#I see a ghoap moment in here somewhere...

[hatsbuckets]

TF 141 Body Swap AU HC

Headcanons

You know that body swap trope? Yeah, I just watched a show with it in it and I'm just thinkin about how it could go down... Warnings: None

Expanded Cast Version!

Soap:

Soap ended up in Ghost’s body, of course. If anyone was going to get stuck in the most inconvenient switch possible, it was him. He realized this about ten seconds after waking up and nearly knocking himself out on the doorframe. Everything was big. His arms? Massive. His legs? Long enough that stairs suddenly felt like a death trap. And don’t even get him started on the shoulders—those things could barely fit through the locker room doorway without scraping the sides.

He wasn't complaining about the other large part of Simon's body though.

The mask was its own kind of torture. It clung to his face, hot and suffocating, like it had fused with his skin. He tugged at it a few times before giving up. “How does he even breathe in this thing?” he muttered, his new, gravelly voice startling him every time. Still, he'd respect it and keep it on.

When he caught his reflection in the mirror, he almost jumped out of his skin. Ghost’s mask stared back at him, hollow eyes and that skeletal grin. It wasn’t just eerie—it was downright unsettling. Soap quickly turned away, feeling every inch of the sore, strong body he inhabited.

Ghost:

Ghost ended up in Gaz’s body, which was… not ideal. Everything felt too light, too fast, too exposed. Gaz was athletic and lean, not a silent wall. He wasn’t used to moving like this, like his feet barely touched the ground. At first, it seemed like a good thing—until he realized how much strength he’d lost. His grip wasn’t as steady, his steps didn’t carry the same weight, and when he tried to grab his knife, it felt wrong in his hand, like it belonged to someone else.

The worst part? No mask. Just Gaz’s face, out in the open, for everyone to see. Ghost avoided mirrors like the plague, but every now and then, he’d catch a glimpse of himself-well, Gaz-in a reflection and feel a wave of discomfort. It wasn’t his face, but it wasn’t not his face either, and that was a weird line to walk.

He hated how exposed it made him feel. No armor, no wall to hide behind—just Gaz’s smaller frame and familiar face, staring back at him like it didn't belong-because it didn't.

Gaz:

Gaz hated being in Price’s body. Everything was heavy—his arms, his legs, his steps. It was like wading through water, slow and deliberate in a way that made him feel like he’d aged twenty years in a day.

His hands were big and rough, and they didn’t feel like his. Even holding a cup of coffee was a struggle.

And then there was the mustache. The mustache, the beard. He could feel it every time he moved his upper lip, like it was mocking him. He kept running a finger over it without realizing, grimacing every time he caught himself doing it.

He went without the hat. A small save and grace. Though it looked weird enough to see Price's head not covered. He opted for a baseball cap instead. It did not look right.

The height was the only saving grace. Not that it changed too much. By the end of the day, Gaz was ready to be back in his own body. This one might’ve been built for battle, but it sure as hell wasn’t built for him.

Price:

Price in Soap’s body was almost funny. He took it better than the rest of them, though. Years of experience meant he adapted quickly, but there was no getting around the fact that Soap’s frame was different. Lighter, more agile. He’d step too far when he didn’t mean to or overshoot a motion that should’ve been precise. It wasn’t bad, just… off.

What really threw him was the height. Price wasn’t exactly short, but Soap’s body was noticeably smaller than his own. He kept having to look up at people he wasn’t used to looking up at.

Every time he ran a hand over his face and felt only stubble, it threw him. The absence of the weighty mustache and beard felt wrong, like forgetting a piece of his uniform. And God, that mohawk. He got his hat, shoving the thing on to Soap's disappointment. Still, he appreciated the lighter frame when climbing stairs. His knees were happier-or he was happy to feel Johnny's knees? -even if the rest of him wasn’t.

[heavenbarnes]

More weirdo older bf Simon 🙏

this is from the alternate universe!simon where he’s still older bf!simon but a weird old perv 🫶🏼 (implied ghoap at the end)

it’s cold, cold enough that older bf!simon can see his breath.

he can also hear johnny’s teeth rattling, mostly cold but there’s a hint of-

“fuckin’ boring- shite end of the stick”

boredom.

hold up in fuck knows where in the freezing cold with a rifle laid across his thighs listening to johnny whinge his fucking ear off.

“course gaz didnae have t’do this- pretty boy never has t’freeze his bollocks off”

simon gets how shit this is, believe him.

it’s shit that he and johnny have to sit frozen (figuratively and literally) and just wait for the target to appear.

it’s been three days, the fucker isn’t showing.

but what’s worse (because simon argues he has the worse end of that shitty stick) is that he had to up and leave you.

got the call while you were in the shower, he’d barged through the door you could’ve sworn you’d locked and once he got you to stop screaming he’d had to break the news.

