#soft soaps

[bluegiragi]

equal opportunity voyeurism

early access + nsfw on patreon

[rawme-price]

Johnny who has been away from u for far longer than comfortable, and when he finally gets back hes fucking frantic about having you.

He's railing u against the floor bc he couldn't wait to get to the bedroom, hands gripping ur hips hard enough to bruise "fuck- sorry- sorry, bonnie- i cant- ill be kind next time okay? Sorry- I just need you-" he mutters into the back of ur neck, while ur mind is totally blank and fuzzy from overstimulation. He already came in u once but he doesnt look like hes planning to stop.

[h3lian]

𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 —𝐈 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫— 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 '𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐈'𝐦 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝.

— Figured I may as well touch this one up a bit & post it finally, alongside the other touched up piece. Both were done because I was inspired by my partner through our babbles & rps over the past few months. I adore these two because of them 💕

[ssscatola]

Imagine Simon Riley learning pottery when he retires.

He passes by a ceramics studio every time he goes for a walk or to get groceries and it catches. his. eye. But Simon being Simon, he looks ahead and forgets it, about the people inside working on a wheel and the hanging plants from the ceiling and the POTTERY CLASSES sign staring right at his face.

That is, until he visits Johnny. They eat a homecooked pasta dish and Johnny sets an old tea plate full of olives on the table. "Cannae be bothered to buy a bowl," he says, throwing an olive into the air and catching it with his mouth.

Simon makes it his mission to make him one. It's an excuse to try a new hobby, he tells himself. It's an outlet to be creative, and it's useful; he feeds these ideas into his head.

The bowl has to be perfect. Simon won't settle for less. He rethrows and reshapes it about a thousand times, glazes it in blue and white, impatiently waits for it to dry and finish firing in the kiln and finally wraps it up in a nice box.

He acts tough and nonchalant when he hands it to Johnny, but their fingers touch and he feels the burn like a thousand suns and thinks, did Icarus feel this way when he flew this close to the star?

Johnny's mouth is slightly open and his gaze is soft, eyebrows curved lightly as he inspects the bowl. His stomach twists into a knot, his hands sweat, and he's so fucking scared of dropping and breaking it.

"Simon," his voice wavers, "this is-"

He has to stop talking because he knows his voice will crack and the tears in his eyes are already threatening to spill.

"Look underneath."

Johnny obeys, twists the bowl upside down. In the middle of the flat bottom is the stamp of the maker, a simple letter 'S'.

A few months down the line and Johnny has replaced every single plate (big and small), every cup and mug and coaster and even has a clay vase sitting on the dining room table. Every single piece, along with his ring finger, marked with the letter 'S'.

[arualthefirst]

You're okay. You're here. I'm here.

[sleepytopia]

Sunkissed and Spoken For

Task force 141 x reader

Summary: A rare day off with Task Force 141 takes you to the beach, warm sand, cold drinks, and the peaceful lull of waves. But rest and relaxation look different when four overprotective, possessive elite soldiers are your boyfriends. Between territorial glares, handsy sunscreen applications, and way too much hovering, it’s clear that 141 doesn’t know how to turn off the obsession… even in paradise.

The ocean breeze was perfect. The kind that kissed your cheeks without whipping sand into your face. Seagulls cawed overhead, children screamed with joy in the distance, and you were stretched out on a beach towel, sunglasses on, drink in hand, already feeling your muscles go slack for the first time in weeks.

But of course, you were never alone for long.

Not with them around.

Soap plopped down beside you, still dripping from the ocean, saltwater clinging to his abs like a damn magazine shoot.

“Oi, love,” he grinned, flashing you that rogue smile, “you should’ve come swimmin’ with me. The water’s gorgeous.”

“I was relaxing,” you teased, nudging him with your foot.

Before he could respond, Ghost sat on your other side, fully dressed in black, tactical as always, even under the fucking sun.

“You’re not putting sunscreen on right,” he muttered, eyeing your shoulders.

“I’m fine-”

He was already squeezing some into his gloved hands.

You sighed. “You know you're supposed to take the gloves off to rub it in.”

“No.”

