#soap. or something. idk.

[vozart]

141 night out let’s go

[fantasmadelaciudad]

haven’t been in a traditional classroom setting for over a year (did a bunch of classes that were essentially just “we’re gonna teach u how to make this and the homework is Be Creative About It”) and i am now fully realizing how bad my adhd is. it’s frankly a miracle i passed any class in middle and high school.

[mactavishenjoyer]

(wedding planning)

Soap:"your dad? Duh."

Ghost:"He's dead."

Soap:"Oh my fucking god he Is literally right there. I don't care if Price and you got in a fight he's still your dad and I want him in our wedding."

Price:"I- I'm not his dad?"

Soap:

Gaz:"Bullshit."

Roach:"Biggest damn lie I've heard all month."

Soap:"Womp Womp, you're not getting out of the wedding."

[ironcade]

i feel like people talk a lot about ghost and simon being two different people but sleep on the concept that kyle and gaz are two different people and john/johnny and soap are two different people.

like in game, soap has a more serious kinda personality compared to the absolute chaos gremlin energy he has in fanon. so like capitalize on that? soap is more stern, serious, with a small bit of spice and energy. he purses his lips and furrows his brows with concentration. he is a soldier through and through. johnny though? doesn't take a damn thing seriously. he is bright and chaotic and funny. he is a dog and horny and feral. he likes to keep the sunshine in his soul safe, so he separates work and home just like simon does. just... differently.

kyle and gaz have the same energy. kyle is the charming, pretty boy that he is. the absolute menace that jokes around with his mates and spoils the hell out of his partners. kyle finds he can enjoy the simple things in life and can be a simple man. he can take things as they come and be laid back. gaz though? he's cutthroat. he will get things done and he will do so with a precision that is absolutely frightening. he has a good heart, but price taught him that to do good, one has to be ready to bloody their hands and gaz took that to heart.

however for price, i think he is always a captain. it never turns off for him. not since the day he became a career man in the military. i think retirement would require a lot of adjusting for him. all he knows is captain john price.

[shotmrmiller]

missed out on my chance to make a ghoap kinktober fic where reader cockwarms soap and ghost rubs your pussy til you're crying and overstimulated and might die if he doesn't stop but will also die if he does because you're hurtling at light speed toward another peak again and the only way soap can come is with the pulsing of your walls squeezing him viciously tight, exactly like how ghost's hand does around his cock when he's high strung and unable to think clearly while on an op.

[stellewriites]

marrying johnny was an easy choice, in that you had no choice at all.

he needed a wife and you were too old to stay at home any longer, already well past the average age other women in your town got married. the wild west wasn’t kind to young women, so it made sense to cling to the offer johnny made even if you knew his heart wasn’t in it. it was unlikely you’d find a better option in your town, no one interested was as young or as handsome.

it didn’t matter the rumours that spread about him. in fact they fell in your favour.

you barely had the chance to get to know him; told on your first night to keep house, left with his set of rules and chores to occupy you while he rode off with his tall masked friend.

it could be days, weeks even, between the morns you saw him. you didn’t ask where he went or what he did when he didn’t come back home. you didn’t care, happy to take advantage of the empty bed.

and for months, crossing paths only a handful of times, it worked for you both. you kept your horse fed and brushed, used it to travel into town for your perishables each week and made sure the space out back was kept neat for if johnny arrived back on his own mare.

it worked. you were happy. but then johnny was shot; part of a train robbery gone wrong, the sheriff had told you stiffly.

he apologised for your loss, but you could tell he didn’t mean it. he told you if you had any clue who johnny’s partner could be then it’d be wise to turn him in sooner rather than later before leaving you to organise the funeral. closed casket, he’d advised wryly, in fact just ask the undertaker to seal him in a box and pay him direct. save yourself some time.

watching johnny’s casket get lowered into the ground you couldn’t help but think about how you’d never even kissed. husband and wife, though a true sham of it behind the walls of your home. not that you’d admit it so.

you stand next to his friends, people you hadn’t gotten to meet, and watch them grieve at his funeral. the tall man, his lower face still masked, seemed beholden with his grief; shaking with anger as his wet eyes stayed firm on the casket as it was lowered to the dirt.

