I Have Fallen Into The Rabbit Hole Of DP X DC ✋🙂‍↕️

Batfam Fics

This is pretty much just all the Damian Wayne/Jon Kent and Jason Todd/Roy Harper fics I like on Ao3

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Ouch. This hurts a bit 🥲👍

"Why'd the soldier run into the demo site before it went down?"

Soap sighed, throwing a long suffering glance to his Lieutenant. He shifted his grip on his rifle. He could pretend he didn't hear the man but... either morbid curiosity or masochism won out. He wasn't sure which. "Why?"

"To C-4 himself."

"Awful."

"More?"

"As if you'd stop if I said 'no'." Years of practice kept a smile off his face. In all the time Soap had known Ghost, the man's sense of humor had remained steadfastly terrible.

Their unit advanced. Ghost and Soap were in the lead, spread far enough to need comms to talk, but close enough to signal one another if need be. Their men fanned out behind them.

"You hear 'bout the microwave incident on base?" Ghost's voice had taken on an ethereal quality.

Glancing over again, Soap spared a moment to admire the other man's silhouette against the muted orange glow filtering through the trees. He deftly stepped over branches and around trees. Rifle at the ready. Always ready.

Soap had missed this. Missed him. Missed them.

Soap hadn't blown up a microwave for fun in much too long. He hadn't had time, too desperate to fix things. Things were fixed. He'd need to change that when they got back. "Go on."

"Lost two kernels in a popcorn explosion."

"Tragic. Your jokes are painful, Lt."

"I'm just warming up."

Good. "That's a worrying statement."

"'Fraid of a good time, Johnny?"

"Afraid your jokes'll be the death of me."

"You could only hope so."

Trees and branches created illusory enemies as the trudged through the wood, but their trained eyes and steel nerves kept their small platoon from panicking. Sure-footed, they kept searching.

Soap offered one of his own. "What do you call an officer who spends too much time at the head?"

"What?"

"A loo-tenant."

"Not bad." A pause, Soap had just begun to soak in the praise when Ghost continued. "Not good either."

"Fucker. Yours're no better."

"I'm much better."

You are. "Keep telling yourself that."

"Why's there no winning a war with zombies?"

"Ghost." Soap's warning fired off nearly unbidden. He didn't like where this joke was headed. Behind him he heard one of his men misstep, a twig snapping. Perhaps the cause of his warning had been mistaken.

"Cause it's dead even."

"No. Too topical, Ghost. Don't like that one."

Minute crackling from the smoldering world around them filled the uncomfortable silence that followed his outburst.

"Lighten up, Johnny." Easy for him to say.

"I'll try, Sir."

"Heard the Navy is the most religious military branch. 'Parently they love a good warship."

***

Why did they have to use comms? Why did they have to keep that thing around?

The Sergeant was a freak, but at least he was still human. Still alive.

"Hnnnnnnggggrrrrrrraaaaahh." The fucking monster that had once been their Lieutenant moaned, scratchy and split. It traveled through the smoke unnaturally, fraying the nerves of the men it led.

"Go on."

"Rrrrrah arrrrrrrrnnnnnn."

"Tragic. Your jokes are painful, Lt."

It still moved like a man, from a distance you'd never know.

But the sounds. Why did they keep it? It was one of them.

"Eyuhm. Mruuuuaaammm."

"That's a worrying statement."

Why the hell did the fucking thing moan into comms? Why did the Sergeant respond like it was talking? Why did they all have to pretend they weren't being led to their deaths by a fucking Zombie and a mutant who'd lost his mind?

"No. Too topical, Ghost. Don't like that one."

MacTavish's snap quieted the monster for a moment. Holy shit he could breath again.

"Ahhmff. Ohnneeee."

"I'll try, Sir."

The beast began to moan again, it floated back to them, broken bloodied nails against his nerves. It crackled through their comms. It was destroying him. "I can't fucking take this anymore!"

Both freaks rounded on him. He leveled his gun at the former Lieutenant.