Gaz approached next, two cold drinks in hand, sunglasses low on his nose.

“Figured you’d want something cold.” He handed one to you, eyes flicking to Soap and Ghost. “Don’t crowd them.”

Soap snorted. “You’re one to talk. You’re worse than all of us.”

Gaz shot him a look. “I don’t glare at every stranger who looks at them.”

“You absolutely do,” you and Soap said in unison.

You thought maybe, maybe that was all of them for now.

Until a tall shadow blocked the sun.

Price.

Button-down half undone, beard glinting with sea mist, towel slung over his shoulder like a damn king.

“Someone’s gotta keep you all in line,” he said, crouching beside you and brushing a kiss to your temple. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“I was… until I got surrounded like a prized catch.”

“You are a prized catch,” Ghost said bluntly.

You stared at him. “That wasn’t supposed to be encouragement.”

Despite the chaos, the day unfolded like lazy perfection.

They took shifts watching you when you napped. Price read beside you, occasionally shielding your face from the sun with his book. Ghost didn’t move an inch, perched like a lifeguard, sunglasses on, daring anyone to come close. Gaz built a sandcastle near your towel, for “proximity.” Soap kept trying to get you to reapply sunscreen… so he could rub it in himself. With enthusiasm. And wandering hands.

“Johnny, this isn’t the kind of lotion you’re supposed to grope me with.”

“It is now,” he said, grinning against your skin.

At one point, a beach jogger passed a little too slowly for anyone’s liking.

You didn’t even notice. But they all did.

Gaz sat up straighter. Soap narrowed his eyes. Ghost tilted his head like a predator tracking prey. And Price? He reached for your waist and pulled you into his lap like a casual threat.

“They look again, and I’ll make ‘em regret it,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes. “You all are ridiculous.”

“Damn right we are,” Gaz said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “We’re ridiculous about you.”

As the sun dipped low, casting everything in gold, you found yourself in a pile of bodies on the giant towel. Soap behind you, arms around your waist, humming some Scottish tune; Ghost next to him, finally dozing, head tilted back behind his mask; Gaz using your thigh as a pillow, drawing lazy patterns on your knee; and Price, sitting up with a cigar he swore he wasn’t going to light today.

You yawned, melting against Soap’s chest.

“I don’t deserve all this,” you murmured.

“You do,” Price said simply.

“No one’s touchin’ ya,” Ghost added.

“Not without our hands on you first,” Soap whispered.

Gaz smiled up at you sleepily. “Better get used to it, babe.”

And honestly?

You were starting to love being the center of their world.

© sleepytopia do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works

[nightcrews]

CoD Prompt 3

━━━━━━ ❖ ☁︎ ❖ ━━━━━━

John MacTavish was the love of your life, and you were his. With your entire lives ahead of you, you spent many late nights building your future. Dreaming of everything that was to come. Creating a life.

Until he leaves for a mission. Until you wake in the middle of the night, swearing you heard him whisper your name. Until John Price shows up at your door to tell you Johnny wasn’t coming home. Your future crumbles. Nightmares become your waking moments. The life you’d been so excited for bleeding out alongside the man you loved.

“If anythin’ ever happens te me, I’m countin’ on ye te take care of her, Lt. I need te know it’d be you.”

That’s the only promise Johnny had ever made Ghost swear to. Never thought he’d see the day he needed to honor it.

At first he does it out of obligation, check in with you when he can. Make sure you’re in okay spirits, that you’re eating, that you’re getting out of bed. He takes comfort in it, feels like maybe by helping you, he’s still having Johnny’s back.

As time goes on, he finds himself making every excuse to see you, and you find every excuse to make him stay just a little longer. His jacket finds a home on your hook, and his quiet voice soothes you in a way nothing else quite seemed to.

When he’s there, the hurt is a little less.

But Ghost hears you call Johnny’s name in your sleep, sees you holding his shirts close when you think no one’s looking, and he wishes for all the worlds that he could switch places with Johnny. Just so you would be happy again. Just so you would stop looking at him like he’s all that’s left.

Every smile is coated with guilt. Every soft look is haunted. Every laugh feels like a betrayal. Because you’re falling for Johnny’s best friend, when you thought you’d never be able to love someone again.

