#Artisan Soap Bar

[belle-regali-naturale]

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[trivialbob]

When my wife buys these horrendously expensive flavors of soap, my first thought is that they'll actually make my hands sticky.

My second thought is, "Did that large (ugh) box these came in also have vodka, simple syrup, Cointreau, little umbrellas and martini glasses, as well as plastic forks and paper dessert plates?"

[interweb-poster]

starry night soap

[m8103]

https://ritaluckysoap.etsy.com/listing/1491367310/eucalyptus-peppermint-soap-vegan

[weenie-wizard]

I’m calling this the Romeo bar, after that one MCR lyric about lathering blood on your hands. I got obsessed with making a emo MCR soap, I can’t wait to see if the lather runs red!

Himalayan Rhubarb cold process soap, scented with dark amber and cedarwood.

🔪🩸🥀

[bathessani]

[bloodyke]

opened one of my gifts and it was just 6 bottles of lotion and she seemed embarrassed saying stuff like i know you must be disappointed and id get a better one on the redo birthday date but the thing is im DELIGHTED i was running out of lotion and actually was about to buy myself more because i have really really bad sensory issues regarding dry skin

[cosmerelists]

Cosmere Characters Versus A Toaster

Kaladin: Heroically sets the toaster to its highest possible setting. The toast is burned.

Vivenna: Cautiously sets the toaster to its lowest possible setting. The bread is unchanged. She tries it again. The bread is slightly warm. This happens over and over until she finally eats her vaguely crunchy but essentially untoasted bread. It's fine.

Hrathen: Is highly trained in the ways of toasters. His bread is always perfect, which he credits to the power of Shu-Dereth.

Dilaf: Deliberately burns his bread so that it is "blackened like the devils who dare to resist Shu-Dereth" and then eats it with wild eyes. It's disturbing.

Navani: Always calibrates her toaster so that it toasts properly every time.

Dalinar: Faithfully follows the ways of those who came before...that is to say, he never changes the setting from whatever it was when he got there. That means he's using Navani's settings, and his toast is always perfect.

Vin: Grew up eating burned toast but later learns that she kinda likes lightly toasted artisan bread. Angsts about this for a minute but eventually realizes that she can enjoy both.

Rock: Wants his toast to be burned. Is successful.

Adolin: Believes with all his heart that the settings on the toaster correspond to "levels of toastiness" and that others must understand how it all works better than he does.

Steris: Toasts her bread in a pan so that she can better control how toasty it gets.

Wax: Eats thoroughly blackened bread on purpose as a show of dominance. Calls it "Roughs Toast."

Yumi: Ritually toasts her bread seven times. It's pretty (lowly) bad.

Szeth: Always eats his bread plain and untoasted. Has never once considered any other way.

Renarin: Carefully reads all of the toaster instructions (in this reality he can read) and carefully chooses the most sensible setting. The bread burns anyway because toasters are bastards that way.

Jasnah: Carefully reads all of the toaster instructions and carefully chooses the most sensible setting. The toaster knows better than to burn her bread. It is perfect.

Tress: Has a crappy toaster that always burns the toast, but she just scrapes off the burned part and it tastes pretty good.

Hoid: Appears in the background of a scene putting a bar of soap into a toaster for some reason. Per Sanderson's "RAFO," this will be highly relevant later.

Lirin: Follows the "Wisdom of the Heralds" and does his bread in a toaster oven. It's way better.

[scaryorganmusic]

ngl after months of using exclusively artisanal soap bars sold to me at the vegan street fair by the person who handmade it with all natural ingredients that's oh so soft on the skin etc etc i used a bath and body works shower gel and the fragance was so intense i felt like i was on breaking amish experiencing secular soap for the first time

[belle-regali-naturale]

Buy Natural Artisan Soap Online in UK

Belle Regali naturale provides 100% natural handmade artisan soap. purifying qualities of coconut oil and has vitamins A, B, D, and E. beautiful product for sensitive skin and moisturizes the skin for a long time.

[trivialbob]

Back from the camping trip. Work tomorrow.

