn't cook, and...for lack of a better description, he's not great at taking care of himself. When he was a teenager, still trapped in his parents house, he probably skipped more meals than he ate. And before he joined the army, I think it's safe to say he was a lanky, underweight kid.

But the minute that man starts eating three meals a day?

GODDAMN DOES HE GROW. Like, I'm pretty sure by the end of basic training his drill sergeants were terrified of the monster they'd created.

Simon's fucking heavyyyyyy. Built equally of fat and muscle. He likes the gym, but his body isn't built for the magazine. It's built for utility. For war. For fucking blood. He doesn't care about appearances. He needs strength than can kill.

Barrel chest. Biceps bigger than your head. Stomach muscled and heaving. A trail of wispy, blonde hair leading down from his belly button into the hefty bulge at the front of his pants....

Simon's a behemoth, and anyone whose fought him on the mat knows better than to stand within his arms' reach.

Now, his weight fluctuates pretty heavily, too. A rough few months in the field could see his weight dropping quickly, in which case his hard earned muscle would show through.

But when he's on leave?

...homeboy sustains himself on granola bars and ramen noodles. He gets soft around the middle and also should probably drink more water but...good luck trying to get him to eat more than convenience store junk. He’ll set the kitchen on fire if he tries to boil some water.

Simon's big.

And he's big everywhere.

The zippers on his jeans are remarkably tight. His fatigues look almost like lingerie on his thick thighs. And if he's wearing grey sweatpants?Simon's a lethal fucking weapon at that point.

Why am I telling you this?

Because the first time you see him naked, you might be tempted to reconsider opening your legs for a man like him...your cervix will be bruised to hell and back--not to mention your ass and thighs, too. His hands aren't kind like Kyle's, nor are they careful like Johnny's.

He'll rough you up, pound into you like any reasonable woman could ever manage to take the full length of him without crying.

He'll bite his identity into your collarbones, burn his fingerprints into the fat of your ass cheeks. And when it's all said and done, he'll bully the fattened head of his ruddy cock between your lips and watch the tears drip from your eyes, swollen mouth quivering when you try to swallow his cum.

And if it's all too much to handle? Good luck getting out from under him. Because once you're there, you're not leaving unless you can push him off, match his strength, or make him cum fast enough to leave before he's hard again.

Though, nobody's ever managed it before...not like they'd ever want to.

"Mm—Simon, you're—“

"Shhhh, love," he grunts, your body shoved flat to the mattress beneath his massive frame, "Don't move. Don't fuckin' move. I'm almost there, just....fuck, sit still and let me fill you up, yeah? Then I'll let you go...I promise this time."

Captain John Price

Now, if there is anyone in the 141 that actually enjoys the food they eat, it's Price.

HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

okay so, Price, as a Captain, probably makes substantially more than the other three. That, and he's a good bit older too. He's past his prime (or so he thinks), and whether or not he has a perfect six pack when he looks in the mirror is the LAST thing he could ever care about.

Price isn't one for keeping up appearances--at least not as it concerns his body shape.

Is his beard trimmed and oiled? Always. He's damn near neurotic about it.

Is he always freshly showered, groomed, and cologne-d? Without a doubt. It's a point of pride.

Does the watch he's wearing compliment his clothing? he spends a STUPID amount of time thinking about it.

Will he gain another pound if he eats the Oreo cheesecake at the end of the night? Yep. And he'll enjoy every. Single. Second of it.

Price is as close to a foodie as a purebred military man can get. He loves cooking, and he recently remodeled his kitchen. He has GREAT taste in wine and spirits, and has spent a significant amount on amassing a good collection in his house.

If there's one word that describes Price, it's this: DECADENCE.

This man drinks, smokes, and eats as much as he pleases because he's lived long enough to learn the value of hedonism.

Why skip the cigs for the cigar when you could smoke both? Why stop at popping a just a single bottle bottle? Why not order the most expensive steak on the menu? Or the thickest slice of chocolate cake you've ever seen? What, like he'll regret it?

Price doesn't regret anything, and his body reflects that.

Of course, due to his profession, he never truly falls out of athletic shape (he's ready to be called away at a moments notice, after all). But he's LONG SINCE ditched his glory days. Like the others, his body fluctuates between highly cut to soft around the edges.

Price is thick around the ribs and plush in the chest. His weight settles around his hips and arms, making his biceps fluff up if he eats enough. His stomach is soft and sweet. So are his thighs.

The only thing that doesn't change?

The hair. Holy shit this man has a lot of chest hair.

All in all, Price likes a good meal, but he's still in elite fighting shape. Though, unlike the other three, his age stops him from being purely athletic. If anything, he looks more like a construction worker or landscaper. Someone who spent a long time building things with their hands instead of running laps around the track.

