People Don't Talk Enough About How Fucking Funny It Is That Bruce Can Sub In His Kids As Batman When

Y'all ever heard Shivers by Ed Sheeran? Yeah, it came on my spotify shuffle and something clicked in my brain.

─•────

Being around Damian was exhilarating.

Even as a kid, Jon felt this and acknowledged it despite Damian's bossiness, arrogance, and know-it-all attitude. All of those traits that Jon found annoying also grew into a feeling of excitement.

There is something about Damian's assertiveness, his proud and somewhat arrogant attitude. Blunt and direct, but fiercely loyal. Both independent and rebellious, and so deeply compassionate that it sent shivers through Jon whenever he thought about it.

That's not to say that Damian's recklessness didn't worry him at the same time. Because while Damian could be calculated and thorough, he wasn't a stranger to letting his emotions take over. As exciting as it was to be around Damian, Jon was often worried.

One bad slip, the snap of a grappling hook, a hit to the head that's a little too hard—all of that was enough to take him away from Jon permanently. So Jon always kept an ear out and was there the second he felt Damian's life could be in danger. Even so, the adrenaline that came with being in Damian's life was addicting.

Jon was far different from his father. While his dad represented peace and tranquility, Jon himself could be chaotic and unpredictable, and when paired with Damian, it was never seen as a bad thing. If anything, Damian himself could be chaotic and unpredictable, and that fascinated Jon over the years; seeing Damian embrace those traits that were often viewed as negative. He'd never met anyone like Damian before—someone so opposite from his wholesome and peaceful upbringing on a Kansas farm.

Damian was new and exciting.

The adrenaline rush that came with fighting next to him was truly intoxicating. The grin of victory that would spread across his face as if he knew they were going to win anyway.

The smirk he started to wear whenever Jon came to his rescue, as if he were a trained lap dog.

"You seriously need to stop pulling dangerous stuff like that! You do realize you're still human and could die, right!?"

"But you wouldn't let that happen, now would you?"

That all-knowing smirk on Damian's face was enough to prove his point. Because Jon be damned if he wasn't going to drop everything to save the one he loved.

Oh, and how he really did love him.

He never thought he could love this hard and this passionately. Someone who made his soul feel like it was on fire. He wanted nothing more than to be the guy who got to kiss Damian, make him smile, and see sides of him no one else got to.

So when leftover adrenaline led to heated make-outs in alleyways, being wrapped up between Damian's legs and arms never felt like enough.

Sneaking out in the middle of the night was nothing new to them; they'd been doing it since they were kids. But to simply sneak out because Damian thought it'd be fun to visit the San Diego Zoo at night, to have Jon fly them halfway across the world to patrol because, quote unquote, they needed a change of scenery, getting hot and heavy in the Batmobile because:

"You've kissed me just about everywhere. My dad's car should be no different,"

And it was just the way that Damian said some things that could drive Jon absolutely insane. He knew he should say no; they could get caught, reprimanded like they were kids again despite almost being in their 20s. But how could Jon say no when Damian said things with such an alluring tone?

"If we get caught," Jon walked towards Damian only to trap him between himself and the car, inching closer just so his lips could brush against the others, arms wrapped around his neck to pull him even closer, "just know my death is gonna be on your hands..." And Damian chuckled against a kiss that was only going to deepen because it was true; if his dad were to catch them, Jon's death would be on his hands.

And being able to stay up all day and all night with just Damian alone?

God, Jon loved nothing more.

Damian could tear him apart, put him back together, and take his heart as if he owned it.

And he did.

Damian owned everything that was Jon. And in return,

Jon owned him.