“m’off”

“oh, ok- for how long?”

“not sure, a bit”

only hint of a silver lining was the “good luck, be safe” reach around you gave him when he peeled his kit off and joined you in the water.

he really felt like he was beginning to make progress with you.

yes, you still were a little uneasy with his staring problem and yes, he still needed to learn to ask “please” and not just put your hand in his pants.

but you hadn’t left yet.

and to simon? shit, that’s as good as a hand in marriage.

he didn’t even have the pleasure of sitting in silence and missing you- not with that little bastard in his ear.

“can’ye check again, L.t?”

fuck sakes.

reluctantly, simon takes his phone out one of the pockets on his vest because, as much as johnny was doing his nut it-

he just had to know.

he chooses the app that brings up the livestream of cameras around your shared home. does his obligatory check of the outside perimeter, makes sure nobody is taking liberties.

then he begins the hunt.

you’ll be around here somewhere.

room by room, he looks for the shape of you.

“here pretty, pretty”

johnny’s eyes flicker from the horizon to the device in simon’s hands, almost buzzing in excitement.

“come out, come out”

might’ve been the trip down memory lane but it’s more than likely the anticipation, simon was chubbing up in his trousers.

“found you”

johnny all but leapt from his post until he was at simon’s side, eyes drawn to the way you moved around the living room.

as you moved into the view of the other camera, simon’s heart nearly stopped.

you were in his shirt.

“the sight a’that, L.t.”

you were a sight, that’s for sure. perching yourself in the corner of the couch, the two men watched as you scrolled your phone absentmindedly.

one leg outstretched, the other pulled up at the knee.

a rustle of leaves had both men snapping their attention back to their surroundings, keeping a keen ear and eye out before they hurried back to you.

pretty old you.

doing nothing more than reading an article or watching a tiktok or doing- anything.

but you might as well have been stroking yourself right there.

they could’ve claimed it was your bare legs, the way they could imagine you might’ve had no underwear, the curve of your chest under simon’s shirt-

it was no use.

they both knew exactly what it was.

they liked to stare.

liked watching you while you were none the wiser, that at any moment you could start touching yourself and have no idea you had an audience.

the thrill of the chase or whatever they called it.

“cannae believe you’ve got tha’ waiting at home”

“neither can i, mate”

simon watched you sink lower into the couch, silently praying you were reading one of those dirty little stories you liked.

probably weren’t, obedient thing probably saving it all up till he got home to wring it out of you.

he’d have to make do with imagination.

“here, ‘old this”

johnny grumbled but took the phone nonetheless. his eyes stayed fixed on you as he heard the sounds of simon’s belt, rustle of trousers, spitting on hands.

“if i have t’hold this ye’ave to help me oot”

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type Au part 2!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9 /// part 10 /// part 11 /// epilogue

i didn’t expect so many people to like this so this is a little addition written stream of consciousness style :)

Weeks have passed and the troops have marched on. Ghost is not very liked amongst his fellow soldiers, most viewing him as something less than human. If they notice the drastic uptick in him sneaking away, they say nothing. Whether it is out of respect, fear, or apathy does not matter.

When they stop somewhere, even if for just a night or two, he always searches the area for overgrown shrines belonging to the god. Now that he is actively seeking them out, he realizes that they’re everywhere.

Damn near every notable landscape was a ruin of what was once a commemoration for the god. Clearings in trees with stone circles on the ground, shallow caves with a pedestal holding forgotten gifts, eye-catching rocks that turned into statues when you paid attention — all for a deity that was now on the brink of death.

On the rare occasion he is unable to find one, he creates one. It was never really anything more than a pile of rocks, but the offerings were still accepted so he took it as a sign of approval. Before, he always ate his meals on the edge of camp, as far away from everyone as he could get while still being in camp. But then he remembered that he didn’t give a shit and would wander further into the woods before sitting down to eat.

Now, it was the same routine but a little less alone. To call some old ass god a friend was a stretch, especially since half of the time it felt more like trying to feed a skittish stray dog, but he enjoyed the time spent “together”. He decided not to think about whether that was an exploitable weakness or if he was going soft and instead tried to enjoy his newfound respite.

Of course, nothing stays happy forever.

When the battle they had been marched towards finally came, Ghost was put on the frontlines, as per usual. This time he felt Different but chalked it up to nerves with feeling like he might have something to lose now.

That morning, he hadn’t received breakfast so the only offering he had been able to provide was a few flowers that were in the area. He felt beyond stupid while picking them, but when they were laid down, the god hadn’t even waited for him to turn away to be able to dramatically accept the offering. They were accepted immediately, with a strong breeze rustling the branches and such an intense feeling flooding through him he’d had to take a step back.

The forgotten god of death likes flowers, apparently.

