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Soap - Blog Posts
These soaps smells quite nice, just like carnations and look very cute.
I'd buy this soap
French soap advertisement - Demandez “le Chat”, savon extra - 1895 - via Gallica
French soap advertisement - Savon Le Chat. C. Ferrier & Cie - 1912 - via Gallica
At my store, we sell this soap. They have some, well, interesting names.
Tumblr, you know what to do.
i need more people to write soap as a math and science genius
like he is a human calculator. gaz shows it off as a party trick even though soap is the one actually doing something. like
“oy, look what my mate can do- soap, c’mere!”
and soap, who has done this a thousand times before, walks over.
“ok, ok- someone ask him a math problem. like- literally anything.”
someone gaz is talking to goes “uhh… seven radical three times the square root of nine,” and soap blinks a few times, stares at the ceiling for a moment, his fingers flick around a little, and about ten seconds later he says “forty-five thousand three hundred and sixty.”
and someone pulls out a calculator and goes, “holy shit, he’s right!”
and soap is just like “are you done now?” so that he can finally go back to shamelessly hitting on his lieutenant.
hi um so two of my fav writers on this platform literally reblogged another of these drabbles as i was writing this one so?? I'm buggin.
It’s the long-drawn snapping of neurons that prickle at you, eyes closed and forearm thrown over your face. A slow peel of eyelid after eyelid, foggy thoughts wisping away at a moment’s notice in the blackness of the bedroom; the ceiling is more a theory of shapes inferred from moon-coerced shadows than its usual cragginess, and you unhook your arm from the dip between your nose and forehead to reach up. Comb your fingertips through the air.
Was it the breeze through your ever-closed window? Open now, a new development, but surely one that would rouse you like a bear from slumber. You feel large enough to be a bear, warm enough to feel tarped in fur, lethargic enough to clamber off your mattress and land on all fours and grunt like an animal.
Maybe it was the slice of light underneath your bedroom door. You never forget to turn off the switches in your living room, the LED bulbs too glowy and insistent to sleep the way you do, curled up on one side and facing the doorway.
Or maybe it’s because you’re not sleeping the way you always do. Not at the moment. Right now, you’re tipped onto your back, each limb swallowed up by an inch of cushion, flat like a slab of carbonite. Your body and the bed are inseparable—each pore on your skin is looped through with a stitch that dips into the sheets, rises back out and finishes with a double knot.
All you can do is lay there. Willingly, you suppose, despite the spasms.
A new ozone layer has settled around you, consistency of molasses, and hot to inhale. It stinks of past activity, like breaths that have been used up and tossed out. All of it cloys against your skin, maintaining a sheen of sweat to add to the discomfort.
You’re awake now, though.
Unhappy, but no longer unconscious. A bit bitter that you’re all alone.
But a sharp trill pierces the air, and it hits you—that’s it.
That’s what had awoken you.
Roused this grumpy, sticky, sore form of you that’s polyfoam-bound, torn too quick from a fundamental repose period. You’re too exhausted to moan, gripe, curse like you should.
Even as the lights under the door flicker out, and something pushes it’s way inside with various scuffling movements. The room returns to stagnancy with a soft click, save for the lone gust of wind invading and receding at an unsteady tempo.
Your next breath is a roiling mix of oxygen saturated with sodium and garlic. You hum aloud, a vague attempt to dissuade the bile crawling up your throat. Each time your tongue scrapes past your teeth, the morning grime collects and taints your tastebuds.
You need water, and a toothbrush, and two tablespoons of toothpaste. Five minutes for an alcoholic rinse, too.
Definitely don’t need the robust wafting of a pepperoni Hot Pocket up your nostrils at the ass-crack of dawn, as the mattress dips with a bulky outline.
“Sorry, Bonnie,” a Scottish voice that is not apologetic in the slightest mumbles beside you. “Didnae mean to wake ye. Fuckin’ makes me ’bit peckish.”
We’re not gonna talk about how I wrote this instead of finishing part two of what’s in a virtue. We’re not even gonna talk about what this is. I’m just gonna… yeah, here ya go.
!Trigger warnings: dubcon
Body swap au with soap who just wakes up one day and says, “no fuckin’ way.”
Soap who thinks it’s the best fuckin’ dream he’s ever had.
Soap who solemnly agrees with you in the mornings that yes, the two of you do need to work together to fix this as soon as possible, but who spends his nights in front of a mirror stripped down to nothing, masturbating because it’s fucking you, and you’re so pretty when you’re panting. Soap who was always convinced that making you come would feel just as good as coming himself, and now he doesn’t have to figure that out anymore.
Soap who, fuck, has his cake and eats it, too.
Soap who grins so proud at the awkward way you stumble around in his body, too big for you. Soap who, after discovering you’d had to——ahem——relieve yourself for the first time, feels his skin fucking buzz at the fact that you can’t meet his eyes, your eyes, anymore without a schoolboy blush spreading across his own damn face.
Soap who knows you liked what you saw.
Soap who makes your body come again that night, not even thinking of your body anymore, but of your mind fumbling around in his body, experimenting with touches and caresses. Soap who imagines you knowing how to pleasure him inside and out when this is all over.
Soap who records the sound of your voice saying his name, because the lines are getting so damn blurry, and emails the video to himself. Takes pictures, too.
Would never blackmail you with them, no, no, no.
But he deletes them from your phone after sending them all to his drive.