"Corporal Evans, what the fuck?" Sergeant MacTavish snarled. Green eyes mutely glowing.

"That fucking thing keeps moaning. He's dead, he's one of them! Why are we pretending he isn't?"

The Sergeant was moving before Evans could even blink. Evans fired off a shot but it went wide, nowhere near his target, as the Sergeant laid hands on him.

Green smoke emanated from the mutant, eyes glowing fiercely as he threw Evans into a tree and held him there. Pain in his collar bone and a loud crack told him it had been broken.

The Sergeant barked something at him, but his ears were ringing too loudly and his mind was clouded. He must've hit his head against the tree.

***

"Heard a shot, boys. Report."

"Evans lost his damn mind and took a shot at Ghost." Soap spat. He was ready to rip the Corporal limb from limb, the traitor would deserve it.

"He hit?"

A hand landed on his shoulder. A bloodied skeleton print glove, missing the ring finger and revealing grayed flesh and blood caked under the nail.

Toxic green met milky white. Ghost's eyes still conveyed such intense emotions. He was worried about the shot and yelling giving away their position. He was feigning indifference to being targeted. He was angry about Soap losing his head.

"Ohnee. Rauhghh."  Ghost's voice echoed within Soaps mind as well. 'Johnny. Cool it.'

"Ghost's fine. Shot missed."

"Hhhnnnnaowww."

Soap rolled his eyes and dutifully translated for the others. "Apparently I just broke Evans's collar bone."

Price grunted before ordering. "Right. Bring him back in one piece, he'll be dealt with later."

Two of the others had stepped up. Zip-cuffs and duct tape in hand. There'd be no more outbursts from Evans, then.

"He probably got heated because you're not translating for us, Soap. I'm missin' his comedy gold." Gaz piped up.

Ghosts exposed mouth was one of the benefits to his condition, he refused to use a different mask since the incident. His slack, broken jaw didn't stop him from smiling.

"Hnnh hnnhh huaaaaaarrrrrnnnnnghuhh."

Soap closed his eyes and centered himself. Things had been so touch and go for so long. Theyd kept Ghost caged because they didn't know they could still trust him. No one could hear him. When The Director had offered to change that, in exchange for Soap participating in a few experiments, he'd jumped on it. Hearing the man in his own mind now, he could never regret it. Even if the damn respirator on his face could never be removed.

" 'Picasso used to drive a tank. Was known for art-illery.' Sure you want me to keep translating?"

"Terrible, Sir."

"Fucking hell, Simon, that was bad."

A few of the men around them laughed or chuckled. None would look either officer in the eye though.

"I was trying to save you all." Soap said before taking his position back up and letting his men handle Evans.

They resumed their advance through the smoldering wood.

It’s nice to see siblings bonding 😌

Ok ok, HEAR ME OUT.

Y'know how Duke's supposed to have them light bendy power thingies?

Imagine Damian blackmailing him to accompany him on patrols so he can hide and mess around with the lights to make Robins' shadow ABSOLUTELY LARGE AND TERRIFYING.

I'm talking that scene with Mushu from Mulan when he's like "I'M YOUR ANCESTORS DRAGON" Type shadow play. (Damian just wants criminals to finally acknowledge him as intimidating and to stop calling him 'kid'.)

Thoughts?

omg XD damian SO would, you're absolutely right

jason: . . . and why are you going on patrol with damian?? aren't you our daytime hero?? duke: *unwilling to admit that he's going as a glorified prop* uh . . . . schedules are messed up 'cause of like . . . daylight . . . savings time jason: jason: seems legit

I need to look more into this era, ‘09 version’s of 141 are WILD 😆

Riley trying to seduce his captain part 1

2

3

I’m wheezing at Tim’s

batman…..

ROACHHHHHH MY BELOVED 🪳🧎‍♀️

One off page of Roach. He’s a girlypop hunter to Ghost’s edgy

Also a very chaotic arc hunter

I thought this might be of interest to authors.