Within a few hours, he went from wondering if he would now be upgrading his food offerings to include a garnish of whatever flowers he found in the area, to wondering if that would be the last offering the god would ever receive.

The arrow had nestled between plates of his armor, striking him in the lower ribs. He was dying far too slowly for it to have hit anything vital, but he was still dying. He was an okay field medic, but it was that very knowledge that meant he knew he was doomed.

Being nothing more than a weapon, he was not allowed to see the healers the same way everyone else was. As the battle finished with their side unfortunately victorious, he wondered if the general even realized he could be fatally wounded.

The smoke cleared, the injured men were hurried to the medical tents, the general began planning their next attack, and Ghost lay there, dying and forgotten in an open field. He had been looking forward to this moment for so long, but now that he was here, he wondered who would give his god offerings tomorrow. Realizing that in dying, he would be taking the god with him made him feel almost remorseful.

But the darkness was creeping in on his vision and his woes seemed to fall away as did the rest of the world. Perhaps he would be seeing the god soon.

————

He did not expect to wake up, and yet he was staring at the canopy of leaves above him and wondering why Hell looked so nice. When the pounding in his head went away, he sat up slowly, first rolling onto his side and reeling from the pain. When he was able to push himself up into a seated position, he realized that Hell not only looked lovely, but incredibly familiar as well.

Once his vision stopped swirling, he saw that he wasn’t in the afterlife at all, but instead had been lying on the offering table he had just left flowers on that morning. Still barely comprehending what was going on, he scrambled off the shrine. Just because he’d challenge a god to a fistfight doesn’t mean he’s entirely stupid. He still remembers stories that the elders would use to scare him and the other kids — about how anything on the offering table was an offering that could be taken.

He wasn’t interested in becoming a human sacrifice just yet so he fell to the grass and tried to remember what happened. The pain made everything muddied, but he knew for certain he was supposed to be dead. The shrine he had woken on gave some indication of what must’ve happened, though the why of it all was still a mystery.

Would the god of death betray his own domain just for the sake of keeping him alive?

Lifting his shirt and finding a golden scar on what should have been a fatal injury, he found out that yes, yes they would. The pain made it take a good few minutes to stand and he distantly wondered how much power the god had. He’d heard of deities saving their favorite (and in this case, only) follower from the brink of death, but never heard mention of the pain.

He deduced that the god must still be too weak to have done such magic fuckery without repercussions and that the full-body agony must be at least one of those repercussions. As he sat pondering the power level of the being, he went to run his hand through his hair but stopped, feeling something that wasn’t there before.

A flower, tucked behind his ear. One he picked that morning.

The god of death saved him and put a dandelion behind his ear.

————

It wasn't until the next night that he was able to visit the shrine. As expected, he was yelled at for disappearing for several hours but he was too out of it to really hear any of what was being said. The pain would come and go at seemingly random and each spike that made his steps stutter was another reminder of just how close he had been to death.

Waylaid by his duties and own requirements of rest, he finally snuck out with the little dinner he had been given. Part of him was a lot more scared than he’d like to admit, having no idea what the god would want in return for the miracle they’d performed. He really did not want to be indebted to yet another person, much less a god.

It took him much longer than usual to make it to the shrine, slowed by pain and exhaustion. It was pitch black by the time he got there but the area around the pedestal had a slight glow.

He set down his offerings and really hoped it was enough to not incur the wrath of an angry god that felt like they were owed more than they received. His dinner — consisting of a bread roll and salted meat, a true feast — along with some jewelry he was able to pilfer and more flowers was far from what any god would expect in return for such a miracle, but it was all he had to offer.

He took a stuttering step back and bowed his head. He may be a prideful bastard but he’d consider the day a victory if he lived long enough to feel embarrassed. His fingers tingled, the leaves rustled, and he opened his eyes to find— Oh. Hmmm.

The flowers and jewelry were gone, but the plate had more food on it.

Well, that’s… something. He looked up at the sky, wondering if the god was watching him. After some hesitation, he verbalized his question, asking if this meant the offering was rejected.

There was no answer. When he looked back down, the plate had been moved closer towards him. Okay, what the fuck? The food looked kind of shitty, honestly, but looking closer he realized that’s because it was his offerings that he had given.

Still not quite grasping the situation, he slowly grabbed the plate, waiting to see if he’d be struck by lightning. However, no murderous rain clouds spontaneously appeared as it left the altar. He examined the plate. The food was stacked rather precariously; there wasn’t much of it but the randomness of the items ensured it was on the brink of falling.

Was this meant to be a gift? For him? Why would a god continue to give more and more while receiving almost nothing in return?

He took a moment to sit down, definitely out of caution and not pain, trying to figure out if this was what the deity wanted him to do. Tentatively, he grabbed a piece of bread and slowly began eating. He was slowed by the shake in his hands and for once was right in saying it wasn’t from nerves. The shakiness had been persisting ever since he woke up but had gotten better over time. Before, he hadn’t been able to even pick up small items without struggle. It all seemed a small price to pay considering he should’ve died in that field.

