#cod soulmate au

[joonieskinks]

johnny!soulmate au where you see grey your whole lives, right up until you first make eye contact with your soulmate - then suddenly the floodgates of colours finally begin to appear.

Johnny was still a Private in the military when you joined up to aid those injured, you eventually earned quite a name for yourself as a nurse on bases. You even got to pick after a couple years and settled on Captain Price’s base after helping him a few years back. He was always kind to you and so you figured, maybe his men would be too.

Johnny then became a Sergeant with the 141, Graves was still in full swing when Johnny received a nasty shot to the shoulder. Upon his return to base, he was quickly transported over to your station for aid. He was laid down in a bed, given injections for the pain, his shirt cut off, leaving his chest bare. You opened the curtain to see your patient squeezing his eyes shut in pain as the injection punctured his skin.

“Hi, Sergeant. I’m nurse y/n, I’ll be taking care of you. Gonna get that bullet out and get you all sewed up, okay?” You introduced, eyes glancing over his vitals.

“Aye, got it lass.” He murmured, finally relaxing in the bed as the painkillers started to kick in. Your eyes finally landed on him, his wound but also his figure. Sure, you see a lot of guys like this but you couldn’t help but look just a little bit longer than usual. Even like this, you think he looks rather good. It makes your insides flip inside you at the thought.

“Right-“ you start and settle down on a stool next to his shoulder. “Those painkillers should be working overtime now, but let me know if it gets to be too much.”

For the first time Johnny looks to the side, eyeing who is actually aiding him. And he’s met with the prettiest woman he’s ever seen in his life. The way your hair frames your face, your kind eyes and beautifully shaped lips- ones he’d very much like to kiss for all your help. You’re stunning and definitely his type, it makes his heart rate rise.

“Easy there, Sergeant. You’re in good hands, I promise.” You pause from tending to his bullet wound to lay your hands on his chest. Your eyes glance over his blushing face, and you smile a little. He’s definitely handsome, your type too.

Johnny’s eyes glance up to meet your own, desperate to recover and say something smooth- but he’s at a complete loss for words as your eyes stand out in the most peculiar way. They look different, they are vivid, clear and coloured.

“Bonnie…” he mutters out, rising up out of bed to look at you closer, and you’re unmoving. In shock, unable to look away from the man in front of you, as his eyes turn blue, as his hair turns brown, as your whole world springs to life.

“Are you…?” You trail off, taking your gloves off to touch his face. Johnny brings his hand up to yours to cup your cheek, tears starting to swell in his eyes.

“I finally found ye.” He chuckles, swiping his thumb lovingly over your cheek over and over. His eyes running all over your features, taking you in, smiling like crazy. “And yer gorgeous too! I’ll be damned.”

You laugh at the flattery, tears starting to leave your own eyes. You can’t wait any longer and bring your lips to meet his. Johnny wastes no time wrapping his arms around you, a hand on your waist and another on the back of your neck. God, you feel good, how he couldn’t wait to explore all of you.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Sergeant.” You murmur against his lips.

“As much as I like that, lass, the names’ Johnny.” He smiles, bringing his lips back to yours.

Honestly if he had it his way, he’d already have you naked in this station, moaning his name. But alas, you’ll have to reign him in so it seems- and finish sewing his wound shut for crying out loud.

[cordeliawhohung]

Thoroughfare

interwoven; maledicted || ao3

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader

Undone fibers and tissue — you are Simon’s magnum opus. The greatest mess he’s ever created.

cw: fucked up soulmate!au, dub-con, smut, alcohol, forced breeding kink, dacryphilia, implied kidnapping, implied baby trapping, simon is a little insane, bound by dreams and memories trope, reader is hyperfeminine

In his dreams, Simon rips you apart with bare hands and teeth.

Sinew and fibers undone, iron on his lips, flesh filling the chasm of his belly. Fingernails grow short and bloodied as he delicately picks apart every inch of you that the universe reveals to him. Easy as tearing through wrapping paper. You are a gift. The only glimpse of light that can make it through the depths; the suffocating layers of earth and soil he’s buried under. 

At first, he is convinced you are just like any other dream. A figment of his imagination. You appear after he kills Roba, with his skin still slick with the viscera of the men he had slaughtered in the name of revenge. A fine thing to look at. Soft — softer than him — with untainted eyes. A gaze not stained by death and horror. His first dream of you is the first time in a long while that he sleeps through the night without a nightmare. Domestic. You smile and laugh for the entire dream. Gentle. An angel. 

It is not your only appearance. Somehow, Simon is lucky enough to be blessed with weekly dreams of you, if not more. He dreams of warm tea, and hands smaller than his wrapping around a cup. He dreams of bright smiles and flowing dresses. Of liquor sweeter than he’d ever order. A chaste kiss with a stranger. Expert fingers typing at an office keyboard. A scraped knee from missing the landing to your apartment. 

You have become his only solace in a world that wants nothing more than to smother him. Crush him and grind him up until there’s nothing left of him — a red paste to feed the worms. For once, he gets to look at the world and enjoy it in ignorance, just as you do. Soak up the beauty of it without glancing over his shoulder. Smell the roses and not worry about pricking his fingers. He sleeps, so he can dream of you; his strange little visitor. 

It isn’t until a few years after your sneaky arrival into his mind that he entertains the fact that you exist in the conscious plane. Something living and breathing. A tangible being. This revelation invades his mind when he dreams of you in front of your vanity, skin clean and fresh from the shower that still wets your skin. A perfect canvas for the makeup you paint yourself with when you go out with friends. 

