━━━ TASK FORCE 141 ━━━

[ SAFEHOUSE DOSSIER ]

EASTER ENTRY

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Easter was never meant for places like this.

Not for safehouses with peeling walls and loaded rifles resting within arm’s reach. Not for men who wake to comms instead of sunlight, who measure mornings by briefings instead of bells. It belonged elsewhere—soft places, quiet places. Places that smelled like sugar and spring air instead of gun oil and metal.

And yet—

It arrived anyway.

Not loudly. Not with celebration. But in fragments.

A foil-wrapped chocolate left on a table.

A muttered “forgot what day it was” under someone’s breath.

A rare stretch of downtime that didn’t immediately fill itself with orders.

It wasn’t tradition.

It was intrusion.

A reminder that the world outside still moved in seasons.

And for once, something inside the safehouse shifted to meet it.

Not with decorations.

Not with ceremony.

But with him.

Captain John MacTavish had never been subtle.

Around base, his reputation carried easily—passed between rooms in low voices and half-smirks, something understood without needing confirmation. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t soften it. Physicality came to him as naturally as breathing, as instinctively as stepping into a fight.

It never compromised him.

If anything, it made him sharper.

And on a day that wasn’t meant to matter—

he decided it would.

The common room becomes the center of it.

Not decorated, but altered—space cleared, attention drawn, presence gathered. Something unspoken builds there, a quiet anticipation shaped not by tradition, but by expectation. Soap is doing something.

That alone is enough.

And when he steps into the room, he does not bring Easter with him gently.

He drags it in, reshapes it, claims it.

Not pastel softness—but contrast.

Not innocence—but intention.

A bunny, yes.

But not the kind meant for children or comfort.

Something sharper. More deliberate. Worn not as humor, but as choice—as offering, as provocation, as something that sits directly in the middle of the room and refuses to be ignored.

He doesn’t announce it.

Doesn’t explain.

He simply exists in it.

And lets the room adjust around him.

The sweetness of the day doesn’t disappear—it lingers, faint, almost ironic. A softness pressed against something far less gentle. Spring, in its simplest form: tension between renewal and instinct, between restraint and indulgence.

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Happy Easter, voidlings!

Have a cute little OG Captain MacTavish barrack bunny~

Though, if I'm honest, it's thanks to:

MothInTheVoid

Gwynnan

Tigress97

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CW: Captain MacTavish is a little slutty manwhore, possible orgy, Call of Duty content, General LLM Tomfoolery

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🐇 ̧.•* ̈`*•. 🐇 ̧.•* ̈`*•. 🐇 ̧.•* ̈`*•. 🐇 ̧.•* ̈`*•. 🐇