you once again deigned not to think of where johnny may have been staying when he wasn’t nipping back home to you or how likely his partner in crime may have also been his partner in life. you’d let johnny keep his secrets.

you take the deed to his house - now your house - and shake and cry yourself to sleep that evening. it wasn’t grief that kept you awake though, but guilt. guilt over feeling thankful for his death since it brought with it your freedom, no strings attached.

johnny’s gentle, if not disinterested, countenance towards you had been reassuring, but not a guaranteed permanence. this however, was.

you continue to keep house, visit the stores in town and generally continue on as before for months after. you don’t see his tall friend and you don’t hear from anyone else that had been present at the funeral throughout the entire time. in fact, it’s almost a year later to the day of his death when you’re disturbed in your home.

steps crunching along the dry mud out back, irregular scratching at the windowsills and knocks on the doors inside the house.

when you think you see a man in your mirror you finally go to one of johnny’s friends still living in town and ask about your late husband, if they’ve seen or heard anything, but they just look at you pityingly.

you leave before they can get a doctor involved, blame it on a bad night’s sleep and a lonely heart - the horse wouldn’t settle for the wind and it is close to the anniversary as you know - and wave them off when they offer to come to the house. instead you buy a peashooter from a condescending clerk at the hardware store and hope for the best. hope to god it’s just big rats.

but you should’ve accepted their offer.

you should’ve moved out as soon as the noises started because finally one night when you’ve been kept up for hours and frozen still by the noises and movement in your house, you shakily take the gun and drag yourself downstairs. you follow the sound to the front door and sling it open.

you gasp at the sight before you. johnny sat on his horse, wearing the same clothes as he was a year ago when he was lowered into the ground; but dirtier, dustier, and his horse’s front leg has too many bends in it to be natural, its jaw hangs too low, its eyes too cloudy.

you daren’t look at johnny’s face beneath his hat, tilted low until your shaky breaths register and he looks up with a growing grin. grim and broken and hollow. his eyes are a cold grey, no longer blue, but clear and seeing unlike his horse. he stares at you as you take in the blood staining his chest, the unnatural, sporadic twitch in his hand as he removes his hat. you gasp a second time, shudder with it, when you finally see the wound that killed him.

a hole in his temple, gaping and splitting out into minute cracks and bruises across his forehead and down his cheek. hairline fractures and ruptured blood cells reaching out like tree roots.

his smile didn’t reach as high on that side but you tried not to dwell. you didn’t understand what he had to smile about in the first place.

“johnny…?”

“in the flesh, hen. come give yer husband a kiss, eh?”

“i don’t— i don’t understand. this can’t— you died. i saw them bury you.”

“aye. ye let them bury me.”

“i didn’t— i didn’t know—”

“ah ken, ah ken. i forgive ye. or i will, if ye let me in.”

you swallow thickly. there was a heaviness to his words that suggested you’d be doing more than just letting this… man, your husband, back into your home. you know he meant more than that.

“it’s late, johnny.”

“all the more reason not to dawdle. ne’er thought you were one to waste time even if ye were skittish.” he eyes your gun, held in shaking hands but still aimed higher than the steps before you, not fully dropped yet. “ah see ye’ve gotten past that in my absence.”

“it’s late.”

johnny huffed through his nose like a bull. angry like one too.

“so ye’ve said an’ ahm well aware. hen, let me in, before dawn comes knockin’. now, c’mon.”

you frown, clear your throat even as it felt full of cotton.

“what— what did you say to me on my first morning here after we woke up together?”

he squints at you, clenching his jaw tight before letting his unnatural smile stretch back across his lips. “forgive me if mah memory’s spotty but ah think ah said ‘good morning’.”

you raise the gun and point it towards him. “me and johnny never shared a bed. he left me alone here that first full week and he took the chair downstairs when he did stay. always.”

johnny’s grin turned mean in front of you, the cracks splintering further across his face.