If he were conscious, his pupils would swallow his irises at the way the wand of your gloss drags across your lips. His thumb would twitch, wanting to replace it, to feel your breath against his skin. Warm him up until he melts. A dripping mess to pool on the floor and ruin that lovely, pristine blouse. 

Goosebumps ripple over your exposed skin halfway through your routine, and you freeze, fingers still gripping your applicator. The features in your face harden — growing cold as if you’ve seen a ghost — before relaxing as your eyes find yourself in the mirror. Your lips press together, then split open to speak. 

“Do you dream of me too, Simon?” 

He wakes with a start. Thick sweat coating his bare chest, scars angry and searing, heart throbbing against his ribs. It’s impossible to tell if it’s fear or infatuation that has his blood singing the way it is, reverberating through tight veins and arteries like a gushing river. He doesn’t care to attempt to differentiate the two feelings. In his mind, they’re both the same; they both feel like impending death. Instead, he keeps his eyes glued on the cigarette-yellowed ceiling above him as he tries to recall the way your lips moved when you said his name. 

There is not a religious or superstitious bone in Simon’s body. He has seen the brutal truth that if there is some superior power holding the cards, they certainly haven’t cared enough to lend him a hand. But he believes in you. In your existence. He believes there is a heat that dwells underneath your skin that will sear away everything that ails him. A softness to you that counteracts his puffy scars and calloused hands. A sweetness that he wants to siphon out of you and devour whole. 

All he has to do is find you. 

It’s an impossible task when he’s usually on the other side of the planet. Heavy gunpowder, disgusting residue, the recoil of his 1911 in the palm of his hand. Simon is the antithesis of you. Sharp where you are gentle, bitter where you are sweet. He thinks that’s why he’s so drawn to you, polar opposites pulling to one another until they crash and burn; superheated sugar melting and blazing through his skin until all he can think about is the pain and you. 

Your voice speaking his name rings loud and clear on his ears as he drags himself through the threshold of his flat. He wonders if you would say his name in real life just as sweetly as you did in his dream. Dead on his feet, he hasn’t slept in a proper bed in weeks, and the plush mattress almost feels foreign against the ache in his back. Usually he knows better than to try and sleep fresh off of deployment. High anxiety and fried nerves force him to toss and turn for a majority of the night, reliving the feeling of gore soaking the threads of his uniform and gloves. 

Countless weeks of long nights have meant there’s been no time for him to sleep, and if he can’t sleep, then he can’t see you. Whether you know it or not, you’ve become his anchor. His gift. The one thing he can focus on that brings him pleasure instead of pain. So he forces his eyes shut and —

He hates what he sees. 

Fresh, unclaimed skin glistening in the faint lighting of a stranger's room — your skin, that soft and beautiful flesh he dreams of every night — you’re in perfect view of a man he doesn’t recognize. Synthetically sweet moans pour from your lips as this stranger — this son of a bitch, this bastard — lazily pumps his cock into you. Even in his unconscious state, Simon can feel the unbridled rage ignite in his chest, flames licking up the cells of his heart until it’s nothing but embers and charcoal. 

Who the hell is fucking his girl? 

Even from an outsider's perspective, he can tell the sex is terrible. Knees bent awkwardly, heels in the mattress as you lay on your back, hands pawing at your own tits for some sort of stimulation as this man fucks you with the slowest speed Simon has ever seen in his life. There’s no friction. No build up of pressure to get you to keen and whine. Your moans born of pity quickly drown in your flings own euphoria as he whines, cock half buried in your cunt. 

He’s finished already.

An unsatisfied but cleverly covered moan leaves your lips as your fling carefully holds onto the condom as he pulls out of you, being courteous enough to not spill. (It’s the least he can do, saying as how he obviously couldn’t make you come). He quickly ties it off, having already caught his breath (he hadn’t worked that hard anyway. Not nearly as hard as you deserve) before he smiles at you with a sigh.

Then there’s the awkward conversation. A terminal lack of chemistry. Polite laughter and reassurances fall from your lips, rehearsed so well it’s almost painful. Too thoughtful for your own good for someone who couldn’t even consider you in such an intimate exchange. A smile swells in the apples of your cheeks as your partner excuses himself to shower, to rid himself of any evidence of you on his body, like he refuses to bask in what little glory he was able to pull out of you. 

Metal squeaks, and the water heater sputters to life. You lie alone in that bed, half spun, yearning to grow tighter. Simon should have seen it coming — your hands slipping between your legs. It’s only natural for the pads of your fingers to dip and toy with the furious, worked up flesh of your clit. There is nothing leisure about it. No teasing yourself — no, everything you do is expertly done. 

Now, it’s an actual task to keep quiet, to not moan and groan as you fuck yourself open on the three fingers you hastily shove inside of yourself while your other hand works at your clit. You’re a better solo performer than you were with that stranger — that motherfucker, that transgressor — and it doesn’t take long at all before your eyes are fluttering shut. The steady rise and fall of your chest heaves with your breaths as you pulse and writhe around your own fingers. You stay like that for as long as you’re willing to risk until you quickly wipe the lingering wetness on your fingers into your thighs before —

Simon stirs, cock painfully hard, straining against his boxers, throbbing. It’s normal for him to sweat when he wakes up from dreams, but not like this. Sticky, thick, heavy; his want taints him to the point of ruin. Seeps from his pores where it soaks into his bedsheets. He grunts as he props his body up on his pillows, heedy desire too heavy on his body. 