As he ate, he stared up at the altar and wondered how a god whose favorite offerings were flowers had gotten such an awful reputation. Lost in thought, he was pulled back to the present as the apple almost rolled off the plate. He caught it, moving to set it in his lap instead, but noticed something that made him freeze.

Someone was there.

He felt it, both the eyes watching him and the domineering presence that had taken up the area. He carefully continued his movements while looking around, alarmed to see nothing there. He took stock of his surroundings, trying to discern what he was sensing. It seemed the god was no longer simply watching him from the heavens.

Not expecting an answer, he asked aloud if the god wanted some of the food, resolutely staring at his plate. He was unused to feeling a divine being near him. It was unsettling.

No.

The answer seemed to materialize from nothing. He hadn’t heard it, hadn’t read it, it didn’t even feel like it had been some kind of psychic fuckery. It just was. Man, gods were weird.

Pushing the limit, he asked if they had a favorite flower.

Whichever you give me.

And then the presence was gone. He was back to eating alone in a clearing. What the fuck does that mean? The weird godly way of talking didn’t provide much in the way of tone. Was it happy? Flirty? Apathetic? Annoyed?

He shook his head and resumed eating. It didn’t matter. Tomorrow would be an even longer day as they pack up and march on.

He needs to get his god more flowers.

[imagoddamnonionmason]

If you're happy to do a little hurt/comfort drabble - something post MW3's reboot, but with Johnny surviving? With the line "I'm still here, hen", or something along those lines?

Hen is probably my favourite nickname/term of endearment that he would probably use I will not lie - I've yet to see anyone make use of it though!!

Ok ok ok I did get an idea for this and I hope I executed it in only this short drabble (is not 100 words but I don’t know what else to call it) - you wanted to be hurt? Then to be comforted? You got it. And listen- I gotta have some amnesia in there. If Soap if surviving a gunshot wound to the head, bruh probably sat in a coma somewhere until his ass got woken up. My man was in hell fighting the ghouls to claw his way back to consciousness. For who? Simon. Yeah, damn right.

I will also be very honest. Though I don’t write it, or ship it intensely, it’s a cute ship and I’ve got a rubber sword to bat anyone way that doesn’t like it. Come at me, Ghoap is a lovely ship and I love all art and such I see of it (even if I don’t actively do much for it myself yk?)

Enough outta me, you don’t want me yapping away, chatting for England ���

Fandom: Modern Warfare 3 Reboot

Word Count: 396 (I think)

Relationship: Ghost x Soap

Characters: John “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley.

Drabble under the cut.

The day John MacTavish had woken up had been hard for Simon. A man he had come to love was stolen away by a bullet.

Even then, when John had come to, calling him Ghost, not some nickname, not his name… he knew then that memories had been stolen, too.

Simon never left his bedside, only unless Price or Gaz were there to take over watch. Simon couldn’t risk anyone coming to finish the job. Not while he tried to help the other recover what he could of the man that had been damaged.

I’d kill anyone who tried to lay a finger on Johnny.

Understatement. Kill wasn’t a harsh enough word, he supposed, not to match the animosity that grew in his chest at the thought of anyone coming to cause more harm.

He could still see the blood on his hands, soaked into his gloves, his sleeves, his-

“You still with me?”

Simon blinked a few times, eyes having glossed over as they hovered in an unblinking stare at his open palms. He clenched his fists, moving his half lidded gaze to the man before him.

“I am.” He replied, voice levelled calmly.

“Good,” John replied, coming to sit next to Simon. Things had been difficult, but slowly, surely, they were getting to a point where things were as they had been. With Simon slowly regaining his Johnny back, even if the memories were still not there fully.

“You were thinkin’ about somethin’.”

“I was. About you.”

John chuckled a little, “you worryin’ again?”

A beat, then a gentle nod.

“You’ve nothin’ to worry about, I’m no goin’ anywhere.”

Simon warily watched the other silently, almost like he was questioning the integrity - a moment of weakness, one could suppose. Weakness that he only ever felt like he could show around John.

John let his hand rest on the back of Simon’s neck, giving it a light squeeze while his other took hold of Simon’s hand and guided to his chest. He placed the hand against his heart, letting Simon feel its strong beat against his palm.

Then, their foreheads rested against each other, eyes closed as they basked in the brief silence they comfortably fell into. Then, after John placed a kiss on Simon’s cheek, he breathed, “I’m still here, hen, I’m no leavin’ you, ever.”

“Good,” was all Simon could breathe in response.