Soap who, after everything is over, after you’ve both found your ways into your own bodies, trots after you like the dog he is wherever you go.
Soap who, after you check the deleted folder of your photos app, gets a good and proper scolding.
Soap who managed to record the entire reprimand, listening to the anger in your voice, the how dare you do that to me——to my body?! That’s so fucked up, Soap!
Soap who rewards himself yet again that night, teeth gnawing at the hem of his shirt that he hadn’t bothered taking off, just pulling up high enough to jack himself off with his back against his front door. Panting at the dash he’d made up his flat’s stairs, then panting your name, whimpering disingenuous apologies to your chiding voice.
Soap who doesn’t stop, who won’t stop until he’s got the real you screaming his name.
Soap:"Why is Price beating the shit out of a rookie?"
Ghost:"Oh, he told Roach he'd always be a woman, misgendered him, and then outed him to all the rookies."
Soap, leaning out the door to yell:"CUT OFF HIS DICK!"
Price, yelling back:"ALREADY PLANNING ON IT!"
Price, still kicking the rookie:"HOW DARE YOU DISRESPECT MY BOY!!!!"
t4t ghoap supremacy
So I was just reminded to post a picture of my soaps so here they are! I make quite a few of them and sell them at my moms church because the people there are really nice. I’m not really religious but it’s a fun hobby. The green one is Christmas wreath, the blue and white one is peppermint, the snowman is apple cinnamon, and the flower is cranberry.
Ghost hates Roosters (GhostSoap)
Tw: Swearing, use of Ghost's and Soap's real names, fluff
“Johnny, you feed the hens yet?” Ghost asked as he carried the potato’s into the barn while Soap milked the cows that lived within the barn's red walls. “No, not yet. Is yer turn anyway.” Soap chuckled, blowing Ghost a kiss as he finished milking the last cow. “Ah don’t wanna deal with yer rooste’.” Soap smiled picking up the milk bucket as he patted the cow's backside with one hand. “Yer know that bird hates mah guts M’eudail.” Soap smiled, kissing Ghost's cheek as he walked past. “Hmph. Fine I’ll feed the hens today.” Ghost chuckled as he set down the sack of potatoes, picking up the basket full of the chicken feed. “I’m only doin this because I love you Johnny.” Ghost waved a finger at his husband. “Ah doubt yer would let yer beloved hens starve Simon.” Soap snickered. “Yer love those critters te death.”
“I suppose.” Ghost nodded, as he exited the barn, walking over to the chicken coop where the hens had already gathered. Ghost smiled as the chickens flocked around him, letting out annoyed chirps and squawks of offense at being fed later than usual. “Relax you feathery bastards.” Ghost laughed as the chickens angrily flocked him. Ghost hummed as he sprinkled the chicken feed all over the coop. The hens scattering to go eat their fill. The sounds of annoyed squawking died down as the creatures had their fill. The feathered creatures going back to roaming the coop or sitting in their nests once they had their fill. After making sure the hens were fed, Ghost moved on to the roosters. Quite frankly Ghost didn't quite like the roosters and the roosters didn't like him. However the roosters loved Soap, they were never aggressive with the smaller scottish man, however they would always try to tear out Ghost’s eye sockets. Deciding against entering the rooster house Ghost just threw the chicken feed through the mesh walls. “Feed you insufferable bastards.” However upon spotting Ghost on the other side of the wall a rooster attempted to attack him. “You violent creatures.” Ghost grumbled retreating back to the barn where he found his husband sorting through potatoes. “Alright Johnny, you are feeding the roosters. I hate them and they hate me.” “Simon yer overreactin’ them rooster’s are sweet.” Soap chuckled, “An don say yer hate em. Yer gonna hurt their feelin’s.” “Those bloody cocks don’t have feelings!” Ghost growled sitting down next to Soap, “One of em tried to claw my eyes out.” “Yer over exaggerate so much M'eudail.” Soap chuckled leaning against Ghost. “Der roosters are nice yer just don’t get along with ‘em.” “They don't get along with me.” Ghost scowled as he helped Soap clean the potatoes. “Whatever yer say Mo chridhe.” Soap laughed at the pout on Ghost’s face. “Ah still think yer just bein mean ter der poor roosters, maybe that's why they hate yer.” “Can’t believe you take their side, love.” Ghost huffed, “those things are bloody monsters.” “Maybe that’s why they don’t like yer.” Soap rolled his eyes. “Yer keep callin em monster’s and vermin.” “I’ve never called them vermin. But that’s a good way to describe them.” Ghost replied, glancing at his husband. “Ah m’ just sayin, maybe if yer didn hurt they feelin maybe they'd like yer better.” Soap chuckled. “Maybe they should just stop being pricks.” Ghost growled as he stabbed a potato. Soap laughed at his husband's antics. “Maybe yer should be the bigger person and just befriend the roosters?” Soap suggested with a grin, eagerly waiting for his husband's grumbly response. “I don’t want to be the bigger person.” Ghost hunched over angrily stabbing the potatoes. “…right. An remin me who’s the human in this situation?” Soap asked teasingly. “…me.” “An who has to be the bigger person?” Soap asked again. “…me.” Ghost groaned in annoyance.
soap in the afterlife, randomly: 🫨🫨🫨
based on
Dude if I ever get a place of my own tje first thing I'm doing is putting soap in the microwave
This is my most favorite novelty soap ever