It was a smooth and fun weekend. I worry too much about something breaking in the trailer or the truck. We've never had any disasters though. The first year we owned a trailer I learned to carry a tool box and two or more of certain things, like freshwater hoses and electrical cords. Neighboring RVer are helpful about sharing ideas.

RV tip: Do not rush when putting up or taking down. People in a hurry are the ones that (try to) drive over wheel blocks (guilty) or forget to shut the ceiling fan cover (guilty). One thing I love about some campgrounds are how veterans watch out for the newbs. "Oh, hey man. I know you were going to disconnect that power cable before leaving, but because you had your truck in gear, well I thought I'd be a buttinsky even though I'm sure you were going to take care of it."

In one of the small towns yesterday I bought some organic, artisanal, foo foo scented soap at a boutique (the one next to the liquor store). If I see a fancy, nicely scented bar and I'm on vacation, I will gladly pay what top line beer cost for a single bar of soap. The soap lasts longer anyway.

Sheila has class now. I cleaned the trailer and put it away. Tonight I'm doing many loads of laundry. Bedding and dog blankets need washing. The weather forecast had been all over the place, so we over packed to be prepared. Now all that has to be washed. I'm not sorting out the unwashed clothes. They're all getting washed.

The dogs have barely moved tonight. I can tell they're happy to be home. They'd never say no to camping, but home is home.

The last load of laundry is in the dryer. My personal level of satisfaction is high. Getting the clothes and bedding done and put away relaxes me. There's no way I would have had a sound sleep if there had been dirty clothes in the laundry room overnight.

Tomorrow I'm going to a new downtown office building for the first time. I know my card key works, but I'm not sure where I can eat breakfast or lunch without leaving the building. I'm still excited to go downtown for a day.

I'm going there because my boss and some other managers are in town to meet people.

I have to drive downtown. After the pandemic there are no more buses I can ride downtown in a reasonable time.

[bluedalahorse]

Hi Blue!! I’m very interested in the pro choice fic! What is it about?

Okay so this was a post season 2, written pre season 3 fanfic I was working on, and it was quite angsty! Essentially Sara turned out to be pregnant, and decided to get some abortion pills and take them far away from home. She asked Rosh for help, and although Rosh was pissed at Sara, she decided she’d help her all the same. Felice (who was also not talking to Sara) ended up on the journey too. Felice, Rosh, and Sara were the three POV characters, and there would also be bonding, but also a lot of uncomfortable moments and moments of tension, too.

I think I wrote this one in part out of spite, because there were anons arguing that a teen pregnancy plotline would be oh nooooooooooo the worst thing ever, and I was like, hang on, I can actually see one being done well? And fitting into the themes of the show? Since so much of it is about parent-child stuff and cycles of generational trauma. So I started writing.

You can read the beginning of the story over here at this post.

I’m going to include two more excerpts from the story below the cut, just for fun.

Rosh explaining her reasons for helping Sara:

Rosh’s Phone

Messages with Ayub

Rosh: I’m going to be a little further out of range than expected

Rosh: but Sara’s still with me and she hasn’t done anything worrisome

Rosh: you and Simon good?

Ayub: the video games are keeping him busy

Ayub: but he’s pretty pissed you’re hanging with Sara right now, after what she did

Rosh: we’re not exactly hanging

Ayub: I know

Ayub: well. I don’t know. You can’t tell me the details. But I trust you.

Ayub: and I can look after Simon for both of us

Rosh: look I’m pissed too

Rosh: but she came to me, and she asked me to do this favor

Rosh: and I figure I’m being loyal to the part of Simon that wants to keep Sara safe

Rosh: I have to take over that for him, because he has to be angry with her right now

Rosh: and you’re going to stay with Simon and that’s how you and I are going to look after him

Ayub: three musketeers, baby

Ayub: do you think they’ll ever forgive each other?

Rosh: I don’t know

Ayub: I don’t know either

Ayub: …so weird

Rosh: right?

Rosh: anyway we’re ending up at some rich girl’s vacation cabin. Long story as to why but pray for me.