[sentientcave]

@dragonnarrative-writes tagged me in a WIP Wednesday post and I couldn't decide what to post so here's a few bits of a bunch of things

Here Comes The Sun - Ftm Reader Sugar Baby AU

John sighs. "Sunshine. You can let me handle it."

"Stop bein' stubborn."

"I haven't decided yet."

"I'm not being stubborn, I just think--"

"That it's better not to rely on anyone else?" he asks. "I'd call that stubborn."

"It's not that simple, John. I'm doing alright. I don't want to rely on someone else."

"Why not? Afraid you'll get used to it?"

Is that what you're afraid of? Putting the reigns in someone else's hands is dangerous, but you've never been afraid to strike out on your own. You'll start from scratch if you have to, it's not like you'd have to work very hard to get back to treading water. Would it be so bad to take some time off?

He puts his hand on your knee and squeezes. “It’s okay, sunshine. I want this. Let me do this.”

Love Bug - Johnny Childhood Friends to Lovers

"So," your boss said, leaning in the doorway of your office. "I bumped into your man last night."

Cold sweat breaks out on the back of your neck. "You met Johnny?"

This was bad. Your carefully maintained house of cards, about to fall. Your stomach fell away into a bottomless pit, dread holding you perfectly still, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Johnny was not your boyfriend. You'd been using him as a front for over a year now, a clever idea his mum had given you when you complained about your boss's behaviour. You had a picture of him on your desk, you used his deployments as excuse to not bring him to work socials.

"We set up a double date for this friday. Did he not tell you?"

"We haven't talked yet today. He was out with his mates last night, and we're seeing each other later." The lie slides from your tongue. You've gotten too good at it.

"Why didn't you mention he'd been shot?" Your boss pressed. "I would have given you time off, you know."

You reach out to straighten the picture of Johnny on your desk, hiding your surprise under a sad, wistful look at the smiling, blue-eyed soldier in the frame. "I didn't want to talk about it. When I'm here, I can focus on my work. Pretend everything's fine." You smile at him tightly. "But he's doing better now, thank god."

Alpha to Omega - Omegaverse forced phenotype transition ft. Ghoap

She spent a long moment holding one of the little vials of hormones. She could destroy it all, but it would only delay them by a day or two at most, a couple missed injections would hardly slow things down.

When the insidious thought crept in that maybe she liked the changes, she opened every vial and drained them into the sink, hands trembling. She had a full-on, sobbing meltdown after that, crawling into bed wearing Johnny’s t-shirt from yesterday and Simon’s sweater. She didn’t like that their scents were so comforting now.

She must have drifted off like that, because the next thing she knew, Simon and Johnny were there, stripping off their uniforms and gently pulling her out of bed to join them in the shower. No mention was made of the vials, even though they had obviously noticed, since the bin was no longer out on the counter where she had left it, and the empty vials she’d left lined up by the sink were gone.

They just lavished attention on her instead of saying anything at all. There were cameras somewhere, they must've seen her have her little meltdown, decided on their tactics before coming home. They were trying to make her feel better.

And worse, it was working. Being coddled and fucked sideways, sinking her teeth into arms and shoulders and chests until they whined and showed their throats. Unearned victories, but at least she left her marks all over their topography, and her aching breasts and sore, puffy pussy were acceptable casualties.

[danibee33]

ever after - purge!ghoap x reader

cw: dark themes, dubcon, noncon, graphic depictions of violence, blood, sa, overall just horror/slasher movie type of vibe *pls read at your own discretion*

word count: 1.9k

Purge - rid (someone or something) of an unwanted quality, condition, or feeling.

You’re not sure when the sun had set, or how long it’s been since the sirens sounded.

Unable to recall when you were separated from your small group.

You don’t even know if it’s your own blood you’re covered in, or someone else’s. Hopefully the latter..

All you know for certain is that someone is following you. And judging by the silent way they creep just within your peripherals, the knife in their hand glinting dangerously in the flickering, strobing lights, they were only trying to hide their presence enough to keep you waiting-

They want you to know you’re being hunted. Stalked like prey through the desolate back alleys.

You’re not made for this. You’re not a fighter, not a killer, you were never supposed to be here- alone. The grip you have on your own knife tightens to near painful, your breaths growing ragged and shallow, eyes desperately searching for an escape, for something, any fucking thing-

“Awh, c’mon pretty thing..” A terrible, raspy voice echoes off the brick around you, “Make it interesting for me.”

He’s getting closer, and you’re running out of time, and options. If you really ever had options to begin with.

“I think you’ll like what I have in mind for ya.”

Your stomach rolls, threatening to forcibly expel the insignificant amount of food you were able to choke down before the sirens rang out-

“I’ll be gentle.. At first. Get you nice and ready-” – you hear the deep groan he gives, inhaling through his nose, “mmh, fear has a smell, ya know? And fuck, pretty thing, you smell so goddamn good.”