Ghost is falling for you, when that was never part of the promise he made.

And neither of you know how to move on without feeling like you’re leaving Johnny behind.

[thermiccircuits]

cuddles

[cutiepieautistic]

Soft soap with the toys inside stimboard

×/×/× ×/× ×/×/×

*This was a request!

[theygotm3]

Darnell being obsessed with Debbi's dimples 1986 & 1995 ♡

[livecrow]

Gundog!Soap's errand gets derailed when he catches your scent.

A retriever "retrieves" a plump bird.

Shifter/Hybrid Dark!Soap x fat reader

(cw: kidnapping)

Soap’s popping down to the shops.

He just needs to pick up an ingredient for dinner last minute. Ghost isn’t home yet, so he’s off the lead. Unsupervised. Normally, they’d get the messages together, but he only needs one thing. He could manage it. It wouldn’t be more than a wink.

But as he mills about, he can’t help feeling off.

Like he really is a dumb dog wandering around without his owner, his lead might as well be dragging on the floor behind him, collecting lint and stray bread ties—

It’s turning into one of those days where he feels far more mutt than man. 

Without Ghost’s firm hand grounding him, the place is a cacophony of input. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many colors, too much movement—all melding together into a murky emulsion of stimulus under the glaring LEDs. 

He squints down the vast row of isles for longer than he’ll admit.

Eeigit.

He should have written a note.

Thought he could have remembered one bleedy thing. Ye dinnae need a list for one thing—

Feeling frustrated and dafty, he resigns himself to traipsing down each aisle and hoping something jogs his memory. Pride wouldn’t let him call up Lt. He’d never hear the end of it. He’s a birddog for chrissake, proper braw at findin’ things—when he knows what he’s fuckin’ looking for. 

Least he can skip the sundries. He knows that much. Soap’s more than happy to avoid the detergent aisle. Stuff is bowfin. Stings his nose, makes his heid ache.

Lot of good his heid was anyway, feeling fuzzy, like it was packed with cotton. Might as well be. Nothin’ else between his ears. Certainly not the one fuckin' thing he pulled on his gutties and left the house for—

He let's loose an irritated huff and it's probably a bit too close to a growl than is wise.

Soap's trying to make good time, but he's a solid four isles in and hasn't had any luck. Eventually, he finds himself staring down a sea of tins. Fruit and veg, beans, and the sort. His eyes scanned the labels, but even readin' was a real Herculean task when he's feeling so out of sorts.

The canine part of him can't be convinced deciphering rows of little lines and squiggles is a proper use of his time. Especially when he could be usin' his nose instead.

Some wee bairn has starts greetin’ a few aise down.

—Green beans, peas, sliced carrots, corn, diced potatoes. Nae, that wasn't it—

....who in their right mind buys tinned tatties?

A passing trolley is making an awful racket. Discordant shrill squeaks and clunks of a stuck wheel scraped against his ear drums.

—It’s definitely not the asparagus—shites mingin’, and that’s fresh. Wouldnae faff about with a recipe that called for that. Cannae think how foul tinned would be… 

Soap sighs in exasperation. As he goes to abandon this aisle, he steps back to turn and bumps into something.

Soft. Soft, soft, softness presses into his hip—

The kind of softness that cradles, that molds around him. Softer than any of his toys. Soft an’ cozy as his own bed, maybe—nae, softer. His bed didn't have the same give, the same wobble. It was a softness that sent a literal shiver up his spine, saliva pooling in his mouth. That smell—

Not something, someone then.

An incidental collision, a bird had been trying to slip by him just as he stepped backwards.

The touch was there and gone in a second but he was mournful for its absence. The scent lingered at least, soothed the whine that crawled into his throat. There was no artifice to it, no acrid chemical edges that came with any fragrance found in a bottle.

You had actually managed to catch him off guard. The shiver that rattled through him began with a slight jolt of surprise at the two of your union. He must have been more out of it than he thought, he hadn't even noticed anyone else in the aisle. He'll never get used to being startled, but he wouldn’t hold that against you.