List of British words not widely used in the United States. Lists of words having different meanings in American and British English. List of American words not widely used in the United Kingdom.

I absolute LOVE stories of Ghost getting to meet the Mactavish family dynamic 🥹

Ghoaptober # 4

Prompt: Home

Words: 3100~

TW: Phonetic Scottish Accents (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

This one did not at all go in the direction I meant it to. I genuinely thought this one was gonna be short, that's my bad for thinking a MacTavish family reunion wouldn't be chaotic.

So a bit of Premise, I have a headcanon that Soap's actual name is Coinneach John MacTavish, but only his family calls him Coinneach.

Enjoy!

Ghost tried to steady his breathing as Johnny led him up to a picturesque country home, then around the side, under a few lines of drying laundry, to the backdoor. Johnny gave the door a cursory rap as he pushed it open, he’d barely gotten one foot over the threshold when delighted cries resounded. 

An older woman, maybe fifty years old came into view as she hustled over to yank Johnny down into a hug. A smile lit Johnny’s face, the likes of which Ghost had never seen before. It was warm and relieved, happy and teary. It looked like Johnny had been told ‘It’s all okay’ and, for the first time, actually believed it. Johnny and his mother held each other for a long moment, each just breathing the other in. Through the door Ghost could see that the space behind them was crowding with people, all impatiently waiting to have their go at hugging the returned MacTavish. 

Mrs Mactavish pulled away, reaching up to clasp Johnny’s face between her hands, planting a long kiss on his forehead, then pulling back again to look him over, murmuring to him in Scots Gaelic. Something Ghost, thanks to Johnny, could now recognize.

Johnny had warned him that it was the primary language spoken under the MacTavish roof, in deference to Johnny’s Grannie, whose grasp of English isn’t the best. Ghost had been forbidden from worrying about it and Johnny had assured and reassured him that "Ma an’ all ae mah wee siblings speak English jus’ fine", so he was trying his best to obey and not stress out. 

Mrs MacTavish released Johnny, prompting even more people to crowd into the room to get at him and Ghost redoubled his efforts to not freak out. Wishing he hadn’t been so adamant in rebuffing Johnny when he’d said no one would care if Ghost wore his mask. Being able to hide behind his balaclava would be really nice right about now. 

“Ye mus’ be this Ghost fella mah Coinneach is always yammering abou’,” The voice piping up at Ghost’s elbow does not make him jump. Ghost is a highly trained Special Forces Operative, he would notice a middle-aged Scottish woman approaching him before she spoke.

He Would.

“Oh! Ah’m sorrae, laddie. Didnae mean tae spook ye,” Mrs MacTavish apologises, “Come in, Come in, Donnae stan’ on the stoop like y’ur nae welcome.” 

Ghost finds himself ushered into what he discovers is the kitchen of the house. To his right was the kitchen proper, there was what Ghost could only guess was a genuine wood stove crouched directly in front of the door, guarding the threshold, in direct competition with the gas cooker that was against the far wall, bracketed by counters covered in various appliances that looked like they'd hopped straight off the pages of a fifties home catalogue, but still seemed to be in good repair, the cupboards hanging over them were closed with curtains rather than doors. The only acquiescences to the modern era were the nice big fridge humming away like an afterthought at the end of the counters, and the washer tucked away in the corner. 

It was a nice kitchen, it looked homey, lived in.

To his left was a long oval table with an assortment of chairs surrounding it. Ghost could pick out a few chairs with carvings that matched the ones on the table’s legs that could only be the matching set, but they were outnumbered by chairs that had clearly been added as needed. He could also spot a leaning stack of metal folding chairs half tucked behind a hutch in the back, clearly the MacTavish house was well accustomed to crowds. 

Ghost was chivvied into one of the seats around the table, his Special Forces joints extremely grateful for the soft cushion padding the chair and guarding him from the ache of the hard wood. A glance at his table mates revealed whom the cushioning was truly intended for. A lady that must be around seventy sat to his right, and to her right, at the head of the table, sat a man in the same age range. The man was watching him. 