There is not a single speck of shame to be found inside his conscience as he yanks the band of his boxers past the crest of his hips. He wastes no time wrapping his hand around himself, blood pulsing through the veins of his cock, searing his hand with each stroke. Unlike you, with your desperate, quick fingers and unrestrained desire to get yourself off, Simon teases himself. Thumbs over the raging nerves in the head of his cock, lazily bucks into his own hand, squeezes just as hard as he thinks your cunt would. 

You. You. Christ, you’re all he can think about. All he dreams about. Haunting him like the grass stains on his uniform or the echo of a gunshot in a small room. Deafening. All consuming. 

It’s only fair that he consumes you back. 

He imagines what it would be like to undo you. Watch your eyes glaze over until you’re nothing but a content, mindless thing. He wonders if you’d cry trying to take his cock for the first time. There’s a certain girth to him that your lover certainly doesn’t have, and he thinks he’d enjoy the brine of your tears. Salty. The only thing on you that isn’t sickeningly sweet. Something that can match his abrasiveness. 

“I dream of ya. All the fuckin’ time,” Simon hisses. Fatigue coats his vocal chords with thick gravel, rumbling deep in his chest as he groans. Glossy lips around his cock, hands rubbing at the length of him that you can’t reach — he craves it. Imagines it so vividly he can almost taste the sex in the air of his stale, hardly lived-in bedroom. “Dream of you fuckin’ other men. Dream of how I could do it better. You’d like that, yeah?” 

Umber eyes peer through the darkness and land on the vague, fuzzy outline of his body. Wide hips, meaty hands, pulsing cock — he hopes you’ll be able to see it when you sleep. He wants you to wake up with that same burning want that you’ve bequeathed to him. 

“Sweet thing, so soft, arent’cha? I know you. Know what you need. Sweet girls like you always need it rough. Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll get you askin’ for it. Have you on your goddamn knees beggin’ for me.” 

Simon doesn’t make a show of it when he comes. There’s no need to overperform for you. He just makes sure to take in every detail. The steady dribble of cum that slides down his cock into the unruly hair at the base, the angry protruding veins, his own hitched breath and panting. He stares, and stares, and stares until he starts to go soft. 

“Hope you dream of this tonight, sweetheart,” he purrs. 

That’s the only name he calls you by. Sweetheart. Whispers it to the void in the morning when he pulls himself out of bed just before dawn. Asks if his scars turn you on as he lazily shaves his face in the mirror. Mutters wish me luck, sweetheart with a gun in hand, and the sound of roaring plane engines drowning his voice out. 

You leave him treats. Luring a dog with a still wet bone. Twirling in the mirror in cute outfits he craves to tear through with a knife. Popping your lips in the mirror after applying a fresh layer of gloss. Your fingers in your cunt after another failed hookup.

He kills a mercenary in Mexico and wonders if the shade of his blood would look good on your lips. Wants that same shade to stain the base of his cock in smeared lipstick and spit. He sees the bright, piercing pink of brain matter and he thinks about your tongue — what it would look like lulling out of your mouth as you moan. Simon expertly weaves the destructive nature of his hands with your delicate existence until you are nothing but a corrupted glitch in his mind. His cherished gift he can’t help but ruin because it’s the only thing he knows how to do. 

There are some nights when mere thoughts and dreams of you alone aren’t enough to quell the tempest that makes his hands itch with the urge to shred and devour. It’s an easy affliction to satiate on the field when he’s got a knife in his hand. It’s significantly harder when he’s on his third week on leave and he hasn’t heard the death rattle of an enemy — his favorite song. While you are mouthwatering, you aren’t quite tangible enough to pick apart the way his fingers yearn to do so, so he wanders to someplace a bit more stimulating. 

Terminus. The end of the line. He always finds his way back to this bar one way or another. Never to drink, oddly enough. There’s always going to be the rough parts of him he refuses to uncover; the rigid scars on his skin, and the sharpness of his teeth. A thick balaclava always covers anything that would give him away as the blood thirsty devil he so desperately attempts to suppress. No, he never goes to Terminus to order a pint and sit in some dark, sour corner of the building while all other patrons crowd around the dart boards or billiard tables. Simon goes to Terminus because it’s a close walk from his rental, and they sell Kentucky bourbon by the bottle.

A heavy wave of heat hits him as soon as he enters the building, but he doesn’t even stumble as he makes a beeline for the counter. Friday night brings a thick crowd with bodies that pulse and dance to their own tunes as liquor courses through their body and rids them of all the pain and filth of the week. He’s waiting for longer than usual as the bartender — a man who Simon reckons is about as old as the establishment itself — zips between customers as they stumble along and order more poison to cure their pain. Normally, he doesn’t show up on a weekend; he knows better than that, but he’s drowning in a special kind of storm tonight.

Simon is a patient man. He has to be, with his line of work. Relentless in his endeavor to beat his enemy to the mark. Yet, even a man as stoic and persevering as Simon gets antsy when his back is towards the entrance. Door swinging open and closed, allowing the slightest summer breeze to waft through the tight room. The urge to glance over his shoulder and assess every inch of that room haunts him, but he ignores the itch underneath his skin. 