“Oh, sorry,” you muttered apologetically as you stepped back, embarrassment coloring your face. The contact clearly ruffled your feathers a bit.

Soap’s mouth shuts with an audible click, he hadn’t realized his lips were parted. He hurriedly swallows a completely unadvisable pant in your direction.

“Nae bother, hen,” he blinks. Finally finding his human voice, responding like he's supposed to when he's out and about on two legs. It’s a little breathier, a beat later than he should have responded, lower too. There's a rasp there that chafes the very air. 

...Maybe his head wasn't packed with cotton.

Maybe it was your soft, downy feathers that was muddling him up, making itself a sweet little nest in his cranium—

The bird sends him a polite, restrained smile as it scurries off.

His world narrowed, like he was watching through a spyglass. Or was it a scope? Regardless, everything else but you dissolved into blur, even his peripheral was swallowed up. Framed you in a vignette. Every tiny aspect of the minute interaction seared painlessly into his mind.

A pretty, fat partridge.

Wandering too close.

Game like that, ambling by all round and plump, right under his snout? Feathers close enough they almost tickle his nose—

It's instinct, ya ken?

Mind, for a dog that retrieves quarry, it’s in his nature. Cannae help it anymore than the shade of his coat. So, is it the dog's fault then, when he lunges? Snatches the bird up, into his warm mouth? Firm and soft all at once. The delicate control from a pup that can cradle a raw egg without fracturing the shell. When he brings it back to his master, tail waggin’ as he’s done a hundred other times?

Nae. Noone’d blame him.

He can already practically feel the pantomime thumping of your frantic heartbeat in his mouth—echoing his own excited pulse. 

Soap’s keen eyes never left his prey, even as your back was foolishly to him. His hind paws were already ahead of his brain, he followed, trailing at a distance. Stalking.

Thing should know better, he might have been a wolf. You’d have waddled straight into it's gaping maw, mistake the canines for stalactites and his tongue for a cozy spot to lay your little head.

But no, he’s no wolf. He’s safe. Won't take a bite out of you. He's a good boy— 

Good dog.

Bird dog. A Gordon Setter, Si says.

A jack of all trades, proficient at tracking, pointing, and retrieving. A soft-mouth breed. That’s very important. Most dogs cannae do what he can. Pick up a bird without pricking it. Ghost has been working with him, trainin’ him up. Helping him be more patient, learn new tricks.

Your scent—it was so hard to describe, but he luxuriated in it, nose twitching. It was warm, but not torrid. Sweet, but not cloying. Rich, but not heavy—

Familiar, somehow. Like a childhood lovey. Cheek-worn and supple as a lamb's ear. 

He’s struck by a piercing déjà vu.

It should have confounded Soap—but it didn’t. It just was. The strange mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity that shouldn’t normally coexist. He didn’t know you, nae. But it felt like he should. Maybe he’d seen you in a dream? Some sticky remnant from a past life? Nothing else could explain the strength of the reaction that gripped him by the scruff. Commanded him to “fetch”.

...He’s doin’ so well. Being so, so careful—game’s normally still, after all. Not wriggling about anymore. Is much more effort to control his grip on a bird thas tryin' to fly away.

Thing squealing like a squeaky-toy doesn’t help, zaps somethin' in his brain, even though he’s hardly pressing. Ghost will look at you an’ see there’s no teeth marks on you. He’s being good. Knows better. Not even a tiny nibble. 

Soap's so pleased.

Only wish he'd had his tail out, so he could articulate his excitement properly.

He’ll take you home and keep you. Rest a heavy paw on you when he wants you to stay put. Carry you round the house with him. Share his food with you. Show you his other toys. Only roughhouse gently, like he would a puppy. Bat you around a bit. Paw at you real gentle like. This soft, living squeaky-toy that he can nap with. Even let you nest in his own bed, tucked under his chin. He’d only ever mouth at you gently, you'd learn you wouldn’t have to fear his teeth. He’d rasp his tongue over you, help you preen yer pretty feathers.

He ached to sigh happily against you, rut his face against you. Wanted all the rest of his sighs to be against you, pressed into your skin. Nose at your crown, in your soft neck, on your squishy belly. He’s curious where on you that scent would be the strongest.

