the 42C heat is making me want to skin myself alive but atleast soap is enjoying himself
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“You can’t cure this,” said the Prince. “It’s spirit shit … possession. You can ward people so they don’t get grabbed—if you’re really good—but otherwise, chop them up and burn the bits. That’s the cure. Civilian or Edenite or House, it makes no difference.”
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codtwt is going off on brainwashed!soap bc of his new warzone skin and it’s making me think of ghost deliberately getting himself captured by makarov bc he knows he’ll be given to his dog to try and break him; knows he won’t be able to resist the irony, the cruelty of being tortured by the teammate he lost
he doesn’t fight; welcomes the chains around his wrists and ankles, welcomes the hands stripping him of his weapons and gear until he's defenceless
he wouldn't use them anyway
when he stalks into the room, the muzzle, the scars, not even the blank hatred or lack of recognition could make him mistake his eyes
that's his johnny
he doesn't flinch as he digs knives into his skin; would never shy away from his kiss even if it's tinged with rusted steel. doesn't swallow his screams; not when he always loved hearing him, when he spent so long coaxing his voice from the grave
frustration joins the anger in johnny's eyes the longer he goes without giving up information
just jokes; dark and puns alike
just advice when he can't get the jumper cables to spark right
ghost's not trying to escape; not trying to barter his return to the 141
he's right where he wants to be
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Soap MacTavish has a strong heart.
You know this because at the tail end of your worst days, you seek him out the moment you come home to lay yourself on top of him. Finding him lounging on the couch and immediately moving to cement your ear to the broad plateau of his chest.
Drowning out the worries of the day to the resounding beat pulsating beneath his flesh. Your fingers finding purchase within the rolls of his shirt, clawing into the fabric as you cling to him with the last remnants of arduous and tethered sanity.
"Easy, bon. I'm right here. Ain't goin' nowhere." He breathed softly against the crown of your head. Thick arms wrapping around the curve of your torso as your weathered soul quietly molded into his comforting embrace.
His soothing voice cascading over the flesh of your neck, receding into your tired muscle fibers and seeping deep into the dense marrow of your bones.
"I'll be yer mattress if ya need it tonight, lass. Holdin ya like this. Cannae think a'nothin' better."
His admittance, although registering within your mind, disappeared into the periphery as you focused solely on the deep cadence reverberating within his chest. Letting its chorus muffle the tiresome and pained memories of the day and replace them with the unending affection only he could so voluntarily provide.
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it would make dean fucking furious, but i actually love the idea that jack sometimes calls sam "sammy" and that sam lets him. he's the only one besides dean that doesn't get "it's sam"
jack is always watching dean, and while part of that is search for dean's approval, the rest is because it teaches him how to interpret and be loved by sam
he calls him sammy when he's scared, or worried, or even relieved (seeing sam after lucifer brought him back would definitely elicit a sammy)
dean says it and it's sammy (protected)
jack says it and it's sammy (protector)
i also think he's seen dean and sam hug each other, sees how sam scrunches himself up so dean can still get his arms over his shoulders and folds beneath his brother. and when sam hugs jack, he hugs him sort of like dean hugs him, like how jack thinks dean used to hug sam twenty years ago
being enveloped, sam hunching over to keep him tucked into him, and for a moment jack feels like nothing can get to him
(sam used to feel this way too)
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