Now, what was that about decadence? Drinking, smoking, eating...

Price was indulgent in every sense of the word. Indulgent to himself, to his friends, and to his family.

But in bed?

The way Price fucks makes you understand why people let their teeth rot for another bite of Halloween candy.

Price wouldn't know moderation if it hit him in the face. And when it comes to your pleasure, to your body in and of itself, Price will be damned if you walk away without a smile on your face.

He's a service Dom through and through. Hell, just feeling your cunt clench around his fingers, your voice crying through another orgasm, is nearly enough to make him cum in his pants.

He'd done it before, too.

Was he embarrassed about it?

Not at all.

"John," you gasp, watching his length twitch rapidly beneath his jeans, a wet spot appearing at the top of his bulge, "Did you just..."

"Yeah," he groans between kisses, "So what?"

"It's—It's just that...isn't that a little—"

"Embarrassing?" he chuckles, "Hardly...Not if you'll go as red as I think you will when I let you lick me clean."

To John, watching you lap at his softening cock--and enjoy it too--is more than enough to get his blood pumping.

He'd always give you exactly what you want...even if you didn't have the guts to ask for it aloud.

He's about to rain down a million smooches

Thank you so much to @tacticallyunsoundjohnnyboy for commissioning me to draw my favourite husbands 🫶

laughing crying thinking about calling price “bro” after sex that he pauses mid-lighting up his cigar to look at you with that really deep frown, before murmuring, “don’t call me that—i just came in you.”

𝖾𝗑-𝖿𝗐𝖻!𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 “𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵” 𝗋𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗑 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗐𝖻!𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 “𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘱” 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗑 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖼𝗐 : 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾

𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾.

𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌; 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗇𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝖽 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗑. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍?

𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾. 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖻𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆: 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎: 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾. 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝗒, 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉—𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌—𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌.

"𝘺𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 '𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰' 𝘧𝘶𝘯," 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽? 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗄𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄.

𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌.

𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗁. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽-𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒. 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 141. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅. 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽.

𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒? 𝗈𝗁, 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗒, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀.

𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇. "𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥?" 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝖽, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽, "𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦. 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘺𝘦," 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾.

𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗑. 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗇𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗀𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗎𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝖺𝗓. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌.

𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖺𝗅.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍. 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗉—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗐, 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗐, 𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗉𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐? 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

"𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵, 𝘓.𝘛.?" 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗋. "𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘺𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸?" 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗌𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍'𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍. 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍.

𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗋. 𝖻𝗎𝗍, 𝗀𝗈𝖽, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻? 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐.

𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽.

𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽?

𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨.

𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢

original pic:

I love that for ec!141 soap and gaz always try to be respectful with reader, but what do you think would break them?

Sleepy reader falling asleep between them on the couch

realizing you feel safe enough to curl up, head resting on Gaz’s shoulder and your feet tucked under Soap’s thighs (bonus points if you’re wearing one of the random tshirts the four of them share)

Gaz trying so hard not to move, but his blood feels like molten lava when your pretty eyes blink open, looking up at him, voice sleep laden as you try to get comfortable again

“don’t move… you’re comfy..” and you’re already nodding off again, tucked safely between two of your newest guard dogs

nosferatu is abt to be my number 1 hear me out. man said “you are my affliction” “i cannot be sated without you” “i am an appetite, nothing more” HELLO?????

thinking about toxic!ex!simon.....

The banging on the door is relentless, a pounding that vibrates through the frame and straight into your chest. It’s raining so hard that it sounds like the sky itself is cracking open, drowning out his muffled voice on the other side. But you hear him anyway, broken and raw. “Let me in. For fuck’s sake, please let me in.”

Your stomach twists. You don’t want to see him. You shouldn’t see him. But your hand moves to the lock on instinct, and when you open the door, the sight of him makes your breath catch.

Simon is on the edge of ruin. Rain streaks down his face, plastering his hoodie to his skin, his hair curling and dripping. His mask is gone, leaving him exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. His eyes—wild, bloodshot, hollow—meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you says a word. He's on the verge of self-destruction.

Then, before you can speak, he collapses to his knees.

It’s not graceful. It’s not controlled. It’s desperate. His body hits the ground with a thud, his palms catching against the threshold like they’re the only thing holding him together. You take a step back, expecting him to get up, to say something sharp or clipped, but he doesn’t. He leans forward, and...

He crawls.

He crawls inside like a wounded mutt, breathing ragged and uneven. His massive hands dragging against the floor until they find your legs. You try to move back, but he follows, until his forehead is pressed to your stomach, his massive frame trembling as he clutches at you. His fingers dig into your hips, holding onto you like he's drowning, his head tilting back to look up at you.

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens. “Don’t,” he growls, the sound guttural, primal. The look in his eyes is feral—something broken and starving and so goddamn human it makes your heart ache.