Ayub: I will be disappointed if you don’t come back with china teacups and raised pinkies and opinions on artisanal cheese boards

Rosh: shut up

Ayub: I mean Simon’s going out with the prince of Sweden, you may as well hook up with a golden coffee mine heiress

Rosh: shut UP, when have I ever gone for a posh girl

Rosh: also coffee doesn’t come from mines

Ayub: not with that attitude it doesn’t

Rosh: oh god our best friend really is going out with the prince of Sweden

Rosh: so weird

Ayub: SO WEIRD

Ayub: …do you think he can get us tickets to the Eurovision Song Contest? Or maybe the Stanley Cup?

Ayub: asking for myself

—

Felice and Sara have a really complicated conversation, content note for discussions of upsetting relationship dynamics (incomplete, but you’ll probably get the idea)

Sara plans to sleep that night with a piece of bar soap tucked into her pillowcase. She’s careful to slip it into the pillow she brought with her, instead of one of the pillows she’s borrowed from Felice. When she packed the soap into the very bottom of her backpack this morning, she wrapped it up in a scarf first and then zipped the scarf into a makeup pouch. Whether she’s hiding it from herself or others, Sara doesn’t really know. The soap is the color of eggshells, and weighs about as much as eggshells in her palm. Sara stole it off of August’s sink a few days before they all met in the field with the gun. If he knew about the soap, he never mentioned it or teased her for it.

The soap smells minty in a way that stings Sara’s nostrils. She breathes it in through the t-shirt soft layer of pillowcase, and even though her heart calms, her stomach tightens. Since Sara let a boy rewrite the way her body works, tension travels and transforms inside her in ways she can’t predict.

Of course Sara wishes that she could fall out of love all at once. Most of all, she wishes she could erase falling in love in the first place, for Simon’s sake. After the doctor at the clinic informed her, however, that she would need to take two pills over two days, and that her bleeding would diminish gradually over two weeks, Sara understood. She knows now that she is going to lose a piece of these feelings at a time, that their falling away will be like the erosion of a cliff, rather than a magician’s disappearing act.

When the morning comes, Sara wakes up to Felice sitting beside her. She is briefly hopeful, as Felice encourages her to sit up and hands her a glass of water, that the erosion is something Felice will understand, too.

They don’t talk much, at first. Instead Felice works the tangles out of Sara’s hair with careful fingers. Then, gradually, she begins to braid Sara’s hair, and as she braids she tells stories. There were a few other guys before Hillerska, all of them older. The first used to constantly pressure Felice for blowjobs. Another was a family friend in his first year at university; he was funny and liked to explain to her about the female authors he was reading for classes. He also called her exotic and kept trying to top off her wine glass when they sneaked away from their parents’ dinner parties. The last boy seemed kind and sweet—he had a dog he said he would die for, always texted her pictures—until Felice found out he was keeping a very blonde, very serious girlfriend a secret from her. The summer before Hillerska, Felice had to use emergency contraception after one of her hookups with the third guy. She had another girl buy it for her and smuggled the packaging off to a trash bin in a public park so her parents didn’t find it. She never told the guy.

Sara has heard Felice allude to other guys before, but never these details and personalities. She wonders if their other friends know the stories, and if so, why Felice didn’t tell her.

“Our friendship is still over,” says Felice, as she binds off the end of Sara’s new braid with a hair tie. “I’m just saying, I know it’s scary. I guess I don’t want you to be scared and alone right now.”

“Thank you,” says Sara, and part of her means it.

Another part of her is still at the back of the Bjärstad bus, the rough fuzz of the bus seats pricking at her legs through her school tights. Her fingers are numb and heavy now, just the way they were when she dialed the police that day. She was alone and scared, already. Still is. Sara accepts this as her punishment.

“I wish you’d told me sooner,” Felice says. “About what was happening between you two.”

“I told you, I didn’t know how,” Sara replies. “I know it’s too late for anyone to forgive me.” The phrase I feel like the worst person in the world echoes in her thoughts. She closes her eyes against it, then opens them again.