I live for an asesexual Ghost

never having loved someone like he does soap before, ghost expects their first kiss to be the way it’s always described in books, the way it’s always shown on tv, the way it has never been with the few other people he’s been with intimately. he expects some big revelation, euphoria, an insatiable need for more.

he expects something to change about him, expects he’ll suddenly have the sexual urges he thinks he’s meant to, that he believes he hadn’t yet been incited to have just because he hadn’t met the right person.

but there’s isn’t any of that. there’s isn’t anything at all, really—no sparks flying, no fireworks. his heart doesn’t skip a beat, nor does his stomach flip. it’s just… a kiss.

ghost thinks he must be broken.

because he does love soap, he’d be a liar for saying otherwise. he fantasizes about a future with the sergeant, one beyond the plan they both had for themselves to work until they die. he likes when soap touches him, likes that soap isn’t afraid to be physical like everyone else, thinks he could be intimate with soap if he really tried.

except he now realizes that he doesn’t really want to be intimate. not like that, anyway. ghost loves the thought of kisses without heat behind them, loves the thought of curling up in bed together on rainy days. he loves the idea of always having soap within reach, of soap plastering himself to ghost’s back as he cooks, of ghost tangling his fingers in soap’s mohawk. domesticity is something he finds he craves to have with no one but soap, but any thought beyond that… he doesn’t think it’s revulsion he feels, but it still leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

but it’s hard to admit to soap he probably shouldn’t pursue this, because ghost couldn’t give him what he needs. what he surely wants. not now, probably not ever, and he understands if it’s a dealbreaker—but soap just gets this odd look on his face, a disbelieving, amused sort of half-smile like ghost had just told him the most outlandish thing.

“i don’t care about sex, if that’s what you mean,” soap tells him. “i want you, simon.”

ghost heart hammers in his chest. “but what if—“

“no what ifs.” soap’s thumbs draw soft lines across ghost’s cheeks. ghost sags at the touch, melts into soap’s warmth. “i mean it. i’m happy if you’re happy.”

“yeah?”

soap smiles bright. “yeah.”

the assurance doesn’t quite soothe all of ghost’s worries, but he’s glad to know he might at least have a fighting chance to love soap just as he wants to.

So valid

this is how you eat pizza

DC inspired crossover/au

A collection of very old half finished doodles Not sure if I'll ever do anything more with this so might as well post them

|| Soap/Harley Quinn | Ghost/Poison ivy | Gaz/Catwoman ||

Cringe but free

Batfam Fics

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

Keep reading

Dang, so much in depth detail, names, ‘nd stuff. I love it 🙂

Ghaoptober #1

Prompt: Drive

Words: 2200~

TW: Mentions of Torture. (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

This one got very out of hand, I couldn't think of anything to do with cars, so I took it in a different direction.

Hope you Enjoy!

Ghost steps back, wiping his hand off on his thigh, uncaring of the sticky smears it leaves behind. Staring, he lets the knuckles of his -marginally cleaner- hand press against his lips through his balaclava as he debates with himself. The action was a remnant of Simon Riley's old habit of chewing on his fingers. The interrogation was stalling, it'd been going on for too long, their guest had lost the haze of shock and fear, he was starting to acclimatize to The Ghost. It was taking more to pull less from him, and he still hadn’t fessed up to where his homebase is. 

Thaddaeus Gedaliah, the man in charge of getting a lot of very bad people what they needed, where they needed it. He’d been a lucky grab off a facility raid, they’d had no information on Gedaliah being anywhere near that side of the globe. The 141 found it highly suspicious, as they were well stuck into to the habit of looking gift horses in the mouth.

Ghost thought back, trying to recall the base’s practice schedules, then walked out of the room to consult with Price. 

“Router Woods is empty right now?” He stood alongside the Captain, staring in at Gedaliah as the man dropped his head back, letting it hang off his shoulders as he slumped into the chair he was bound to. He was closer to breaking than Ghost had estimated. 

Good. 

Now the trick was making sure he broke in a helpful direction and didn’t just lose his mind. 

“Should be.” Price affirmed after a moment of thought and a quick check on his phone, “Need it?”

“Affirm, Johnny’s exercising?”

“He usually starts around now. But you already knew that.” Price side-eyed him.

Ghost nodded as he turned away and headed for the exit. He had already known, but it was only polite to give the Captain an idea of what he was planning. Cresting the stairs and pushing through the doors, Ghost held up a hand to ward off the glare of the sun and glanced around for anyone he could send running for Johnny.