Instead, he focuses on the sounds. The idle chatter of guests as they slip throughout the room, crawling over the establishment like insects. Thick wood splintering as tiny needles drive tip first into the dart board to his left. Laughter and heavy accents, shitty jokes, clinking glass, hoppy beer, body odor, dense nicotine —

A giggle. 

Simon Riley never freezes, but he does the first time his ears are graced with your voice outside of his dreams. He’s in limbo. A terrible purgatory that makes his ears ring as his dark eyes scan the bar with the skill of a bloodthirsty dog. Deadly. Efficient. Your blood sings to him, and he follows the song until he finds you leaning against the wooden wall next to a billiards table. You’re watching some nameless freaks play a game as you sip on some fruity drink through a straw. 

Dark, mid-rise jeans sit satisfyingly low on your hips, and the flesh on your stomach is poorly covered by a thin tank top that doesn’t want to roll past your ribcage. You’re melting, sugar sweet sweat coating your chest, caramelizing deliciously on your skin. Cute, dainty, dull, teeth flash as you giggle again, laughing as some poor sod misses an easy pocket. 

He wants to run his tongue along your neck, lick up that nectar glinting in the dim lights before ruining you. Fingers twitch in time with his pulse as his heart beats harder now than it ever has in any other moment — if he doesn’t move soon, it’ll rip free from his chest and run off without him. 

He didn’t even have to track you down. Like a true gift, you fell right into his lap. 

“The usual?” 

The ancient bar hand grabs Simon’s attention and pulls him back to earth with a swift yank on his leash. Sharp eyes shoot back at him — seemingly annoyed he was pulled out of his daydream — before they soften and he huffs. The man looks impatient, irritated that he’s taking up his valuable time during such a busy night. 

“Bourbon. Angel’s Envy. Neat,” he responds. 

Bewildered, the bartender shrugs as he slinks off to get Simon’s drink, and the moment the glass is in his hand he tosses a few quid on the counter before stalking off into the crowd. He approaches you from the side, though he’s certain you wouldn’t notice him if he came from a more direct route. He waits for everyone to crowd the table, waits for you to be shoved to the back, content against the wall, drink in hand — ripe for the picking. 

You don’t flinch when his hand wraps around your waist, thick pads of his fingers digging into the tender flesh of your waist. He wants to grin at that fact — like you already know that you belong to him — but he doesn’t. Cold. Collected. You look up at him with glinting eyes that quickly grow wide with recognition. The beginning of his name forms on your glossy lips, but doesn’t quite roll off of your tongue. 

“Been lookin’ for you everywhere, sweetheart,” he says, voice a harsh whisper. 

Your eyes flutter, enticing and sweet, like you’re trying to blink sand from your eyes. “I… I didn’t think you actually existed,” you admit. 

He raises a brow, and it dances underneath his mask in a challenge. “Yeah? Is that why you asked if I dreamed of you, too? Were just takin’ the piss outta me?” 

“No- well, I mean… I had a feeling. That you existed,” you say, laugh hissing between your teeth as your gaze drops. 

Melting already, and he’s hardly got his hands on you. 

Amber liquid swirls in the glass in Simon’s hand as he holds it out for you to take. You look at it with cautious eyes, teeth sinking into your lip before you look back at him. 

“This is… this is insane, isn’t it? I mean, you’re real. And I’m real.” You swallow thickly, skin heating as his thumb slides underneath the hem of your tank top. “So everything I saw… was real? Your work, you- you’re in the military? You’ve seen me at my most… open. I’ve watched you… you know… And, uhm… I don’t know what…”

He smirks, breath pushing out of his lungs, fanning across your face even through the fabric of his balaclava. “I told you, didn’t I? I know you. I know what you need, sweetheart.” 

You have no time to answer before he’s raising the glass of bourbon up to your lips, and there’s no choice but to drink. Simon tips the glass, and you let the liquor wash over your tongue. He chuckles at the face you make — it’s too brash for something as sweet as you — yet you swallow every last drop. A thin bead sits on your bottom lip, threatening to dribble down your chin, and he uses the knuckle of his index finger to wipe it clean. 

“I know what you need, and you know what I want,” he continues, head tilting to the side — a predator sizing up his prey. “Let’s not draw this out any longer, yeah?”

Once the door of Simon’s apartment is shut and locked behind him, he’s got your back against the wall. Exposed flesh of your arms pinned beside your head, moans muffled by his lips on yours. Despite the bourbon, he can still taste the mixed drink you were nursing before; syrupy sweet. So fitting. His fingers release your hands before they’re ghosting down the center of your chest, tracing your sternum with professional precision. If he presses any harder, he’ll tear through skin and bone, sink into your blood, into the muscle of your heart, fresh ichor coating his hand with a delicious treat. 

Instead, he yanks your tank top up to your collar bones before pulling down the hem of your bra. Your tits fall free with a gasp from your heaving lungs, and he sinks his teeth into his prize. Bite after bite. Sweet as a peach, just like he knew you would be, and you bruise just as easily as one too. You whimper as he marks you, sharp canines staking claim with pressure harsh enough to draw blood. If it’s too much for you, you don’t say anything. 

You try to return the favor. Palm of your hands pressed against the firm, thick muscle of his chest, pawing at him, trying to feel him through his clothes. You’re not intimidated by the scars that paint his skin, or the roughness of his character. He’s always been like this for as long as you’ve known him, and you’re very familiar with Simon Riley. 