You only just register the change in his tone, amusement turning to something far darker, obviously, he’s done toying with you- and without warning, long, lean arms wrap you up in a bear hug from behind. He’s so much bigger and stronger than you, it’s like he doesn’t even have to try to lift your feet from the ground, doesn’t feel when your heels strike at his shins.

Like the inexperienced idiot you are, you let the hunting blade in your hand clatter to the wet pavement- the potency of your fear numbing your fingers and hands. You try to scream out, but it’s muffled by a grimy, sweaty hand that smells of oil and pennies-

He shushes you almost.. sweetly. Like one might a child, his lips pressed right against the shell of your ear, “You’re a feisty one- I like that.”

With one arm still wrapped around your torso, pinning your arms down, he thrusts the other down the front of your pants, those same disgusting, stained fingers roughly cupping over your cunt- and you swear he fucking purrs against your neck.

But that fear that had gripped you so tightly minutes ago turns red and molten, something primal, instinctual taking over, something you’ve never quite felt before this moment- and you still can’t put a name to it -

With a nausea inducing crunch, the back of your head makes solid contact with his nose. The pain and shock is enough for him to shove you to the ground, your knees making contact first, the asphalt tearing your jeans, debris lodging itself in your soft flesh-

“You fucking bitch!”, the man wails, doubled over somewhere behind you.

You’ve already crawled away, your fingers frustratingly close to the hard rubber grip of your knife when you feel his hand wrap around your ankle. This time his hand isn’t close enough to silence the blood-curdling scream that tears itself from your chest, your free foot kicking vainly, fingertips clawing at the ground.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die terrified and alone on the greasy, wet pavement of a back alley that smells of garbage and ash.

And you wish it could be like the movies and books, where you simply blink yourself into peaceful dissociation- relive your greatest hits, see the faces of your loved ones one more time, maybe even shed a tear for all the experiences you’re going to miss.

But it’s nothing like the movies and the books.

You writhe under him, spit through clenched teeth, “Just do it.”

God, if you could see yourself now, you think you might actually be scared of her. Acting like an animal trapped in a wire, baring its teeth and hissing, howling even when you feel him rip the button and zipper of your pants,

“Don’t worry, pretty thing. I am-” He growls, lower half of his face still drenched in darkening crimson, “And I’m gonna make sure you suffer until the - very - fucking - end.”

Just as he cuts through your shirt, a thick shadow catches your eye. You try to focus on it, because you swear it moved. But, the longer you look, the more you convince yourself it was just your panic- no one was coming to help you. Hell, if anyone did come by, they might just help him-

Another guttural shriek bounces around the alley when he sinks his teeth into the fatty swell of your breast. Not hard enough to break skin, but you think you can already feel the bruise deep in your muscle- the pain radiating and unrelenting.

“You did this.” – he seethes, dirty fingers digging into your now bare thigh, “Could’ve made it good for ya, but then you had to be an ungrateful little brat.”

Your muscles shake and tremble from the prolonged effort of trying to get away, you taste blood in your mouth, but you’re not sure if it’s his or yours. Maybe you split your lip or bit your cheek, both, or more- you don’t know.

He pulls your underwear to the side, your leg pinned open by his own, “Ahh.. there she is. Been waitin’ for this-”

“Please-” You croak, your vocal chords shredded from screaming and shouting, “Please- don’t.”

Vomit rises in your throat when you feel his finger dip between your folds, your body shuddering to a halt- frozen once again.

“Awh..” He coos, pulling his hand away only to suck the offending digit between his lips, “Pretty thing wants to beg now, huh? Too bad-”

Liquid splatters across your face. It’s hot, which only confuses you more. It just keeps coming- soaking into your hair, and washing over your skin. And just as suddenly, the weight of your attacker is lifted, his body making a dull thud as it hits the ground.

What.. the fuck?

Your fear-addled brain isn’t keeping up. It isn’t comprehending this very abrupt change of events, or the fact that the unnaturally hot liquid that covers you reeks of iron, or that the shadows are moving again. Coming closer-

Wait, shadows?

Another scream is bubbling up your throat, but it's cut off when a hand wraps around your bicep, pulling your back off the ground, “Hey, s’allright lass, we got’ya.”

“Don’t-” You pull away, trying to cover your exposed chest.

You nearly stumble over getting to your feet, pulling the tattered remains of your shirt off the ground and jerking your pants back up. All the while, you’re trying to take slow steps in the opposite direction of the two men-

It’s dark, but you can see enough to know one of them is wearing a skull mask- and you wonder errantly if the skull sewn into the black cloth is actually real. The other one, the one that had helped you up, is standing just to Skull-Guy's side. The top half of his face covered by a red skull, though his looks more like a halloween costume.

“Well..” You say, voice far more confident than you expect, “What are you waiting for?”