“If you told me sooner,” says Felice, “We could have done something. I could have given you more time with Rousseau. Your real true love.”

Sara balls her hand into a fist and presses her knuckles gently to Felice’s arm. “Stop that.”

That’s the part that Felice doesn’t get—that the love is the same. Not in the vulgar way TikTokers claim it is, when they’re making fun of horse girls. Only the way there’s an addictive thrill in being the one person who can tame someone known for trouble.

That’s crazy, right? Sometimes Sara is convinced that she’s going crazy.

“I wouldn’t have let Rousseau get sold, at least,” says Felice.

Sara’s stomach lurches. It occurs to her, in that moment, that Felice doesn’t know what happened with Rousseau. Sometimes Sara forgets it herself, it’s so strange. Grand gestures happen in movies, not in real life.

“August bought Rousseau for me,” she says. “From those awful horse people. Not that I accepted—”

“He bought you an entire horse?”

“I said I didn’t accept. I don’t think he knows how to take care of Rousseau.” Sara presses the tail of her braid between her fingers. She presses hard enough to bring pain to her fingertips, so she can block out the image of her horse—whose horse?—alone. “And now he can’t learn how. Not since I… not since the police.”

Felice flops backward onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling.

“He bought you an entire horse. And you were squeamish about the riding pants we got you. So that’s why you let him do anything he wanted?”

“I didn’t, though.”

“Alright. You did report him in the end.”

“He’d done bad things. He hurt people. I had to.”

“So he got you pregnant. Did he try to like—I’m sure he told you it would feel better without a condom. So many guys say that.”

“He never said that. We were always careful. I think one of the condoms must have been defective.”

“You can be honest. Sometimes boys lie, or secretly slip stuff off or—”

“I’m not lying.”

Sara wraps her arms around herself and rests her chin on her knees. She isn’t exactly sure what she’s supposed to say, but she’s fairly sure that whatever she’s saying now isn’t what Felice wants to hear. Maybe the price of forgiveness is pretending she’s been a helpless victim all along. She’s supposed to recite lines about August like: He manipulated me and tricked me. He didn’t let me say no. I was screaming and he put his hands over my mouth. I couldn’t fight back.

That’s easier for Sara’s old friends to swallow than: I saw him take pills and I know he was lying to me about what he was doing but I also planned to ask him about it until he got help. I was sure I could do it because he wasn’t as far along as Pappa, and I know what far along looks like.

Easier than: to be quite honest he treated me like his princess and we took turns doing the rescuing and I liked that and it even kind of turned me on, okay?

Until August took the prince and princess part more literally. Sara keeps reminding herself that she drew her line there, that she was able to put her foot down and refused to go to Valentine’s with him and be publicly recognized for that reason. She reminds herself that she isn’t going to let the tabloids talk about her. That she doesn’t want to live in a toy castle even if the castle is real, even if sometimes it even seems like it would be easier living in a castle than anywhere else.

(August doesn’t actually want that either, right? His words and actions say he does, but Sara also knows his body now. She’s felt how his breathing relaxes in the brief moments that he stops holding himself to royal standards.)

[m8103]

sweet orange soap

[ralith]

Canvas

Ghost/Soap fic

Rated M for suggestive themes. Fluff, Body and scar worship. Edible body paint.

Soap has run out of journal space so Ghost gifts him his body to use as a canvas. He wants to see in himself the beauty that Soap envisions with each of his sketches.

Can also be found posted to my AO3.

“I hadn’t taken you for much of a reader,” Ghost had commented on the first day he moved in with Soap, bringing with him only a few boxes of personal belongings. Soap’s house off base was slightly smaller than his own had been, but it was so much brighter and warmer. More lived in. In the corner of Soap’s, no, their bedroom, was an overfilled bookshelf.

“They’re journals, not books. Well, there’re enough stories there to fill novels, but it’s mainly doodling. Little snippets of what’s on my mind at the time.”

Ghost was aware Soap enjoyed drawing on the nearest available paper, stealing napkins from his mates at the bar or scribbling in the margins of official paperwork much to Price’s irritation. But he had no idea it was to such an extent as to fill bookshelves.