The interrogation block was part of the general detainment building, a good two-dozen metres back from the rear of the main-building, situated smack dab in the centre of the base. The actual interrogation block was on the bottom floor, deep underground to take advantage of the natural soundproofing. 

“Corporal Winslow!” Ghost called the woman over, standing through the obligatory salute and ‘Sir!’, “Where are you headed?”

The Corporal seemed confused -Ghost couldn’t blame her, he wasn’t one for small talk or asking after others-, but answered promptly. “I’ve just begun my free hours, Sir. I’m-”

“Good,” Ghost cut in, “Tell Sergeant Mactavish to R.V with Captain Price and I at the south entrance of Router Woods A.S.A.P. You’ll find him in the delta sector of the gym.” 

The Corporal gave a crisp, ‘Yes, Sir!’ with another salute and obediently trotted off in the direction of the gymnasium centre. 

Giving a satisfied nod, Ghost headed back down into the interrogation block. Corporal Winslow was shaping up well with her recent promotion, there’s not many that would have handled a blood stained ghost-story barking orders at them with her perfunctory calm. 

“Planning to wash him out?” Captain Price asked, meeting him at the base of the stairs.

“With your permission of course, Sir.” Ghost let a grin stretch his mouth, but bowed his head to the Captain with sincere deference. If Price disagreed, Ghost would listen.

“Nah, you know that I trust you with this. If this is what you think will work, this is what we’ll do.” Price held open the door to Ghost's working room for him.

Stepping up to Gedaliah, Ghost let his excitement shine through his eyes. Reveling in the nervous swallow that bobbed in the other man’s throat. This wasn’t what Gedaliah had come to expect. The door had only opened long enough to permit Ghost’s entry for the past three days, Gedaliah hadn’t seen another human in at least seven before that. Thaddeus didn’t seem excited about this sudden change in routine.

Smart man.

Any wounds still freely bleeding were bluntly staunched, a gag stuffed into his mouth, hands tied behind his back, and his ankles secured to his hands. Ghost tested the give of the serviceable hog-tie, then hauled him up over his shoulder. Easily ignoring all squirming as he carried him out of the room, giving Price a thankful nod. 

Router Woods was a barbed and fenced-in copse of woods that made up a not insignificant part of the base’s northern footprint. It was occasionally utilised for training programs or punishments. 

After a quiet walk around the back of the base, so as to not prematurely scar any rooks and FNGs, Price and Ghost approached the south entrance. Router Woods' south entrance, matching all of its other entrances, was two trees with orange flags tied round their trunks with a rotting shack nearby that holds some surplus supplies, a log-book, and -if you’re very very lucky- a pen. 

Ghost dropped his luggage, rolling out his shoulders as Price popped into the booth to check the log-book.

“All clear. Last person logged as leaving 15:34 yesterday with no new entries.” Price read off, stretching the book's tether to get it into the light coming in through the shack’s open door.

“Good-”

“L.T! Price!” Came a cheery shout, the voice lilting with an unmistakable Scottish brogue.

“Johnny,” Ghost greeted, reeling in the Scot by the back of his neck to rub his balaclava-covered cheek over the top of his warhawk. Grinning at the happy squirming Johnny struggled to contain as he tried to stay firmly within range of the affectionate marking. 

“Hi, Si,” The Scot murmured after Ghost lifted his head, staring up at him with warm eyes that roiled with possessive greedy insatiable want. 

“Hi, Johnny,” Ghost murmured in return, rocking him gently by the firm grip he'd kept on his neck.

“That's enough of that, you muppets,” Price cut in, tossing the log-book back into the shack and securing the door with the Military Grade slide-latch that had been crookedly screwed into the frame. 

“Aye, right,” Johnny shook himself off after Ghost reluctantly released him, “Wha’d ye need me for then?” 

“Need you to wash out a target, Soap” Price informed him as Ghost didn’t seem inclined. Distracted, as the Lieutenant was, with watching his Sergeant. 