They don’t move. Red-Skull simply meets the other’s eye before turning back to you, “I’m not running- so, do whatever you’re gonna do!”

You don't know where your raised voice and rage comes from. Maybe from the fact that you were still partially nude, your clothes thoroughly ruined, or maybe it’s because you’re covered in the blood of the man who had almost succeeded in defiling you-

“We saved you.” The taller one says, his accent different, brassy and curt.

“What do you want? A thank you card? JUST GET IT OVER WITH!”

Red raises his hands, “Woah, woah- we dinnae wan’ to hurt ye, lass. We heard ye screamin’. Saw what was goin’ on-”

When he steps forward, you take one back, “What do you want?”

The question seems to offend him, his eyes widening as he takes another step, “Don’ want anythin’. This is just what we do- we dinnae agree with the purge, but..” – he shrugs out of the thick jacket, giving you a view of his broad chest and strong arms, “it does make it easier to pick off the scum, y’ken?”

He holds the garment toward you, not daring to step any closer, “Glad we found ye’ when we did. Name’s Soap.”

You look at the jacket, and back to him, your arms still crossed over your chest- and somehow you’re even more confused than ever. They look dangerous, fuck, they are dangerous- they slit that man’s throat while he was hunched over you and then threw him to side like nothing more than trash. And now he’s offering you his clothes?

“What kind of name is Soap?”

A smile pulls at his lips, pushing the jacket a little closer, “ ‘M ‘fraid that’s classified.”

“We need to get a move on.” – shit, you’d almost forgotten the other man lurking behind Soap, his gaze hooded and indifferent.

“Cannae just leave ‘er here- the big bastard is Ghost, by the way.”

Finally, you take his offering, quickly wrapping yourself in the heavy material- immediately noticing the spicy, musky scent of him replacing the harsh metallic in your nostrils.

“Good girl..” Soap coos, still holding his hands up in a surrendering gesture. And something about the sweet way he says the praise makes your stomach flutter, “Can we help ye get back to somewhere safe? Are ye with anyone else?”

“N-no.”, you struggle to speak above a whisper, “We were separated.”

Soap clicks his tongue, looking back at the one he called Ghost, “Are ye close to where you live?”

Without ceremony, he tugs the mask off his face, hooking it on one of the numerous tabs that litter his vest. And it’s an odd thing, to see just a normal man beneath- he’s attractive, in a rough-around-the-edges way. Striking blue eyes offset by olive tanned skin and hair dark enough you don’t if it’s black or brown in the lack of light.

It takes longer than you’re proud of to stammer out another pathetic ‘no’.

Soap’s gaze lingers on yours, “Ye could come with us.”

“Johnny-”

Both of you look at Ghost as he makes his way closer, his sheer size overwhelming you in the moment- fucking Christ.

“C’mon, LT- she’s got no one. And there’s still-” – he looks at the diver’s watch on his wrist, “four hours left ‘til sirens.”

The giant man glares down at his partner before pinning you with the same unwavering look, and maybe, for just a fleeting second, you think you see something akin to hunger in his eyes. But it’s gone just as fast-

“Fine.”

*throws this into the tumblr-verse and runs*

thank you for reading🖤 there’s only a million and five ways a part 2 could go… hmmm decisions, decisions.

[raindrop-21]

Scarred Love: Chapter Three: Let Me Hold Both Your Hands

A/n: I got a bit ahead of myself and finished this chapter in one sitting, looks like not that long of waiting time....Anyways, enjoy!

Word count: 1,311

Cw: somewhat insecure reader, Ghoap x f!reader, soulmates, talk about scars

Ch1, Ch2, Ch3, Ch4, Ch5, Ch6, Ch7~ Masterlist

You hesitantly look at their hands, your fingers twitch at your sides as you slowly lift your arms, placing your hands into theirs. Your hands feel so small and soft in theirs. As they start walking, along with them, you realize that you should probably tell Eve that you’re going somewhere with these two men.

“W-wait!” You say as you stop dead in your tracks, making them stop as well.

“What is it, Lass?” Johnny says as the turns to look at you. Simon turns to look at you as well.

“I should tell my friend I’m leaving.” You say as you look at the pair of them.

Johnny lets out a sigh. “Aye, smart lass. Go ahead, we’ll wait right here for you.” He says with a nod as he lets go of your hand, Simon mirrors his actions.

“Thanks, I’ll be right back.” You say before scurrying off to the bar where Eve is.

Eve notices when you appear by her side again and raises her eyebrow and looks at you.

“So, how’d it go? Do I need to whoop some ass?” She asks in all seriousness.

You let out a small laugh at her response. 

“No, no, no ass whooping needed. They just, uh, want to talk somewhere a bit more privateis all.” You say with a somewhat awkward laugh. 