Ghost took an educated guess and presumed that these must be Johnny’s Grannie and Grandad. 

Fucking Hell.

Johnny never told him their names. 

He’d always just referred to them as Grannie and Grandad, so Ghost had always called them ‘your Grannie and Grandad’ when asking after them. He didn’t even know if they were MacTavishs. Thinking about it, they were probably Johnny’s mother’s parents.

Oh, Bloody Fucking Hell.

What the fuck was Mrs MacTavish’s first name. 

How the hell had he managed to have a panic attack over memorizing the names of Johnny’s five siblings and never have the thought cross his mind to learn the names of his mother and grandparents. Ghost is in their house, sitting at their table, and he doesn’t have a single clue what their names are.

What the fuck, Johnny. 

The awkward staring contest he’d been entered into by Johnny’s Grandad was only growing more and more uncomfortable. It’d be rude to look away without saying anything, but what the fuck was he supposed to say, ‘Sorry for barging into your home, Johnny demanded Simon Riley crawl out of the grave that Ghost left him in to come meet the extended MacTavish family’?

Johnny rescued him by coming to the table, leaning down to accept his Grandad’s seated one-armed hug and back pats, then pressing kisses to his Grannie’s cheek as he passed by on his way to drape himself over the back of Ghost’s chair, because sitting in chair like a normal human eludes Johnny. 

He talked back and forth with his grandparents for a moment then turned to Ghost to make the least helpful introduction he has ever been forced to be a part of, “Ghost, this ‘ere’s mah Grannie and Grandad,” then turning to his grandparents, “this is mah L.T, Ghost.” 

Johnny’s Grandad seemed well used to Johnny’s foibles and reached an arm across the table to shake Ghost’s hand and supplement with his own introductions, “Ah’m Amhlaigh Milne, an’ this is the missus, Fionna Milne,”   

Amhlaigh Milne’s hands were broad, with liverspots speckling the backs, textured by hard calluses and soft wrinkling skin. His handshake was cursory and firm. He was a man that had shaken a thousand hands before and had no interest in adding pomp or frippery to the exchange.

“Simon Riley, sir, ma’am,” Ghost replied, nodding to Mr then Mrs Milne, “Thank you for having me in your home,” 

Mrs Milne said something to Johnny in Scots, sounding almost despairing. Johnny cried a shocked ‘Seanmhair!’ and a wild barking laugh carvoted out of the kitchen, followed by a multitude of variations on the same. Mrs MacTavish had been puttering about the kitchen getting tea and nibbles together, and was now bracing against the counters to not fall off her feet laughing. The people that Ghost hadn’t been introduced to, but could only assume were Johnny’s siblings, were leaning against each other and various pieces of furniture as they fought to stay upright on knees weakened by their cackling. 

Well, it was good to see that Johnny came by it honestly. 

Mrs MacTavish pulled herself together enough to pick up the tea tray and bring it over without spilling, the occasional giggle rattling the teaset before she made it to the table. 

“Ma says-,” Mrs MacTavish cut herself off, planting a hand on the table as a new wave of laughter wracked through her, Johnny was hiding his face behind a hand, but the deep red of his ears betrayed his blush, “Ma says, it’s guid tha’ Coinneach is the firs’ ae her grankids tae bring ‘ome a fella, bu’ did ye have tae be a fuckin’ sassenach!” 

The last of the translation is squeaked out in between laughs, but Ghost thinks he’s gotten the jist. Mrs Milne was hoping her grandchildren would bring home partners that were Scots. 

Add her to the tally of people Ghost had lived to disappoint. 

“None of your siblings have had partners before?” Ghost turns his head to address the question to Johnny, getting some vindictive pleasure from the offended squawks coming from the peanut gallery of siblings milling about in the kitchen.

“Nae, they’ve ‘ad partners, bu’ all ae 'em 'ave been too feart tae bring ‘em fer a visit,” Now Johnny is the one laughing, and the greedy beast that weaves through Ghost’s ribs squeezes tight, viscerally glad to have been the one to cause it. 