Ghost will be so proud when he sees, when he proudly lays you at his boots—

You'll like his owner. He'll pet you real nice. Ghost always knows the right spot, even before you do. Thoughtful.

So thoughtful that he won't even mind that he'll have to sort something else out for dinner.

[bluegiragi]

i think simon's hair would get pretty scruffy when it grows out on leave...

(speedpaint under the cut!)

[rawme-price]

Sheep hybrid!reader who gets so, so nervous outside of a herd vs hybrid!141 who would do anything to protect you.

Border collie!soap who crowds around you whenever you and him are in a big area. You dont feel safe out in the open without ur herd, feeling too exposed and easy to attack. Soap tries to alleviate this by pressing close to you and subtly herding u closer to walls or tight spaces. He gently nips at u when he notices you fidgeting anxiously, knowing it just gets u worked up.

Wolf!gaz who constantly has a hand on you, claws just barely digging into ur skin. No need to be worried about other threats when ur already in the jaws of a beast, right? Only grins when u inevitably find him in a crowd and practically glue urself to his side. Lets out a small chuff when you nuzzle into his neck, though. His scent like always makes others back off, protecting u even when hes not there.

Sheep!ghost who clings to u just as much as u cling to him. He shares all of the tricks for dealing with herd instincts hes learned over the years. More than happy to share his weighted blankets and heavy gear, the physical pressure tends to settle ur instincts in ways you never thought possible. Very much a big calming presence. He makes it easy to relax, bc if the big guy in ur herd is okay then surely ur safe, or at least thats what your instincts say.

Bear!price who tucks you into his side like its second nature. He loves to take care of his team, and that includes you. So without fail he makes sure to get everyone together for a big cuddle pile at least twice a month. Sure, ur with ur herd all the time anyways, but seeing all of them laying down in comfy clothes makes u so happy. Its like physical evidence that everything's alright, especially with all their warm bodies snuggled around you. Price always keep a warm paw on you in some way, a reminder that hes got you.

[reddtulips]

something something ghoap staying at johnny’s family farm that’s less than two hours away from glasgow.

they barely reach the damn place because simon insists on driving and takes a wrong exit on the highway and johnny has to piss a hundred times during the drive.

the air is crisp and cold and frosts the tips of their noses and simon forces indifference when johnny’s fingers brush simon’s to hold the duffel bag so he can close the trunk of the car.

johnny knocks on the front door and his mother rips it open, hugging his son and without a second to think, hugs simon as well and ushers them inside.

johnny’s father is a simple man and gives simon a firm handshake and a pat on his back and shows him the dining room, a feast set on the table and every salad under the sun overflowing in hand painted bowls that johnny’s mother made when she did pottery ten years ago.

johnny’s sisters are there, his niece and nephews as well, all children and simon sweats thinking how in the hell he is supposed to talk to them. are the boys at the appropriate age to know about guns and knives? or do they look at encyclopedias of greek mythology and dinosaurs? does the niece like barbie and dress up? or is she one of those girls that like to collect bugs and draw hopscotch on the pavement with colorful chalk and wipe the excess from her fingers onto her pants?

they watch him with eager eyes and giggles smothered behind tiny hands, and watch in awe when he lifts his balaclava to expose his mouth so he can eat.

johnny does the talking at the table and simon can’t understand a fucking word he’s saying because he’s gone full scottish with his family, only hums and nods occasionally. he wolfs down every piece of food, the human trashcan that he is (and because he doesn’t remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal), and nearly combusts for a second time that day as johnny’s mam places a plate with a thick slice of apple pie in front of him, vanilla ice cream melting over it and puts a hand on his shoulder, “johnny told me ye have a sweet tooth, so i made it especially for ye.”

simon who does silent breathing exercises so he doesn’t cry because he misses this so fucking much. to sit down with a family and enjoy a meal together with loved ones and not fight, nor scream nor yell nor cry nor throw food nor break plates and it’s just laughter upon laughter upon claps on the shoulders and clutching at arms and pulling each other into side hugs and light jabs that mean nothing and don’t break into full blown fights and simon thinks he’s going to vomit.