“You’re free to look through them whenever. If you’d like.” Ghost had caught the slight blush on Soap’s cheeks. He was taken back at how easily Soap trusted him. First letting him into his life, his home, and now the inner workings of his mind. Ghost hadn’t allowed Johnny to so much as see him unclothed from the mask down, still uneasy at undressing in front of the sergeant, instead slipping away to the bathroom.

A nod was all Ghost could muster, and Soap smiled at him. “Not to brag, but I’m a pretty good artist.”

He was an exceptional artist as Ghost would learn. He had found himself spending hours flipping through those journals, admiring the sweeping lines and attention to detail. The journals looked like they went back to Soap’s basic training days through to the present. The newer journals were all about the 141, sketches of Price and Gaz, their latest missions, trips to the local bar which turned into late night karaoke sessions with Gaz belting out tunes to a riveted audience.

Then, Ghost noticed he quickly became the center of attention in the most recent collections. Side profiles, headshots, the mask, the mask, the mask…Soap was obsessed for a while there until just after the ordeal in Las Almas. And then his face was everywhere.

With a finger, Ghost had traced these images of himself. He marveled at how Soap had made him look so soft. In the mirror, all Ghost saw of himself was sharp edges and severe angles. He saw no gentleness in his scarred form. But Soap clearly saw him otherwise.

Soap had a preference of what kind of journal he used. These weren’t bargain bin notepads. Each journal Soap had bought while on leave, visiting a small artisan shop in town where each leatherbound journal was handmade. He would usually buy enough to hold him over until his next leave, whenever he estimated that may be.

But due to a scheduling error, Soap’s latest leave had been pushed back to an indeterminate time and his last journal was full. And it was frustrating the hell out of him. Soap was desperate for a relief to the mounting thoughts in his head. Bar and restaurant napkins were far from a sufficient replacement. Ghost didn’t want to see his Johnny in such a state.

So, he had set out to plan a mission. One that would benefit Soap’s creative output and where Ghost would force himself to be more open. The idea left him a bit shaky, but he wanted to do this. For them both.

--

Soap was freshly showered when he walked into the bedroom wearing only sweatpants. Ghost looked up from where he sat on their bed, eyes momentarily fixated on how the sweatpants clung to damp skin in all the right places.

“Like what you see?” Soap chuckled, the lieutenant’s gaze all too obvious. He bent down and nuzzled his cheek to Ghost’s in greeting. His skin was still warm and the stubble catching on Ghost’s mask created delicious friction between them.

“Always,” Ghost murmured. Soap placed a chaste kiss to his temple and sat across from him on the bed.

“What’ve you got there?” The sergeant nodded at a box that rested casually in Ghost’s lap.

Ghost contemplated the box. He had no idea how Soap would react. Would he think it’s stupid? Have a good laugh with Gaz later, telling him how ridiculous Simon Riley was to think of something like this? But Ghost was a man who followed through with each mission. He had planned this and would see it through to the end. He was a good soldier. And he wanted to be an even better lover, the softer man Soap envisioned in his art.

“A gift for you.”

“A gift?” Soap’s eyes lit up immediately, though it didn’t ease Ghost’s nerves any. The lieutenant was a man of few words and an unstoppable force of the battlefield, but Soap had come to know the tenderness Ghost was capable of, in his words and his touch. But a gift, this was a first in their relationship.

Soap took the offered box and balanced it on a knee. Inside were several jars of brightly colored liquid. He withdrew one and gave it a shake. It jiggled some, but that didn’t help identify the contents. Next, he gave it a quick whiff. Was that fruit?

“Lime?” Soap questioned, looking a little bemused.

“It’s body paint,” Ghost clarified. His voice came across a bit sheepish. “I made it. It’s…edible.”

“Edible body paint,” Soap repeated. Ghost could see the gears turning slowly in Soap’s mind. His next move helped to grease those gears.

Ghost began to tug his hoodie and undershirt over his head. He felt like he was peeling away so many layers of himself that had accumulated over the years.