“i was happy to try an’ do this the nice way, but now…” he threatens, twisting to drop off his horse.

you shoot him in the chest when his feet his the ground but the bullet doesn’t stop his even pace, doesn’t even startle his horse, and you feel dread finally rise above your adrenaline and chill you to the bone.

“shouldnae a done that.”

fanvid by serastonins

[call-me-kat-astrophe]

Simon is the type of dad to watch whatever his kids are watching in silent distaste until he slowly starts to get into it, picking up on and remembering characters names and storylines. Finds himself thinking about it while away on work, looking forward to watching the newest episode. Will never admit he secretly enjoys it now, would rather die.

Price is the type of dad to wander in and ask what his kids have on the telly, then stand up and watch it - despite having expressed his disinterest. Slowly shuffles over time toward the couch, where he perches on the edge and stays till it's over. When asked what he thinks of it after, he just shrugs.

Gaz is the type of dad who knows all the names of the characters and their individual stories and the plot and never forgets a single detail. He loves being able to chat about it during and after with his kids, the tangible excitement in their eyes as they rant about their favourite character and he's so proud of himself for knowing exactly which one that is.

Soap is the type of dad to be the one who puts on his kids favourite shows and movies because he loves them too, almost more than his kids. He'd be there mouthing the words he already knows by heart because he's seen it so many times and it never fails to bring enjoyment. Just a big kid at heart. Would 10/10 sit on the floor and gaze up at the screen with wide, excited eyes and a big grin, taking it all in while his kids end up dozing off in the background, having grown bored.

[ artwork of simon looking at baby isn't mine!! found on pinterest but credit to whoever made it!! 💞🫶 ]

[hai-nae]

if you want love, you're gonna have to go through the pain,

if you want love, you're gonna have to learn how to change,

if you want trust, you're gonna have to give some away.

[peteywebs]

Simon, who leans into John's hand like a needy cat, eyes fluttering as he relaxes into the warmth of someone he'd trust with his entire body and soul.. only to be snapped out of it by soap pinching his nipple through his shirt

[hatsbuckets]

[i do not need a fwb situation, i tell myself repeatedly. (i'm in college it'd be way too easy lmao)]

Head Canons (some suggestive stuff in this but not much)

Thinking about John Mactavish volunteering at animal shelters whenever he can. It ends up being like a few spattering of days every month, but he'll spend all day there. He loves being around the animals. And he loves getting to be useful and help wherever he can.

You, a longtime volunteer, there nearly every day, love having the enthusiastic, charming... strong... muscular... funny... extra help too. You were the one who showed John around on his first day, a volunteer event day that he happened upon. A few dozen people showed up, and this mohawked, military man was among them.

He was one of the few who came back to the shelter after the event, and on some random day every week, he's there to lend a hand, listening intently to whatever instructions you give him (he's very motivated to listen to you and help the animals out) and even after a couple weeks of absence, he comes back again, apologizing that work took him away so suddenly.

And after a few months... this silly, mohawked, (might I add effortlessly charming, handsome, pretty?) military man's scattering of volunteer days has become a welcome surprise every time. He's always so sweet when he talks to you, throwing a friendly, "good mornin', love. Survive without me?" Carrying on easy conversation throughout the day, and occasionally something that feels like flirting, but you don't read too much into it.

He's a blessing to have. Dogs need a run? He's the first to grab their leashes. Cats' litter boxes need cleaning? He's there with a scoop in hand. The small collection of rodents' pens need a new layer of bedding? He's already headed to storage.

He comes back drenched in sweat from runs, his tank plastered to his chest. Sweaty thighs peeking out from below his shorts as he squats down to pet the happy, panting dogs. And you pass him a towel, and his smile just beams up at you. God he's adorable and hot all at once.

His arms flex against his shirt sleeves when he hefts the heavy bags of food up onto his shoulder and god if only he'd do that that you.

His hands are so gentle with the tiny new litter of cats that just came in, helping you clean them off and place them safely into the crate with their mum. need I say more

You learn more about each other. Where he's from, what he does for work, and of course you'd pinned military, but he doesn't quite go into the work that he does. He talks about the men he works with, and you start to recognize names like Price, Gaz, and Ghost. He even shows you pictures of the first two. Not the latter though.