Eve’s jaw drops, and she looks at you wide-eyed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep my location on, and I’ll call you sometime tomorrow morning. If I don’t then you can totally whoop ass.” You say with a laugh that’s a bit more genuine this time.

Eve pulls you into another hug, “If you don’t call me tomorrow, I will get the cops involved.”

You know she’s serious, she’s never not in situations like these. It all the more adds to her seriousness with the little pocket knife she presses into your hand. You let go of the hug and look down at the knife.

“Thanks.” you say to her with a smile before grabbing your bag and you start to walk back over to Johnny and Simon.

You make your way back over to Johnny and Simon. Right before you get over to them you put the little pocket knife into your bag for safekeeping. You tap Johnny on the shoulder to tell him that you’re back.

“Ready to go Luv?” Simon asks as he holds out his hand for you to grab again.

“Yup.”  You reply with a smile as you grab his hand and reach for Johnny’s hand.

They start walking, you in between them, holding onto your hands with a mixture of protectiveness and confusion. As you walk down the unknown streets of Britain, you see a sign for The Arc Hotel. By just the look of it, you can tell it’s somewhat of a fancier hotel. Johnny and Simon stop in front of the entrance and look at you.

“You okay with talking here?” Johnny asks curiously when Simon adds; “We’ll get a room.”

“Yeah, this is fine.” You reply with a half-sweet, half-worried smile.

“Aye.” Johnny says with a smile as they lead you into the building.

They walk up to the front desk, Simon only letting go of your hand to get his wallet to pay for the hotel room. After getting the keycard, they lead you to the elevator and Simon clicks the button for the fifth floor. Johnny and Simon make sure to give you plenty of room in the elevator so you don’t feel any type of claustrophobic or squished. When the doors open, Simon exits first, followed by you, followed by Johnny. You’re scared of what this conversation could entail, but you’ll accept it no matter what.

If they didn’t believe you, they would’ve turned you down the moment you said anything about being their soulmate. When you enter the hotel room, Johnny notices your worry and decides to try something light to ease into the conversation.

“I just remembered, we never asked your name, bonnie girl.” He says with a sweet smile.

You tell them your name, and you’re met with smiles.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” Simon says in a tone that melts half of your worry.

You look around the hotel room, it’s quite sizeable, like a mini apartment. You look at the couch in the far corner of the room and then look back at them.

“We should sit on the couch.” Johnny says as if he could read your mind.

You and Simon agree, and all three of you sit down on the couch. You don’t immediately start the conversation, you guys sit there for a few minutes, just breathing each other in. You take off your jacket and fold it into your lap. After a few minutes, Johnny speaks up.

“Strip for us.” He says deadpan.

You look at him with wide eyes, “What the fuck?” you squeak out as your face heats up.

“Johnny!” Simon reprimands as he gives a swift smack to the back of Johnny’s head.

“Ow! Lord!” Johnny groans as his hand reaches for the back of his head. “Sorry! Sorry! I meant for you to undress so we could take a look at all the scars to make sure it’s identical to ours.” He quickly apologizes.

“Then why didn’t you just say that?” You and Simon say in unison which catches the both of you off guard.

The action of the two of you speaking in unison is really funny to Johnny for some reason and he can’t help but laugh. His laughter makes you and Simon laugh. You’re all just sitting there laughing, you honestly don’t remember the last time you laughed like this. Maybe moments like these come so easily with a soulmate, or in your case, soulmates. After a bit of calming down and catching his breath, Johnny speaks again.

“So…Are you going to show us? I mean you really only have to take off your shirt, no pressure though.” He says calmly while placing a hand on your knee.

“I’ll….I’ll do it.” You say with a shakey breath as you slowly stand up.

Once you’re standing, you start to remove your shirt, exposing your upper body to them. Exposing the scars on your upper body. You can feel them staring at each individual scar. Each little one tells a story about their life, and their job. If you had any scars of your own they wouldn’t be able to tell, only you would be able to point it out to them. They wanted to know if any of the scars you and they harbored were from things that happened to you. Stories of your own etched into their skin, like stories of theirs, are etched into yours. 

They go from looking at you with awe to looking at you with sympathy. It hurt like hell when they got those scars, hell they know you felt the pain because they also felt each other’s pain. They were bedridden with the injuries they got some of the scars from. It was hard handling it together, they can only imagine how hard it was for you to deal with the pain….You must hate them for causing you all the pain you suffered through. Johnny’s eyes well up with tears as he looks at you. He grabs your hand and pulls you into his lap.

“Bonnie…” He sniffles before burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Hey…Uh….What?” You look over to Simon for some kind of guidance or clue as to why Johnny is so suddenly hugging you in his lap.

Except, when you look at Simon, you get a look of tear-filled eyes. It’s confusing the hell out of you. What is going on? Is all you can think as Johnny tightens his hold on you. You are thoroughly confused.

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