“Oh, ye always give meh the nicest ‘hings, L.T,” Soap all but purred, staring into those heated brown eyes, a wicked curl taking up the edges of his lips. 

“You’re not too tired, Johnny?” Ghost questioned.

“Nay, L.T. Hadnae even started my workout when Winslow grabbed meh.” Soap reassured, reining in the instincts urging him to wiggle about and rub happily up against his superiors.

Gedaliah chose that moment to take umbrage with being ignored and began flailing about like a landed fish, drawing Johnny’s gaze. The Sergeant's pupils focusing in on the roped man with a predatory gleam. 

“Someone’s eager,” Price’s face was serious, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes betrayed him, pleased to see his men happy, “I’ll just get our friend ready while you bring Soap up to speed, shall I,”

Ghost planted a hand on Johnny’s chest and walked him back a few steps, clocking the way his eyes never lost their lock on Gedaliah. “Soap,” He drew Johnny's focus to him, grabbing him by the chin when his eyes kept darting to where Price had given up unraveling Ghost’s knots and was cutting Gedaliah free.

“MacTavish.” he shook the Scot by the jaw, letting his fingers press firmly into Johnny’s cheeks, feeling the shapes of his teeth under his fingertips. Staring into his Sergeant's eyes to make sure he had his full attention, he felt Johnny nod into his grip. Letting Ghost know that he had him now. 

“Limbs only, No body-shots, No touching the head. He's mine, I’m not done with him.” Ghost kept his words calm and clear, making sure Johnny was registering what he was saying, “Copy?”

“Aye, Ghost.” Soap nodded, taking in deep huffing breaths, “Not mine.”

Ghost smiled at the basso notes creeping into Johnny’s voice, releasing his face and giving him a rough pat on the head, “Good boy.”

A scuffle snapped Johnny’s attention back to where Price was restraining Gedaliah, the man had tried to break Price’s grip, but the Captain still had him well in hand. 

“Ready? Ghost, you have a set of comms?” Price questioned, and at the successive yesses released his hold on Gedaliah, shooing the man into the woods when he turned a hesitant look on them, “Well go on then, you wanted to run didn't you?” Price raised a mocking eyebrow. Nodding with satisfaction when Gedaliah promptly turned tail and skedaddled into the woods. 

“You gonna run him or makin’ it quick?” Price propped his hands against his hips and turned back to Ghost, keeping an absent eye on Soap stripping down to his skivvies beside the Lieutenant.

 “Run him,” Ghost replied, his full attention on the now sky-clad Scot beside him. Without looking away, Ghost pulled a small bell out of a pocket, hooked it onto himself and tugged free the rag that stopped its ringing, “Need him scared,” 

Soap’s breathing slowed and rasped. A rumbling echoing up from deep in his chest as he stared into the trees. Tremble and shakes taking over his muscles. His skin jumping like a horse twitching off flies. 

“You got that Johnny?”

“Aye,” The word crackled from Johnny’s throat and the first grotesque snap rent the air. Soap fell into a crouch as his balance became compromised. His form warping, twisting, reforming into something broader, taller, furrier. 

The nauseating noises slowed to a stop and Soap walked his front limbs forward, letting his claws dig into the dirt as he dropped his hips close to the ground, giving a great whining yawn as he stretched his back out in a passing imitation of snake-pose. 

“Soap,” the amalgamation of wolf and man whipped its head around at Ghost’s call, Johnny’s blue eyes watching him from above that sharp-fanged muzzle. Ghost swung a flat palmed hand out to indicate the woods and barked, “Fass!” 

The werewolf wasted no time, launching forwards into the trees, sniffing briefly at the dirt to check which direction his prey had run, then picking up speed. Ears swiveling, focused on finding any sign of his quarry, Soap absently registered the quiet chiming that meant Ghost was following behind. A splash of blood on the leaf litter lit up his senses and sent him flying after the source. Johnny’s brown-furred tail vanishing amongst the foliage, followed by a crash and screams that Ghost easily recognized as Gedaliah’s. He picked up his pace to an easy jog, coming upon the scene of Gedaliah with his arm stuck tight in the trap of Soap’s jaws, the werewolf growling like a Harley, standing dominantly over the prone man, giving into his instincts to snarl and shake his prey every so often. Drawing pained wails from Gedaliah.