So you trust him completely as he yanks you down the entryway and toward the kitchen. It’s implicit. In your nature. Soft, pliable. Bending. And it’s in his nature. Rough. Demanding. Forceful — your lower back collides with the counter where Simon usually prepares his meals, and he’s aggressive when he unzips your jeans and pushes them past your hips. 

“You’ve been dreaming of this too. I know you have.” Simon grunts as he turns you around, hip bones pressing against the unforgiving countertop as his clothed cock grinds against your bare ass. You try not to wince at the sting of the corner cutting into your thin skin. “Every night. Been watchin’ me just as long as I’ve been watchin’ you. My gift. My sweet fuckin’ angel.” 

Though he assured you that he would have you on your knees begging for him, Simon doesn’t have the time to waste. He crouches down, face level with your ass as he spreads the meat of your thighs apart as far as they’ll go with your jeans restricting your knees. There’s no hesitation as he dives in, tongue lapping at your hole, saliva mixing with your wetness. Muscles tense, throat constricts, and heat courses as you bend forward, elbows resting on the counter to give him better access. 

Searing heat builds in your cunt as his tongue explores around your clit. It’s messy, hardly put together. Like a dog that can’t keep the food in his mouth as he’s chewing.

He wants to stay there forever, lapping at you like the bad dog he is, but he can’t. There’s an incessant pressure building inside of him, broiling, threatening to melt you in the very palm of his hands if he’s not quick. So he pulls away, still aching for you, and spits a thick glob of saliva on you for good measure before standing tall behind you. 

Metal grinds together as he unzips his jeans, and your own ears perk up at the sound. “Do you have protection?” you pant. “I’ve got a few rubbers in my bag if- hey- Simon!” 

Flesh burns and stretches as Simon bullies himself into you. It steals the air from your lungs as he presses, and presses, and presses, until there’s nothing left of him that you haven’t swallowed whole. It’s easy. Slick. He forces you open, giving you no choice but to give in. A strained whine leaves your lips as he rocks his hips, thick cock splitting you apart, legs too restricted to even give him more room inside of you. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout that,” he grunts, hands pulling you back against his chest by your shoulders. “We already confirmed, I know what you need, and you know what I want, yeah?” 

Your mind blanks the moment his thrusts bear weight. So full, then void, and then spilling. It racks your nerves, renders them fuzzy, bogged down with too much syrup that you can’t move fast enough through the stickiness to connect the dots. Gooey. Soft like taffy. You stretch and pull for him as his relentless pace renders you as a puddle in his hands. 

You know what I want. 

You know what you need. A good fuck. That’s why you’re here to begin with, isn’t it? To make love to the man who’s been haunting your dreams with gore and violence. To fall into the gravity of him that you couldn’t escape even if you tried. You thought you knew what he wanted. Same as you. To fuck the girl who’s been giving him a toothache from the sweetness of her voice. But now? As he’s grunting in your ear, hands pawing at your tits, fingers gripping your throat? 

Now, you’re not so sure. 

Still, the pleasure rips through you with a demanding ache you can’t ignore. So needy and worked up from the neglect of your failed love life and array of shitty partners, he feels you start to unwind. Melt and separate as your moans fall free — pleasant and the only filling thing he’s had in his entire life. Your face contorts from the intensity of it all, diaphragm spasming as you hiccup and cry, fresh and hot tears streaming down your face. 

Simon coos and coddles, fingers reaching for your jaw as he turns your face to the side. Hot breath tickles the fresh streaks on your cheeks as he chuckles, patronizing. 

“Cryin’ sweetheart?” he asks; a question he already knows the answer to. 

His tongue lies flat against your skin as you whimper, and he licks your tears like it’s fresh bourbon from the cask. He prepares himself for the salt, the addicting brine, but it doesn’t hit him. Even as you’re being torn apart, flesh pinched free from bone in his hands, you’re just as sweet as you always are. 

“S-Simon, please,” you babble, face trying to wrench free from his tongue. 

“Is there a damn thing on you that doesn’t taste this good? You’re a fuckin’ mess and still… could live off of you forever,” he promises into the raw skin of your cheek. 

There’s a few more minutes of nonstop, demanding thrusts from Simon before the pressure snaps and floods around you. You come with a sob, eyes screwing shut as his cock continues its assault — that demanding rhythm that saps you for everything you’re worth. Liquid. Mush. Bone with the marrow sucked free. Undone fibers and tissue — you are Simon’s magnum opus. The greatest mess he’s ever created. 

He finishes not too long after you in a fury of thrusts and a growl you can feel rumbling in his chest. It leaves you raw. Muscles tingling and dancing underneath your skin. Body spent. Eyes blurring with tears. He keeps himself plugged inside of you, grip slowly becoming loose as he trails kisses along the side of your neck — like he only acknowledges how fragile you are after he’s done breaking you. 

“Sweet angel,” he whispers, cock twitching inside of you as he speaks. “Let’s clean you up.” 

You wake up in his bed the next morning with the window open and the birds attempting to chirp over the sound of car engines and city white noise. Soiled clothes cling to your skin, cum staining your panties and the insides of your thighs from the two other rounds Simon insisted on going for. You’re spent. Licked clean until your sugary crust dissolved, and now you’re nothing but a bare, gooey center. Sheets stick to your body as you sit up, body yearning to stretch, only for a tattooed arm to yank you back onto the mattress. 