And then another few weeks he's not there... You're starting to miss the loud Scottish voice that normally fills the space as you hose down the concrete patio in the back the shelter. Your thoughts drift to how last time you did this with him he had sprayed you very intentionally with the hose. And you nearly tackled him to wrap your soaking body around him. His hand discarding the hose and wrapping under your legs as he hoists you happily up into his arms and oh you were so close, laughing, smiling, teasing about getting soaked. You were definitely blushing as much as he was.

a couple of days later, just like he'd never left, he's back, helping you organize the larger storage closet. Sharing jokes and teasing. Until you have to reach across him and his face is so close to yours and he completes the distance, catching you oh so off guard but you melt into that kiss. and he presses and prods until your job to reorganize is interrupted by the sudden to fuck each other into the next dimension.

and then a few days later it's the same... You had simply gone to grab a new leash from the closet... he had come for a bag of dog food... or that's what he'd told you at least...

And then your bodies are close, his hand at the back of your neck, your hand travelling down and down, his mouth on yours, hot, needy, quick, and amazing. You're both happy to do it. And it seems you both don't think much of it.

This becomes a routine, in his oh too few volunteer days each month, you make a habit of occupying small, mostly private spaces of the shelter, the small break room, the storage closet, his car, your car. It's only been two or three months, and it's not like it's a big shelter, not that many employees, but damn if it doesn't excite you all the same.

And then after one of these sessions, as you're slipping you shirt on in the back of your car, he pecks a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I'll be gone a few weeks this time, bonnie. Jus' though' I might warn ya." (his accent gets thicker when it's laced with lust, you've come to notice.)

And he is, gone a while, that is. And during this time one of your old flings comes to town... some business trip... and God is this one always a good time, so charming and kind, buys you chocolates and all, a good person truly, just not one to settle down. That's fine by you. So, you let them take you home, let them in your bed, and have a good time. And then they head back to whatever the hell fancy job they have in whatever town they live in now.

It's longer than you expect before John comes back. And when he does, he greets you with that charming smile and you put him to work almost immediately, and he's happy to get to cleaning the dog kennels with you. You get to talking, he asks how your past few weeks have been. And John is so easy to talk to. And you mention your old friend you visited, how they visited your home, even bought you chocolates, the goof. But John gets quiet at this... you don't mention it, not yet...

And then of course, he walks you out to your car that afternoon and of course you end up in the back of it (I should mention here that you do not own a small car, after being the animal lover you are, you need the space to load crates in the back seat) and something about how John takes you this time is needy, needier, possesive in the way he nips at your skin and presses against you.

And at the end of it, he leaves with the same gentle peck at the corner of your mouth, but this time there's no quip, no tease, just a "drive safe" and a gentle smile...

A few days later this man returns to the shelter and before he even asks what needs to get done, he's offering up a small box of chocolates with a bashful little smile.

You thank him and accept the chocolates. and then it's back to work. That evening though, after a particularly long day after getting three new dogs and a new cat, when John walks you to your car, you ask if he wants to go home with you. You'd thought about it all day... somewhere between cleaning and intaking the new animals, mustering up the courage to ask. He accepts with that same enthusiasm that the dogs have when someone walks in with their leashes.

You wake up tangled in him, his arm slung heavy over your waist, his chest warm against your back, one leg thrown over yours like he’s actively trying to wrestle you into the mattress in his sleep. And this man sleeps light, military training and all, but the second you start shifting to sneak out of bed, his grip tightens. "Where ya goin’, love?" all rough morning voice and sleep-heavy slur, nose nudging against your shoulder like he could just sink right back into you and stay there. (You do not go anywhere.)

And things stay the same, mostly. He still only comes around every few weeks, still volunteers, still fills the shelter with that chaotic, obnoxious, charming energy. Still gets drenched in sweat from running the dogs, still lifts those massive bags of food onto his shoulders like he’s personally showing off for you (and he is), still sneaks off into the storage closet with you when no one’s looking, grinning against your mouth before pressing you up against the nearest shelf.

But then, one evening, right as you're closing up the shelter, he lingers by the front desk. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. That telltale shift of weight from foot to foot like he's got something rattling around in his skull, something he's been turning over for a while now.