simon who gets to see johnny’s childhood bedroom. it’s decorated in superhero posters and hanging medals and trophies from gymnastics and competitive shooting competitions. johnny turns sheepish when simon points them out, teases him and likes and fears the swirl of warmth in his chest when johnny’s ears and neck turn red. he’s told “still a better shot than you,” and if johnny were anyone else, he’s be given toilet cleaning duties for the next three months.

simon who wants to pull out and empty every drawer, check every nook and cranny and learn and suck in every single piece of information and story there is about johnny and what — there’s pictures of you as a kid? with a mohawk? fuck off, soap, lemme see.

johnny opens the left door of his wardrobe and it’s covered in baby pictures of him and his family and simon’s chest tightens but he doesn’t break his gaze. Lo and behold, Johnny points out a picture on top and holy shit, it’s him holding a fat, orange cat the size of half his body and he’s sporting a long mohawk. His cheeks are stained with tears but there’s a forced grin on his face and blood on his chin. johnny explains it was his 7th birthday, he fell off a swing, hit his chin and his mam still wanted a photo. the cat’s named ‘fergus’ and he’s still alive and has lost most of the weight. he explains more photos but simon’s eyes keep coming back to the first one and he just wants to lean down and leave a gentle kiss on the scar covering johnny’s chin.

the kids don’t leave simon alone, as much as uncle johnny protests and tells them to get tae and let ‘em rest, he’s been drivin’ all mornin’ but watches them from the kitchen with a soft smile as simon walks around with the kids hanging and clutching at his strong arms like they’re monkeys and simon can’t get enough of their giggles and ooh’s and ahh’s when he tells them heroic and child-friendly war stories about their uncle. he also tells them that he sucks ass at taking orders and sharing his MREs and that they should listen to their parents and respect their elders and share with each other. johnny smothers a grin behind his hand as simon uses his lieutenant’s voice when speaking to the kids about these things.

johnny steals simon away then, “gotta show ‘em the horses”, and simon keeps his distance and doesn’t dare get up on one of them. the cockiest, “scared, Lt.?” with a shit-eating grin from johnny makes him grab the reigns and climb on. johnny leads the horse down the field and they fall into a comfortable silence. simon can’t get enough of the peace and quiet and chirping of birds and gentle yet chilly breeze on his hands and johnny is suddenly coming to a halt.

simon looks down at his sergeant, and his cheeks are flushed red and there’s determination and well-masked hesitation in his blue eyes and before simon knows it, he’s being pulled down by the sleeve of his jacket and johnny is cupping the sides of his face and pressing a gentle kiss over the material of simon’s mask. it’s innocent, quick, almost like it doesn’t even happen and isn’t registered. but their gazes meet when they part and it’s over for both of them because simon is fervently pushing his mask up and cupping johnny’s cheeks and they’re both leaning forward again and pressing kiss upon kiss upon kiss on each other’s lips and simon finally thinks,

i’ve found it. i’ve found home.

[delusionships]

"i'll love you in every universe"

[devil-in-hiding]

Ok but seriously, 141 would seriously be devoted to their wives.

Soap would always have a piece of his missus with him. Have it be either a charm or a small book she gave him (not his favorite genre but it was from her)

Gaz would seriously love a down to earth type of girl. Respect her mama and daddy and makes some seriously mean food. He's a lad who just loves a family oriented girl. He always craves her cooking. MRES just don't do him anymore

Simon. Simon would totally be smitten with his wife. Any woman who can tolerate his ass he KNOWS is a keeper. If she's mouthy and opinionated, he'd just love her more cause she's her own person. Plus if her ass jiggles he's gonna be a simp

Price. Ooohhh my man price. He'd love a succulent big girl who can warm him as he does the same. He's in his older years so he appreciate the bigger beauties as he calls them his venus's. He always carries something of her with him during his long missions. Either be a small locket with her picture in it or what ever.

Let these men love and simp over their wives.

!!!!!!

this is so fucking!!!!!!!

WE DESERVE MORE SOFT 141!!!!