“I noticed your last journal was full. Your art is an expression of your soul. It’s a part of you, a damn beautiful part of you. You miss sketching. And I miss your art.” Ghost tossed his clothing aside and laid back with his legs coming to rest on either side of the sergeant, hooking his heels just beneath Soap’s ass to coax him forward and atop him. Soap followed effortlessly. “I know painting isn’t your preferred medium, and this body isn’t high quality material. It’s been scorched and torn, stapled and taped back together repeatedly. But, if just for tonight, I hope this body can suffice as your canvas.”

Ghost watched Soap’s face, waiting for any minute shift in his features- a furrowing of the brow, a wrinkling of his nose in disgust, anything to tell the lieutenant that this was a bad idea. Behind the mask, his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Fucking beautiful, Si,” Soap breathed and the tension in Ghost’s body bled away. The Scotsman raked his eyes slowly down Ghost’s chest, over his clavicle, the gentle swell of his breasts, the curve of each muscle that built the solid wall that was Ghost’s frame. Soap traced him deliberately with his eyes and Ghost could swear he felt his gaze as if it were a physical caress.

“You like it?” Ghost’s voice was uncharacteristically small.

“I love it.”

“I’m sorry there’s not much room to draw,” Ghost spoke, referencing the scars carved into his flesh, the agony inflicted on him by other’s hands. “These marks can’t be erased, no matter how hard I’ve tried.”

“Aye, some art is indelible. But sometimes art is about taking what you already have and redesigning it. Telling new stories with it.”

“There are…a lot of stories here.”

“Think of them more as individual words and write a new story. Sometimes it’s easiest to write from past experiences.”

Ghost had enough of his past experiences. Saw them written on his skin every day he looked in the mirror. Soap could make something new from them, something he could smile or laugh about instead of flinching away when he touched himself.

“Can you tell me some of your stories?”

Soap searched Ghost’s chest for a starting point and zeroed in on an old keloid scar along his ribs. He grabbed a jar of white paint and dipped a finger in before bringing it to his lips and licking a long, slow line up the digit, Ghost’s eyes wide. He pushed the digit past his lips down to the knuckle, sucking hard and loud.

“Coconut,” Soap hummed, his finger now nice and wet. He dipped it in the paint again and began to doodle along the scar like his little show hadn’t left Ghost breathing harder.

“When I was a kid, maybe nine or ten, my family went skiing.” Soap sketched the outline of a mountain range along the raised scar. “I was nervous as hell. I’d never been skiing, let alone up in the mountains. Well, I didn’t make it very far up the mountain. Broke my fucking leg first thing.”

“Did you hit a tree?”

“Nope!” Soap laughed. He capped the mountains with snow. “I couldn’t sit still on the ski lift. Was kicking my legs and I slid right off the damn thing! Wasn’t a huge drop, but it was enough.”

“Ruined the family vacation.”

“It wasn’t all bad. When I got out of the hospital, mom brought me to get ice cream.” Soap bent forward and dragged his tongue along the creamy mountain range he’d drawn. The sudden wet heat had Ghost sucking in a breath. The sergeant smirked against the fluttering muscles beneath and suckled a red mark into the skin beside the scar. “It was delicious.”

Next, the tease of a man eyed a cluster of knife marks. He scooped some of the green, lime-flavored paint onto a fingertip and began to draw the outline of a box from the ends of several scars.

“A bit further back from the ski incident, there was a Christmas my parents thought I had disappeared. Christmas morning rolls around and I’m nowhere to be seen. They said they started to freak out, but all the doors and windows in the place were locked so I couldn’t have gotten out.” Soap switched to purple, grape, and doodled little swirls and stars into the box, making a present complete with bow. “They found me a while later, curled up inside one of the presents. A large box at the back of the tree with a giant teddy bear. I’d gone snooping earlier that night and crawled inside with the bear and apparently fell asleep.

“Somewhere at my parents house there’s a picture of me curled up in tissue paper around a big ol’ teddy.”

The sergeant swept away the present as quickly as it was drawn, tickling the nest of old wounds with kisses and nipping. He tasted it all, lime and grape and beneath it all, Ghost, a man he had longed to taste this way.