A succession of offended noises comes charging out of the kitchen, followed by the siblings in question. 

“Oi!” barks a young man with Johnny’s mousey brown hair, Mrs MacTavish’s straight nose, and hazel green eyes that Ghost doesn’t recognise, “Ah’m nae feart!” The rest of his defense is in Scots Gaelic and therefore lost to Ghost, but by the gasps and laughter it triggers, it’s nothing good. 

“Artair!” Mrs MacTavish scolds, and Ghost assigns the name to the face on the internal profiles he’s been habitually building in his head for Johnny’s family, “Donnae say tha’ we’ve company!”

“He cannae understan-” Artair complains,

“Tha’ donnae matter. Artair MacTavish, ye’ll watch y’ur tongue or so help me Jesus, Ah’ll give ye a doin’!” Mrs MacTavish asserts, hands on her hips. Nodding sharply when Artair obediently subsides, “Noo, did ye wan’ a cuppa, Ghost?” She presents the full tea service to Ghost.

“Please, call me Simon, Mrs MacTavish,” Ghost almost begs of the woman, being addressed by his callsign by such a motherly figure is disconcerting in ways that Ghost refuses to analyze. 

“Simon i’ tis,” Mrs MacTavish easily agrees, and starts identifying the nibbles she's brought over, “These ‘ere are egg an’ cress pieces, bridies, butteries, tablet, an’ shor’ bread. Have y’ur pick ae the lot.” 

“Mah ciallian, did ye-” 

“Nae, Da. Ah didnae pu’ onions in the bridies,” Mrs MacTavish supplied before her father could finish his question.

“Guid lass. Pass us up a few, noo. There's a guid lad,” Mr Milne chivvies Johnny into popping a few on a plate for him, Ghost was fascinated to see Johnny automatically make up and pass along a cup of coffee too. His family had never had that kind of camaraderie. A sudden wave of despair welled up to drown him as the unwelcome thought that he had no idea how his mother used to take her tea and there was no one left that he could ask struck him.

Johnny gently squeezed at the nape of his neck, bending down to put their heads in line, so that he could mutter to Ghost what exactly was in all the snacks Mrs MacTavish had just offered him. If Ghost leaned into the contact, buoyed by Johnny’s presence, that was between him and the devil, thank you very much. 

Having clocked the identity of the coffee pot, Ghost got himself a tea from the teapot. Opening dishes until he found the milk powder, he mindlessly filled a mug with coffee for Johnny and slid it over along with the milk bowl, setting the dish back amongst the teaset when Johnny had taken what he wanted. The teapot was ensconced in a nicely knitted plaid tea cosy, a brief glance up at Johnny netted him a nod, and he studied the cosy with more interest. 

So this was the MacTavish… hmm.

Another glance to Johnny, with a tip of his head in Mr Milne’s direction. Another distracted nod from Johnny, one of his sisters was ranting to him about an incompetent chef. 

So this was the Milne tartan. 

A woman burst through the backdoor, a small dog following at her heels. Another ecstatic cry went up and the family rushed to welcome her home. Johnny had told him that this was the first time all the MacTavish children would be under the same roof in years, Johnny’s mother had been planning it for months. 

“Kennie!” the latest addition cheered, breaking free of the scrum to tackle Johnny in a hug, “How’ve ye been! Still ten, ten, an’ two?” 

Johnny threw his head back in a laugh, then held up his hands to wiggle his ten fingers at her, “Aye, ah’ve still go’ all mah bits, Maggie.” 

Ghost watched the crease of his eyes, the flash of his teeth, the jump of his chest. Glutting himself on Johnny’s happiness. 

“So ye finally brough’ us y’ur man,” Maggie nodded in Ghost’s direction, a released Johnny coming to perch at Ghost’s shoulder again. Memorizing her face Ghost updated his profiles, this must be Maighread, the youngest. 