You’re face to face with Simon, and your muscles are too mushy to argue with him. His fingers trace your makeup-stained face. Old mascara sitting in the creases of your eyes from heavy tears, glitter from your lip gloss seeping into your chin and cheeks. He adores it. A beautiful mess — the only chaos he can create that is still worth loving. 

But you’ve been here long enough. 

“Morning,” you greet, voice faint. He does nothing but hum in response. “If uh… I can shower and maybe borrow your clothes, I can head home here soon. Get out of your hair.” 

“Not happening,” he replies, voice so sharp you flinch. 

You clear your throat in a poor attempt to regain your composure. “Well, uh. We should probably head to the pharmacy. The morning after pill would be a good idea considering-”

You’re silenced by his hand gently grazing your cheek. He looks human lying there next to you, half of his face smushed into a pillow. Almost. There’s something wrong with his eyes. A darkness lurking there that you hadn’t noticed before. Or had you just forced yourself to be blind to it? You watch him with wide eyes as his gaze narrows, a seething question burning on his tongue. 

“The fuck do you think this is, sweetheart?” You swallow, and it feels like razors tear you apart the whole way down your throat. “Dreamin’ of each other? I’ve been craving you for fucking years. Think this is all just a coincidence? Think this was all for one good fuck?”

“You… don’t seem like the type of man to be superstitious,” you admit. 

His glare undos you as the muscles in his jaw tense. He leans up, towering over you as you lay under him, face mere inches from yours as his upper lip fights back a snarl. 

“We’re in this for the long run, sweetheart,” he says as if he’s staking a claim. “I’ll get you nice and fat with my kid if you aren’t already, and I’ll take good care of the both of you. Protect you. Make sure I never have to dream about you again because you’ll always be right here.”

“That’s crazy, you’re speaking nonsense,” you say, “I-I hardly know you.” 

“We’ll go down to the registrar's office,” he continues as if you never even spoke in the first place. “Next month you’ll be my wife and we’ll make good on the mess our minds have been making of each other for the last few years.” 

Palpable fear plagues your body, forcing your bottom lip to quiver as you shake your head at his utter nonsense. This… this is insane. He’s insane. But weren’t you aware of that much? How many men have you watched him kill? How often have you watched him wash the blood from his gloves, or claw out of an early grave? Heard him chuckle as a man groveled and sobbed, begging to be let go, just for him to skewer him with his knife anyway? 

What else did you expect from a man you met at Terminus? 

While Simon dreamed the good dreams — the fair dreams of sweet smiles and smooth liquor — you’ve been the antithesis of him. You’ve had the nightmares, the sweats, the anxiety. Every single image you ever saw of his life had been a warning. A siren screaming for you to run. A premonition of the trained hunter that’s been on your savory scent for years. And still, you fell right into his trap as if you weren’t taught the exact way to wiggle out of it. 

“What else have these dreams been for, sweetheart? I’ve been huntin’ you for years. Not lettin’ you go now just ‘cause you’ve got cold feet.”

Teeth embedded in flesh, now all you can do is squirm as Simon’s lips press against yours. He no longer needs to dream of ripping you apart. Flesh from bone, sinew shredding and snapping. Now, he can do that all from the comfort of his bed as he devours you — his lovely wife — soul and all. 

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

1.2k / 18 / soap soulmate au, part 1

...

You're Soap's enemy. One of Graves' Shadows. You just betrayed him, and now he's seeing his name tattooed across your skin. The Las Almas night nearly eclipses the soulmark's inky color. But it's there, clear as day. He can't wrap his adrenaline-addled mind around it.

He ghosts up behind where you're posted--pacing, patrolling, on the lookout for him--and wraps his hand around your mouth. You react in surprise, grabbing his wrist. But before you can twist out of his grasp, he slides the blade of your fallen Shadow's knife against your back.

If you're his soulmate, it changes nothing. He'll still be one man against dozens, chances slim to none that he'll make it out of this alive. But he has to know.

"You," he growls. "What's your name?"

You still. You're trained to keep a cool head under far more extreme circumstances than this.

"Your name," Soap repeats, voice like gravel.

He loosens his grip just enough to let you speak.

You release a slow breath out. "Classified."

He increases the pressure of his knife against your back. "That bastard Graves trusts you, aye? Not many others posted this way. Nobody'll find you for awhile." He presses the tip of the knife back into the fabric of your uniform. He'll keep the pressure there until he gets what he wants. "Your full name."

You say nothing for a long moment. But then, you see no reason to die overlooking these twisting Las Almas alleyways. You tell him your full name.

It confirms what he already knows. It's the name printed on his own skin, the name he's repeated to himself thousands of times over. The knife disappears from your back.

"Look at me," he tells you.

You push his arm away and turn on him, drawing your sidearm and training it at his chest. You step back, looking him up and down. "You're the one we're looking for. Aren't you? Capture or kill--" Your voice falters when you see he pulls his shirtsleeve up, revealing his own soulmate. He doesn't give you one goddamn second to try to deny it or turn your eyes away the way you've been trained. Your name. Tattooed on your target's arm.

Seeing you eye to eye, Soap's breath catches in his throat. His own name on the side of your neck is clear as day to him now.

"You're her," he says, still not quite believing it.

You take another step back. What are you supposed to do? You should shoot him, yes, but could you even make your finger pull the fucking trigger now? You lower your gun, but you don't put it away.

"You should go," you tell him, voice low. "Now."