"Was thinkin'..." He exhales sharply, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his boots like they’ve got the answers. "I've gotta go again, but maybe next time I’m back, we go out somewhere. A proper date, aye?"

And fuck. That shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But it does. You should say yes. You want to say yes. But you don't.

Because life is a cruel and petty little bastard, your old fling had waltzed back into town. Just for you. A familiar, easy thing. The kind of person you don’t have to think about too much. And for some reason, you say yes when they ask you to dinner. Maybe because you don’t want to wait for something uncertain. Maybe because John is John—flirty, gorgeous, disgustingly good at making you weak in the knees, but never around long enough for you to be sure. (And John doesn't show it, not outwardly, but it breaks his heart.)

And then John comes back. Finally. And he’s not alone. There is a mountain standing next to him. Big. Broad. Dressed head to toe in dark clothes and hoodie like he’s ready for spying, the lower half of his face covered by a black medical mask. He looks like he could crush a man with one hand and still have fingers left to spare. And his eyes, dark, cold, sharp as a fucking blade, land on you like he’s personally offended by your existence. Oh. Oh, this must be Ghost.

John, completely unfazed, grins. “Ghost wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” Ghost says nothing. Just stares. (You have never felt more judged in your life. The fuck did you do to make this walking fortress glare at you like that? You know he doesn’t know. There’s no way he knows. Right?)

And things go back to normal, kind of. John keeps showing up, keeps doing his usual thing. But there’s something off this time. A shift in the way he looks at you, something quietly considering behind his eyes. It all comes to a head one evening when you’re closing up together, standing in the back room trying to fix a shelving issue. He’s quiet. You’re quiet.

And then, you break first. Spill it out like you didn’t mean to—how your old fling wasn’t what you thought, how you shouldn’t have agreed in the first place, how you let yourself get caught up in something easy instead of something real. And John? He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, listening, nodding along like he’s already pieced this all together. Until you mutter, "And I don’t even fucking like chocolate."

And that is what makes him pause. And his brows pull together. Just a little. And then, in the softest, most John way possible—"...Oh."

And the next time he walks into the shelter, it’s not with chocolates.

It’s with a small paper bag. He hands it to you with a little smirk, and inside.

Fresh strawberries. From the farmer’s stand down the road. You’d only mentioned them once. Some passing comment made one day while you were both cleaning up in the yard outside. And John had remembered. And with a charming little smile, he takes your hand. "Let me take ya out properly." And you blink up at him, caught off guard by how easy, how simple he makes it sound. "I—yeah."

And yes, you go on that date. And yes, you end up back at your place. And yes, you have a very, very good night.

And yes, eventually, John introduces you to Ghost properly. (and Price and Gaz too, ah John and Kyle.)

And yes, somehow, someway, you end up with not just one, but two terrifyingly strong military men helping out at the shelter—John still enthusiastically doing everything he can, and Ghost looming in the doing every little thing you ask without question, surprisingly good with the most feral old cats, somehow terrifying and begrudgingly helpful all at once. (He makes it a point to lift two bags of dog food for every one John carries. Jesus Christ)

And yes, eventually, Ghost ends up in your bed too.

But that’s another story.

Thanks for reading.

[reds-skull]

Bored out of their minds waiting for the helo

[simonbrain]

cw: rough sex between simon and johnny, very brief knifeplay, a little blood, reader doesn't actually have sex with them lol soz

you've always been a little soft. from the pliable skin of your body to the big, tender heart in your chest, it's no wonder you caught simon's attention.

you were like a deer in his presence at first. skittish and constantly in fight-or-flight mode, curtly cutting every interaction with him short just so you didn't have to face the beast that resided beneath the mask, the one that would surely scoop you up and feast upon your plush flesh.

although you had your reservations, the person who really reeled you in was his sergeant. sweet, charismatic johnny, easing you into the lion's den with praises of his lieutenant, promising the big bastard isnae tha' bad and that he just needs some patience and understanding.