Soap shimmied up the larger man and pressed a kiss to Ghost’s masked lips, kissing with fervor as if the mask were nonexistent. Ghost was pressing back, trying to capture the sergeant’s lips. When they parted Soap noticed the absolute mess he had made of the man’s mask. It was now smeared with body paint, Soap’s own face sporting a similar look.

“Ah shit. Sorry, Si,” Soap apologized. Ghost was smiling though, the corners of his eyes crinkled with a joy he hardly let himself experience.

“Don’t worry, Johnny. I would have stopped you if I didn’t want it.”

“Ghost,” Soap murmured and pushed in for another kiss, sloppier and more awkward than last but nonetheless exciting.

“Do you want to hear more?”

“Please,” Ghost sighed, almost breathless.

Ghost propped himself up slightly, watching Soap’s work with fascination, the quick, fluid motions of his fingers dancing along his skin, weaving stories out of scarring both new and old. Tales from his childhood, family gatherings and holiday mishaps that had them both laughing and leaving Ghost a bit envious of those joys he never got to experience. The many times Soap had almost blown himself up as a cocky new recruit. Things he had seen while on missions, both benign and unbelievable.

“You did not see a UFO!” Ghost challenged, trying not to moan as Soap worked over a perked nipple, drawing what he remembered of the flying object.

“Swear on my life I did! Damn thing probably would have abducted me if I hadn’t squeezed off a few shots at it.”

“You said you hadn’t slept for three days. Not only were you hallucinating, you gave away your field position!”

“But the aliens didn’t abduct me.”

“Fucking hell, you’re stupid!” Ghost laughed.

When Soap wasn’t chattering away, his mouth was full of Simon, the lieutenant’s flesh reddened with bite marks and hickeys sucked into tender spots. He worked his tongue along every rise and dip of Ghost’s abdomen, taking his sweet time to learn his partner’s body. Where to scratch with fingernails to elicit a repressed moan, or where to tug with teeth that had Ghost’s hips rolling. Soap peppered kisses amidst the trail of blonde hair that disappeared into the waistband of Ghost’s pants, fingers scratching down his sides. Ghost was left quivering.

Ghost’s eyes fluttered open when he felt fingers slip into the waistband of his pants. He didn’t remember shutting them. Soap was looking up at him, his chin resting on the other man’s navel, his cheeks bright with a rainbow of paint. He was asking permission to delve further south. He nodded and Soap all too enthusiastically made short work of the lieutenant’s pants.

Simon’s thighs were no less scarred than the rest of him. Pink and pale lines were carved into the creamy surface. A burn scar here. A shrapnel wound there. A bullet wound that had carved a small chunk of Simon’s outer thigh away.

Here Soap paused his artwork, instead wanting to taste Ghost pure. He followed the curvature of muscles from knee to groin, breath hot on the rarely exposed flesh. He made each scar sloppy with wet kisses and dragged teeth down the inner thigh, biting his own marks into Simon, claiming the man.

Ghost’s breathing quickened. Over the rise and fall of his chest, he could just make out the mohawk moving as Soap devoured him. He reached down, his hand finding the ridge of hair and grasping. Soap growled low and pressed sucking kisses dangerously close to the clothed dick.

Then Soap bit down hard, growling Simon’s name hungrily against the tender flesh and Ghost practically yanked the Scot away, Soap eliciting a rather undignified moan at the movement. He held the ravenous man at a distance to catch his breath, admiring how absolutely debauched the sergeant looked. Ghost mused he probably looked worse.

“You’re like a fucking leech.”

Soap chuckled and wiped spit from his lips with the back of his hand.

“You taste so fucking good, Simon.”

Ghost released Soap, the sergeant sitting back to admire his work. Ghost’s body was a smattering of colors, most scars now hidden beneath a layer of paint. Designs had been doodled, licked clean, drawn anew and licked away again. Over and over again from neck to navel.

“You look like a fucking treasure, Simon. Beautiful, ornate.”

“Well, you have the hands of an artisan.”