“Aye, doin’ Ma proud, Ah am,” Johnny retorted, “Pickin’ up the slack ae allae youse,” 

“Oi,” Maighread barked with a laugh, bending to pick up the dog that had been standing on its hindlegs to paw at her thighs, “A’ leas’ ah’ve brough’ Ma her firs’ grankid,” 

“Aye, right.” Johnny conceded, reaching forward to give the dog a few pats, “An’ how’s wee Calum been farin’?” 

“He’s grand! Vet said he’s great joints for nine,” Maighread enthused, then gave Calum a smooch on the head and pressed him into Johnny’s arms, “ ‘ere, be a lad an’ hold him while I say hullo to ar seann-phàrantan,” 

Watching Johnny juggle a small grey dog and a hot mug of coffee twisted a smile onto Ghost’s face. 

“Calum?” He let the question stand on its own and was gratified by Johnny’s response.

“Aye, he’s Maggie’s wee lad. A mini schnauzer. She go’ ‘im off a breeder, he didnae qualify fer a showdog, so noo ‘e’s the first MacTavish grankid. Ma’s go’ ‘im in the albums an’ every’hing.” Hearing Johnny’s accent thickening with every second that he spent amongst his fellow Scots was captivating, “Maggie trea’s ‘im like ‘e’s her own bairn.”

Ghost is not legally obligated to confirm or deny whether he did or did not open a mental profile for Calum the nine year old miniature schnauzer. 

“Why’re you holding him?” Ghost asked,

“Dae ye wan’ tae?” Johnny asked in return. That hadn’t been why he’d asked, but he wasn’t going to say no. 

Ghost nodded and scooted back from the table to give Johnny room to set the warm armful of dog on his lap, carefully bringing his arm around to make sure Calum didn’t accidentally fall. 

Calum the miniature schnauzer snuffled at his face, his shirt, his hands, then seemed perfectly content to take a seat on his lap, propping his forepaws up on the table, like he truly was part of the family. 

“Aye, tha’s fine,” Johnny supplied at Ghost's questioning look, “Donnae le’ ‘im jump up or no’hing, bu’ it’s fine as long as ye wipe the table after ‘e gets doon.”

Ghost was then perfectly content to sit, drinking his tea and petting the dog weighing down his legs. Normally the hustle and bustle of the many people talking and swarming about the rooms would quickly become too much for Ghost and he would need to take a break or else risk disassociating or having a panic attack, but oddly he was feeling fine. 

With Johnny standing sentinel at his shoulder, his hip pressed against Ghost’s side, and his arm arm idly draped across the back of his chair, Ghost was able to feel secure where he was. In spite of the commotion and chatter around him. 

Eventually the whole MacTavish brood was sat to the table, including Calum, who had abandoned Ghost to curl up on Maighread’s lap as soon as his owner had sat down. With cuppas and plates of nibbles close to hand, the air thrummed with idle chatter. Everyone updating and catching up, sharing the newest gossip about people that the table’s occupants would never meet. Mr Milne clearing his throat muted the room, though the silence wasn’t the oppressive tension that Ghost’s father had loved to employ, rather it was more of a curious waiting. 

“Riley, ‘ave ye met,” Mr Milne cast a wide gesture out to encompass the entire room, grunting like he’d expected as much when Ghost replied with a quick ‘No, Sir’, and then proceeding to efficiently go around the table, putting names to faces.

“Mah oldes’ daugh’er, Oighrig.”

“Oh, jus' call me Effie, dear,” Mrs MacTavish interjected,  

“Oighrig’s oldes’, Iseabail,” Mr Milne spoke on, unphased, 

“Izzie,” the woman sat to Johnny’s left offered,

“Ye know Coinneach o’course,” Mr Milne didn’t miss a beat and Ghost got the feeling that this was routine for him,

“Folk ‘roun ‘ere call me Kennie,” Johnny grinned up at him, his chair leg-to-leg with Ghost’s letting Johnny easily press up against Ghost’s left arm,

“Then the twins, Donella-”

“Nella,” Chirps the woman directly across from Ghost

“an' Eilionoir,”

“Ellie,” Spoke the identical woman sat to Donella’s right, 

“Artair,” The young man sat to the right of Eilionoir offered only a nod, “our younges’, Maighread,” Mr Milne indicated the woman sat to his own right,

“Call me Maggie,” She offered with a bright smile, 

“An’ Maighread’s Calum,” Mr Milne rounded out, giving the dogs ears a ruffle.