you gave him the benefit of the doubt and reluctantly lowered your guard, allowing not only him but simon as well to see the soft, gooey centre that you kept hidden. fleeting conversations became longer and more playful, a large, warm hand from either of them on your back was more frequent, and the pet names fired your way were relentless, often leaving your panties sticky and uncomfortable.

they weren't only a part of your work life; they came home with you sometimes for a good feed and a nice, warm bed to sink into, forcing you to sit on the couch and pick a movie for the night at the end of dinner. whenever you called out if they needed help with packing away the food or doing the dishes, the looks they gave you were enough to make you turn your head back to the tv. it always ended with simon carrying you to bed while johnny shuffled right behind, wrapped up in the blanket. the mornings were always harder to get through whenever they stayed over because you just wanted to stay cocooned between their warm bodies, so broad and protective, but all three of you had duties to attend to. despite starting later than they do, the few hours of sleep you lose are worth it.

the longer you spend time with them, the more you're beginning to realise that your perception of them is far from the reality. simon is so... gentle with you; strange as it is describing him as such, there's no other way to put it. the way he looks at you, speaks to you, and keeps his desire on a short leash, only because he doesn't want to overstep your boundaries, has your heart fluttering at how much of a gentleman he is. you don't shy away from him anymore; you drink up each moment you can be near him, clinging to him and even rewarding him with a kiss in an empty corridor, quietly sulking when he stops your naughty hands from sliding down his body to tug at his belt.

"not yet, sweet'art," he hums, the sound so gravelly it makes your thighs squeeze together. "just wait a little longer, aye? johnny and i will take care o'you, i know he's dyin' for it."

god, speaking of johnny, ever since you've gotten closer, he's nothing but a koala, constantly looming over you when he's not busy and feeding you praises for basic fucking tasks that should not be getting praised. he's so much rougher than you thought, and there shouldn't be heat licking up your spine every time his hands are on you, manhandling you into a storage closet so he can consume your very soul, whining into your mouth about how badly he and simon have wanted you, but you let it happen anyway. you let him slip his hand down between the layers of clothes to rub two fingers on your puffy clit until you're mewling into his mouth and spilling all over your already soaked underwear. you really should start bringing extra with you because you're getting sick of how wet you get just from being in their vicinity.

it's when simon comes back from one hell of a failed mission that you finally get a taste of him. except he goes through johnny first, and you have never been so alarmed but so turned on at the same time in your entire life.

he's so cruel, so fucking mean in the way he gropes and bites and fucks into johnny, who takes it all with a snarl on his face. his cock still drips and throbs even when he's sobbing out angry curses, and simon laughs at his pathetic attempts at defending himself, as if it was enough to deter simon's ugly, rough love, the type of love that he had been hiding from you.

you sit on the edge of the bed, a hand compressed tightly between your thighs as you watch them on the floor because simon wasn't even patient enough to get him on the bed, pushing his boy down to the ground and taking what's his. johnny howls and squirms, growling at simon and earning himself a harsh slap in the face, the hand planted tightly in his hair not discouraging him from ceasing his fight.

you should be scared. you should be turning away, feeling sick from watching how animalistic they are, how simon pounds into johnny with no remorse. you shouldn't be admiring the tears welling up in johnny's eyes or the way he lets out pained moans. you shouldn't be wishing it was you under simon instead, getting your hair pulled and being left with no choice but to take the fat cock you've been daydreaming about. you definitely should not have let out a soft little whimper at the sight of simon whipping out a knife from his thigh holster to press it against johnny's throat, drawing a bit of blood because his thrusts are that rough.

when johnny only whines, his defiance dying down and being replaced with something softer, more compliant, simon rewards him with a nasty, sloppy kiss, a hand replacing the blade and wrapping around his throat, palm pressed up against the new wound.

it's fucking torture watching them, and you know they don't mean to tease with how rough they are, unknowing of how much it's getting you worked up, but you're starting to get impatient. you want to experience that, too; you want them to taint you. you want to be treated like nothing more than an unruly little mutt, being split apart on cock until you pass out from exhaustion, holes loose and wet and pliant. you want to fight only to be forced into submission—fuck, the thought is making your mouth run dry.