“Aye, I’m pretty good. But I bet you’re capable of making a masterpiece too.”

Ghost made a questioning hum. The only thing he was good at making were bodies drop. His sewing skills weren’t complete shit, though.

“Simon,” Soap breathed and hooked a finger beneath the edge of his mask and tugged. He guided the lieutenant to switch positions, Soap now shaded comfortably in the larger man’s shadow. He angled Ghost’s head down to whisper against clothed lips. “I want you to touch me. Make me beautiful.”

“I can’t improve what’s already a masterpiece.” Soap was all solid muscle and dark hair. Bright eyes that warmed Ghost’s soul. He was strength when Ghost needed to feel weak.

“Ghost. Simon. Will you touch me?” Soap’s palms rested on his cheeks.

“I don’t have heartwarming tales to regale you with. Nothing funny or feel-good.”

“Then tell me something that you want to happen.”

Ghost contemplated the jars of paint. Of all the colors, red and yellow were still mostly full. Soap had steered clear of red, averse to staining Ghost’s skin the color of blood.

Yellow though. A color Ghost heavily associated with spring and new beginnings. Sunshine. Johnny was his sunshine on the darkest days.

Didn’t hurt that it tasted like pineapple.

“Something that I want,” Ghost mused, dipping a finger into the paint and beginning to draw along Soap’s collarbone. “I’ve found myself thinking about retirement more often lately. To be honest, the thought of leaving active service scares the shit outta me. I think I might lose a part of me that day. There’d be nothing to tether me to reality. But if I had someone to keep me grounded, someone who knew that feeling too, we might make it through together.”

“What kind of someone are you looking for? Someone you intend to keep around?”

“Someone for the long haul.” Ghost teased the swell of a pec and down over a nipple, bending to brush his nose against the other. Soap sighed and pressed his head back into the pillow. “Someone who is the first thing I see that day. Someone I want to curl around on cold mornings, their body like a damn furnace. And I’m cold because they like to steal the blankets in the night and somehow keep one while tossing the rest on the floor.”

Ghost worked his hand through dark curls of chest hair, making no effort to draw any specific design, just wanting to mark Johnny.

“I want someone who can cook an amazing breakfast and yet still manage to brew an absolute dogshit cup of tea.”

“That was one time,” Soap grumbled.

“But I choke it down because I love them.”

Ghost clawed at Soap’s stomach, fingertips tracing the sergeant’s own scars, concealing them in paint. He painted the dark hair that disappeared into Soap’s sweatpants. The sergeant’s hips rolled up, eager for more, but Ghost pulled back and instead buried his face into Soap’s belly, rubbing his cheeks and pressing masked kisses into the fluttering abdominal muscles.

“Want someone who has my six, and every other time of day. Who gives me their all and expects nothing in return, when they deserve it all and more. Someone who has all the patience in the world for a slow sod like me to come around.

“Just someone I can love unconditionally.” Ghost spread paint over the palm of his hand and pressed it over Soap’s heart.

“Sounds like a lot to ask of one person,” Soap smiled sweetly and his hand brushed over Ghost’s skull. “Do you have anyone particular in mind?”

Ghost closed the distance between their frames, grinding his body into Soap’s as he came up to meet the sergeant’s face. He pulled away his mask and tossed it to the floor.

“I love you, Johnny.”

They kissed soft and slow, hands buried in hair, their bodies feeling as though they were melding into one.

“I love you, Si,” Soap whispered against the other’s lips when they broke apart.

Ghost hunkered down atop Soap and nuzzled his face into Soap’s throat. The Scot held him tightly, one hand idly toying with his hair.

“Our hands are filthy, so I’ll let you grab it later, but I hid a second present in your bedside drawer.”

“Oh? You engaged on a stealth mission?”

“Sort of,” Ghost chuckled. “I ordered a few new journals from your favorite hometown shop.”

“You beautiful bastard!”

[bathessani]

[shouta-edits]

"hello! can i request a morty smith (rick & morty) self care kit? preferably with soft and body care related items, with optional space theme! thank you so much :)" -anon requested