Ghost gave the table a nod, “It’s good to meet you all, thank you for having me,”

His thanks are immediately waved away, eight separate voices speaking their denials of any thanks being necessary. Ghost holds his hands up in surrender and sits back to sip his tea 

“So Ellie, did ye tell tha’ man wit’ the gormless ring idea tae get tae fuck?” Maighread’s question forces an aggravated sigh out of Eilionoir, and with that the conversation moves on. 

Ghost is happy to have the attention off him, but is even happier to revel in the line of heat that comes from Johnny pressed tight against his side. Planting a hand on Johnny's leg, Ghost silently urges him impossibly closer, appeased by the way Johnny immediately obliges him. Scooting half off his chair he pushes down on Ghost’s shoulder and tugs him around by the waist so Ghost's slumped back against Johnny’s chest. Perfectly aligned for Johnny to drop his head down to rest his chin on Ghost’s shoulder, the soft scratch of the shaved sides of his warhawk rasping over Ghost’s ear and rubbing intoxicatingly against his cheek. Ghost squeezes at the leg he hadn’t released and revels in the tight squeeze Johnny returns to him.   

No one at the table gives their new seating arrangement a second glance and Ghost allows himself to wholly relax. Dropping his weight back onto Johnny without any fear of falling. 

There aren’t words for the feeling that fills up Ghost’s chest. The closest might be devotion, a gluttonous loyalty, content to share only because it gains him ever more of Johnny, others drawing out sides of him Ghost can’t. A burning obsession that banks and surges with every moment, every glance, every touch that Johnny allows him. 

What else is he meant to feel for a man that brings him home.

Thank You For Reading!

So the idea I set out with was "Soap takes ghost home to meet the family, ghost gets a bit overwhelmed by the amount of people, and realises he’s treating soap like some absurd mix of a touch/worry stone and a therapy dog. Thereby realising that soap makes him feel safe, and that wherever soap is, is home to him." I don't know how that became 3000 words, but here we are.

For anyone curious here are my notes on the MacTavish family:

Amhlaigh Milne -Grandad Fionna Milne - Grannie 69yo Oighrig MacTavish - Mother 53yo Iseabail(lesbian, the devil's advocate, she likes to look like the reasonable one and sometimes she is, trained as a professional chef, Job: restaurant owner) 34yo +1yr Coinneach John, 33yo +2yrs Eilionoir(Poly, is used to sharing Donella's partner, is not attracted to Donella, thoughtful and assessing, judgemental, realist leaning pessimist, job: makes jewelry) Donella(Poly, is used to sharing Eilionoir's partner, is not attracted to Eilionoir, more outspoken, open-minded, optimist, Job: professional horse trainer,) 31yo +3yrs Artair(sarcastic, always has a comment, acts like the baby of the family, Job: broker, he gets a budget from his client to find a specific/rare item for them, he bids in auctions and stuff), 28/yo +1yr Maighread(is the baby of the family, no one asks Maggie to do anything she doesnt want to, kind, warm, obliging, but not selfless or overly giving, Job: house sitter). 27/yo

Eilionoir and Donella live together and have four cats, all of which used to be stray cats. Their names are Sir Gawain, Darcy, Croissant, and Soot.

A photo of Calum to make it fair.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

"Stop hogging the ciggy"-

Scene from "earthmover" commissioned by the author of the fic <3

a soapghost comic i never finished (i wanted angry bloodied soap)

update: i am continuing it 1/1/2024 16/1/2024: i'm remembering why this took so bloody long (pun intended)

update: here's the whole thing - its basically 2009!Soap haunting Soap!