But he doesn't move. He wants to take this moment in, study your face, memorize every detail. You're the real thing. His blue eyes stay locked onto yours, and a myriad of scenarios play through his mind, just like yours. What happens if he leaves? Will he be able to find you again?

He takes a step toward you.

"Don't do that," you warn him, sliding back a step to keep the same distance between you. "Don't make me hurt you."

"You wouldn't." He moves for you now with the confidence of a man who believes that, too. He wants to touch you again. Just to make sure you're really here. His voice is rough and thick. "I need to look at you."

You bite down on a gasp when your heel knocks against the wall. He's getting too close. You can't let your control on the situation slip. You can't forget why you're here or what will happen if Graves finds out about this.

"Back off," you warn him again. You still have your sidearm in hand, but you're terrified he's right--pointing it at him is an empty threat.

"Can't."

He moves in close to you, his breath hot on your neck. You swear you can feel his body heat through the layers of both your uniforms. Your nerves are on fire. His scent is everywhere. This can't be happening. Not now. It should be a dream, meeting your soulmate, but it's a nightmare.

"Listen to me," you force out. "They'll find you and kill you. Leave. Now."

"Can't." Soap is close enough to whisper it into your ear. His hands close around your arms. "Can't think straight with you in front of me." His gaze darkens as he pushes forward, pressing you into the wall and pinning you there. If he's not going to live to see morning, he's going to kiss you. He has to taste you.

You hear another Shadow under you, boots thudding against the metal stairs, scaling up to your lookout perch.

You try to fight the panic welling up in your throat. You could both be shot for this. Killed for it. Worse.

You can't let them see him. If you give him what he wants, he'll go, right?

You grab his collar and pull him forward, meeting his lips in a searing kiss. His lips feel like stubble and taste like blood. He shudders, feeling your body suddenly pressed against his. He deepens the kiss. He's starving, but it's not enough. Just the taste and feel of you isn't enough. His fingers weave into your hair and he pulls you close, pressing even harder against your body.

You forget yourself for a moment. Your brain chemistry shifts hard, heat and want burning in your veins.

Then you hear voices from below and reality washes over you again. With a strangled groan, you push him away. "God damn you. Hide."

Soap has to force himself to let you go. It takes every ounce of control to keep from reaching for you again. But the look in your eyes when you push him away... he knows you've crossed a line.

He disappears the moment two more Shadows crest the top of the iron staircase.

You avoid rousing suspicion as you lie to your allies' faces, reporting no sightings of either target. By the time you're forced to leave your post and follow the others back to the nearest rendezvous point, you're resigned to never seeing him again. It's better not to wonder.

All you can think about are his fingers weaving into your hair, his lips on yours, the burning grip of his hands around your wrists. You tell yourself not to think about it... but then your mind goes back to it, over and over. No matter how much you tell yourself it's better not to fantasize.

Even when you learn he evaded capture, he's a wanted man. A dead man walking. You're better off pretending you never saw your name tattooed on his skin.

...

There is no other thought on Soap's mind but you long after he slips away into the Las Almas night.  The sight of you leaving with the other Shadows haunts him when he closes his eyes. He wakes up adrenalized, thinking about you in his hands, his heart pounding like it could punch through his rib cage.

His soulmate got away, and the weight of regret is setting in.

...

[part 1] / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12

more Soap / masterlist tag

[shotmrmiller]

soulmate au part 2

john price x f!reader (was feeling mad angsty yall, sorry)

You'd locked your tender heart in a cold, iron box. Sealed it shut, hoping, praying, that if you'd buried it deep enough, the ache would fade. The small key had lain heavy in your palm— disproportionate to its size— with words best left unspoken, with feelings that'll never be returned. Tossed it right into the sea with a shuddering breath that tasted of salt.

Of tears. Of mourning, of grief, loss.

(You told yourself you wouldn't cry yet here you are, eyes prickling, vision blurring. Hold it together, girl.)

And it'd gone well enough for a while. Avoiding him— the act of self-preservation— almost became second nature. You made your exit anytime he walked in, a quiet victory each time you successfully escaped the danger of his presence.

(Be still, your battered heart.)

But it'd only been a matter of time before you were forced into a situation where evasion was no longer a choice. Something that would threaten to shake loose the fragile composure of indifference you'd so carefully pieced together.

Your sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as you ran toward the LZ— the world around you losing its sharpness, smudging into a flurry of colors and fluorescent lights. Errant strands of hair whip across your face, sticking to your lips. Your breath comes in short, ragged, desperate bursts; lungs working overtime. The barking of orders from one of the other medics gives way to the roar of helicopter blades, a deafening sound that drowns out everything else.

Once the helo touches down, its doors slide open and the stark reality of war spills onto the ground. Your heart beats frantically against your ribcage once you drink in the macabre sight. Crimson stains their tattered uniform, their dirt-streaked skin, even the dull grey of the metal beast.

And they're dragging someone out, it's—

John.

His body is limp, the fight now left with the boys as they move him towards the medical team on standby, toward you. The kaleidoscope of colors that paint the world around you flicker, for a fleeting moment— a mere fraction of a second— like the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

Instinct takes over.

Time seems to stand still as you sprint to the ones carrying your soulmate and grab onto his vest— trembling fingers curling around the straps of it, pulling him urgently onto the ground with strength born out of desperation.

The gravel beneath him is hard, unforgiving. It digs into your unblemished knees painfully, a sharp pain that tethers you to reality. Grounding.

Focus.