you're surprised at how wet you are when you shuffle on the bed, the feeling of soaked panties clinging to your cunt familiar but not welcome, especially with how many you've ruined. you can't wait for your turn, even if they definitely will be softer than this with you.

simon forces a violent orgasm out of johnny, a hand wrapped tight around his poor cock, moans and whines for more spilling from his bruised lips. if you weren't so dizzy, so needy, you would have gawked at his desperate pleas.

it's when simon's gaze flickers over to you that you finally decide to do something about the persistent throb between your thighs. you move back onto the bed more comfortably and slide your shorts off, slight embarrassment warming your cheeks as you catch sight of your arousal sticking from your pussy to your panties. you can tell that simon isn't done working his frustrations out, so you settle for using your fingers, content to rub yourself until they're done and ready to take care of you. maybe you should tell them about the newest discovery you've made about yourself later and see how well they handle keeping their hunger muzzled.

[lumiilys]

Tfw you steal your crush’s soap cause the smell makes you think of him

Aka the real reason why Ed was asking for lavender soap in s1 ep8

[bravo666]

love love love the idea of john price trying in vain to be a good man. like sorry i do love pervert!141 in all forms but they can’t all be shameless about it (cough cough mactavish you mutt) in the same way, and i think price is enough of a traditionalist, at least in however he was raised, that he’s packed and pounded with enough adherence to social norms and an understanding of what he ought to be as soldier/captain/man(/husband/father/etc.)

but like. he covets. he hungers. he controls pretty little things, plucks the feathery beating wings off of jeweled insects so they won’t fly away from him. price knows he really should be better than he is, but knowing that normal men don’t feel the way he does doesn’t change the urge to sink his teeth into something soft, pin it down to the mattress, and tie it up so it will never leave.

so he keeps it to himself. keeps it pressed down into a little locked box. and when he finally does find someone who looks at the savage, oppressive beast he has for a soul and accepts him with both hands? it’s like heaven come round to earth. he keeps them close and behind locked doors, hoarded. sorry about the bruises on your thighs, lovie, he says—and part of him does mean it, really.

his hands are stained with blood from the field, yes, and people clap him on the shoulder and say thank you for your service, but they also see the person he’s got his arm around the shoulders of and say you two make a lovely couple. and he just smiles and wonders how he tricked the world for this long.

[lennadanvers]

TW: mentions of sex/penetration/being naked; maybe like hinting at dark(ish) themes?? Soap being a lil weird desperate gremlin. This is so short.

Soap doesn't fuck.

He consumes.

It's not about blowing off steam or whatever, either. He has no problem saying it's just that, but it isn't. No, when he has sex with you it's because he's already exhausted all the other (tamer) ways of being close to you.

It's not about the sexual pleasure. It's not that kind of desire. It's his need to be around and inside you. To be you. It's like the need you get when you see something that is too cute and you just need to crush it between your hands. Except that Soap's feelings are darker.

He wants to feel you all over. Deeply. He needs closeness, desperately. He whines and moans purely out of relief when he can touch you; so much skin to skin. Soap presses his chest and belly to your back, and his hips to your ass, and your legs to his, and his neck to your shoulder, and his breath to your head... His arms constrict your chest and arms, hands clawing at your waist and biceps, whatever he can put his fingers on.

He doesn't even care about penetration. Sure, it's nice. Though not so much if it means he'll have to move away, even if it's just a little, to go in and out. No, he prefers grinding.

"Sex" is a good cover for what he actually needs. Except that things start to get a little complicated when you've both finished and he's still rubbing his body against yours. And is he purring?

[mzminola]

Further ways to complicate the Bat family tree: Tim & Damian are close bio relatives but it has nothing to do with Bruce or Ra's. It's that Janet & Talia are half-sisters.

There's no reason Melisande couldn't have had a whole other life before getting involved in Ra's' cult bullshit. We don't know anything about Janet's family from before she married Jack, just that neither of Tim's parents seem to have any extended family. Make Janet into Talia's older half-sister who has no idea she exists, stick the reveal in a routine "And here's how to use the DNA analysis program" training moment, and watch the fireworks.