“Good, Soap,” Ghost calls, amused by the immediate tail-wag the praise gifts him, “Soap, Aus!”

Well-trained as any military man, Soap immediately releases the arm and back off a few steps, slavering jaws shaking with the need to regrab his prey. 

“You didn’t even get ten metres,” Ghost tsks down at Gedaliah.

The strangely amiable voice jolts Gedaliah out of the paralyzing staredown he’d been trapped in with Soap and he scrambles to turn over onto his belly and stumble to his feet. Strange, Ghost hadn’t got around to working on Gedaliah’s legs yet. 

Watching Gedaliah catch his balance against a trunk, Ghost offers some advice, “If I were you, I wouldn’t…” He trails off as Gedaliah takes off into the trees, leaving a trail of heinous cursing like bread-crumbs, “...run.” Ghost continues, glancing down to where Johnny is dancing on his paws, straining at the invisible leash of Ghost’s command, “It only triggers his prey-drive.” 

He watches Gedaliah bull his way farther into the forest, pleased to see that the man’s legs do seem to be working fine, it must have just been fear weakening his knees. Soap’s whining pitches up, the occasional yelp and quiet yowl creeping in as his new toy gets further and further away, but the werewolf doesn’t give voice to anything Ghost could reasonably call a bark.

What a good boy.

“Fass.” The syllable had barely crossed Ghost’s teeth before Johnny was racing away. Kicking up dirt and baying like a maniac. 

Ghost gives a wry shake of his head. He cannot believe he actually fell for that idiot. With a sigh that held more affection than exasperation, he started jogging after them. Maybe two more take-downs and Gedaliah should be more willing to talk. 

Ahead of him, Johnny tries to make a quick turn, doesn’t account for his momentum and skids sideways into a tree with a canopy shaking thud. The oversized mutt shakes himself, sniffs around, then takes off again. Tail wagging with uncontained joy the whole time.

Maybe three more take-downs.

Thank You For Reading!

So I chose to interpret drive as 'Prey Drive', and for that I needed it to be werewolf!soap and handler!ghost, nothing else fit. Also as you might have guessed, in this au, the 141 chose a homebase that has a little forest so wolfy Soap can run around in it.

I can't promise that all of my Ghoaptober responses will be this long, they most likely will not, but I'll try my best to make them nice to read regardless!

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

Fic Search!!

Looking for any well written JayRoy fics, especially along the lines of the Batfam realizing that JayRoy is a thing. (Bonus points if Dick takes psychic damage from it) . They can be funny or serious, just so long as there's at least a hopeful ending. Thanks!

I've already read (and enjoyed) :

Oh by AlexaAffect

Dick Grayson and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Two To Three Weeks (But Who's Counting) by dietpudding

another try not to cry christmas by fadinglight123

P.S. To anybody saving this for their own recs, these are also some favorite JayRoy fics, they just don't have the theme of the Batfam finding out. Enjoy!

raised in the tall grass by SafelyCapricious

4 am at Denny's by bittercape (JayRoy + Slade!)

And everyone thinks I dodged a bullet, but I think I shot the gun by Daisyapples

the halfway home for washed-up sidekicks by moth_tille (JayRoy + Kyle!)

RAOCH, MY BELOVED!!!!! 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

ROACH ARMOR ANON!!!! (holy shit didn’t expect you to actually want it,,,)

(Sorry if you can’t read any of this due to my handwriting, I’m happy to type it all out if you need)

A generous amount of this is improvised and/or not quite fleshed out fully so feel free to take as many liberties as you want to customize it to your liking! :))

Hell yeah Roach Armor

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

have you ever wondered what it would be like if half-vampire Ghost was made to drink diet soda, black tea, and bourbon? you and me both, but I did my best guessing