“Y'don’t get it,” he spits, his voice trembling. “I can't be sated without ya, love, don’t y'see? You’re in me. You’re fuckin' inside me, and no matter what I do, I can’t tear y'out.”

He buries his face against you again, messily planting his lips against any ounce of skin open to worship. “I’ll fuckin' beg. I’ll get on m'knees—between y'thighs—every night if I have to. Just—don’t leave me again. Please. I’ll fuckin' die without you.”

You inhale sharply, your hands hovering at your sides as his shoulders shake. The rain drips from him, pooling on your floor, but he doesn’t care. He clutches at you tighter, his voice dropping into something dark and guttural. “I'm an appetite, nothing more. I was made to need ya, to crave ya. And I can’t—” His voice cracks, and he presses his face harder into you, his breath hot and ragged through his sobs. “I can’t fuckin' live without you, baby—please.”

You should push him away, should tell him to leave, but instead, you stand frozen, overwhelmed by the storm of him—the raw hunger, the consuming despair, the way he folds himself into you, desperate to make himself whole again. He’s feral, ruined, a shadow of himself, and all of it is for you.

How could you deny him?

mlist

trim

MDNI

pairings: nameless male character (probably reads best as ghost) x buzzcut reader (implied afab) words: ~700 summary: he trims your hair. warnings/notes: some gender feelings but mostly comfort, got a silly transphobic anon a couple of days ago and wanted to ~write it out~ then read this heartwarming drabble by @secretsynthetic and was inspired :3

“hair’s gettin' long,” thick fingers card through your short hair, blunt nails scratching lightly at your scalp a moment later. the words are barely a murmur, but they make you shift uncomfortably.

“i know.”

“you growin’ it out?”

“do you want me to?”

you don’t know why you ask. he’s never given any indication that he cares about the length of your hair. no “wish i could run my fingers through it” comments while you’re cuddling or “miss having something to pull” during sex. in fact, he’s always been supportive of your little routines, the ways you make your life easier.

“up,” he demands, a quick swat to your thigh before he rises from the bed, leaving you to mirror him. you would do just about anything he told you to, especially on his first day back on leave. “get the chair outside, y’know the deal.”

with a small smile you slide your desk chair away from its spot in the bedroom, carefully carrying it around shelves and furniture until its strong legs plant into the grass in the backyard. the old towels are stacked in the hallway closet and you dig out the one smudged with hair dye from his last leave. you can’t remember what it was for, tinting his roots or your brows. but it smells like your favorite fabric softener and the slight musk of being locked away as you pin it around your shoulders and settle back into your chair outdoors.

he’s already waiting for you, your preferred guard – marked with a small heart in permanent marker – secure on the clippers as they hum to life. “look up,” he instructs, and as you obey you’re met with a clear, blue sky before your eyes close and you allow yourself to relax.

he starts at your hairline, sweeping back in long, straight strokes, perfected from the trims you’ve requested over the years. almost every two weeks, schedules permitting, ever since you described the hassle of getting it done at a shop. the buzzcut was a matter of convenience most days, but others a symbol of an identity hovering over the tip of your tongue. it was meant to make your life easier, and yet every time you sat in a chair and adorned one of those shiny black capes, the nosy questions and patronizing compliments would wipe any semblance of peace from your mind. the horrible disappointment that came when one hairdresser looked you in your reflected eye and said, “it'll look better with earrings.” the glances of disapproval or sympathy, questioning whether you’re sick or just odd.

what if you were neither? what if it were just hair? it’s not, unfortunately, but you wish it were.

“chin down,” he hums and you follow.

the base of your skull is always your favorite. when the sound of the large clippers die out and the smaller, almost tinny buzz of the trimmer fills your ears, your bare toes happily tap and dance over the ground. he chuckles, reminding you to settle before his cool fingertips meet the skin of your nape, holding you in place while he works on the finer details.

the area always proved difficult to trim when you were on your own, struggling to get the angles right between the reflection of two mirrors. but his movements are muscle memory, ritualistic. it can’t be more than half an inch of hair that he shears away, but you feel lighter, brighter, the sunlight warming the crown of your head.

he sniffs when he’s done, flipping the trimmer off and carefully peeling the hairy towel away from your shoulders. “shower?”

“will you come, too?”

“'course,” he scoffs, shaking the towel out over the grass as you make your way back inside, desperate to rid yourself of the thousands of tiny little hair fragments itching at your neck and chest.

you prefer the water to be too hot, but he never complains. just slides in behind you and waits his turn, lining up the products you use in their correct order. he likes lathering the scalp scrub, smiling when you hum about feeling better already. he holds you steady as you step back under the shower head, tugging him with you into the stream. your troubles wash away in the current, like water off a duck’s back, spinning down the drain to never be worried over again.

life is easier.