You fumble around for a pulse, the sound of fabric tearing as you remove his scarf barely registering. Weakening by the second. Your focus is on the rise and fall of his chest, pointedly ignoring the blood bubbling on his lips, staining his mutton beard a vibrant red.

Clever fingers make quick work of the buckles on his vest and the velcro straps. You guide his head through the collar of it, every movement measured, and before it even hits the ground above him, the world drains of color. You look down at your shaky blood-slick hand— monochrome.

His lips, colorless. His hair, the color of rich earth, grey. Everything comes to a standstill. Your mind, once racing with urgency, settles into an empty silence. The type that robs you of your breath. It stretches for too long, a chasm that swallows your thoughts.

Until a violent nudge to your shoulder (ironically) pushes you past the paralysis of shock, and with both palms placed on his chest, you begin to fight for his life.

Your muscles burn with exertion, your forehead is beaded with sweat. Time seems to stretch thin, every second feeling like an eternity. You can feel panic start to bubble under your skin, fear furling like smoke around the edges of your consciousness, beginning to cloud your resolve.

"Take over, take over. I can't— I need—" you choke out, the words choppy due to the compressions. You need to breathe. You need to gather yourself. Immediately, another set of hands replace yours, continuing CPR, and you're jerking away from John, feeling hot tears roll down your cheeks.

You find yourself somewhere, still close enough to hear your colleagues, but far away enough to no longer smell the metallic tang of blood— although you can still taste it, like a penny on your tongue.

But there's no escaping the shades of grey, the somber world you're in. Not the tremors whispering through your anxious hands nor the vulnerability settling over your frayed nerves like a broken tooth, sharp and intrusive.

"I take it you're his other half," a rumbling voice says from behind you.

That in itself is a joke, you'd chuckle if you could. "No, that'd be his wife."

Heavy footsteps get closer and closer until the mountain of a man callsigned Ghost comes to stand in front of you whose stature demands a craned neck to meet his gaze. You pride yourself in not scuttling away from him, instead standing still. He makes you feel small— not just in size.

"You his soulmate?" Twisting the dagger in your chest, your heart.

"No. But he's mine." You look up at him then, only to see the same, colorless world mirrored back at you. He's got sunken eyes, like a corpse. Like the one whom you poured all of your strength into— both mental and physical.

There's no need to ask the imbecilic question of how he knew, knows. You practically shouted it from the rooftops with your panicked actions.

Mistake, so foolish of a mistake. Stupid, fucking girl. You'll get those pity stares, the grim looks. Treat you like some broken thing, a broken mirror barely pieced together, cracks still visible.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"He'll come back. Stubborn, old man always does." His voice is rough as gravel as he attempts to give you some sliver of hope. Ghost gives you a small nod and an unprompted pat on your stiff shoulders and his mask bleeds white. The thin stripes on his UK patch a ruby red.

He must've noticed something change because he let out a deep, steadying breath and murmured, "Told ya. Even death doesn't want him."

No, but your treacherous heart does.

Tragic thing, that. Now to call his wife and tell her the bittersweet news.

[lemonwrap]

Soap was lucky enough to meet his soulmate at twenty four. The thing is…they didn’t get along great. That’s not completely unheard of for soulmates, but it didn’t make Soap and Connor get along any better.

They didn’t hate each other, no. Some days they got along well. The conversation flowed, the laughter wasn’t so strained, and the sex was good—but things always seemed better when they were apart.

They clashed on nearly everything. Connor thought Soap’s mohawk and callsign were childish, and Soap thought that Connor was overbearing and that all of his friends were assholes. Soap’s talkative nature often annoyed Connor, and Connor’s nitpicky personality often annoyed Soap in turn. Connor didn’t like Soap’s job because it kept them apart, but the military was what held Soap together and provided structure when he didn’t have much else. Soap felt out of place at Connor’s large family gatherings, where his entire family was formal and a bit cold, but Connor felt suffocated by Soap’s small but lively family.

Soap and Connor’s soulmate status didn’t seem to matter much whenever they argued. They fought until they mutually decided to break it off a few years later, and although Soap was upset, the relief vastly outweighed it. He hasn’t attempted to seek anything else out, though. How can he be right for anyone if he isn’t even right for his soulmate?

Soap tries to keep this attitude when he’s recruited into the 141 and meets Ghost, but Ghost is…well, he’s Ghost.

Soap is pretty sure he could write a whole book about his lieutenant, starting with the way Ghost kept him grounded with jokes while he was sneaking through the streets of Las Almas and ending with how the first time Ghost took off his mask, it was to kiss Soap.

They get along startlingly well, even in shitty circumstances—two peas in a pod, two halves of a whole, two pieces from different puzzles that just happen to be a match—Ghost and Soap are a fantastic team. Their arguments don’t usually last long, and they’ve never been over trivial things like Soap’s haircut or Ghost’s habit of hoarding tea well past its expiration date.

On the field, they have each other’s six, and sometimes Soap doesn’t even need an order from Ghost. He just intuitively knows what Ghost needs, on and off the field. They just work, and Soap didn’t realize that he could ever get along with someone this well.

Ghost has revealed little of his past even to Soap, but he said that his soulmate died before they even met. Trauma after trauma and a few failed relationships made Ghost eventually decide that he wasn’t going to bother, and he kept to himself until Soap joined the 141.

Soap is damn glad he somehow found his way into Ghost’s heart like he did. Soap thinks of Connor sometimes, and he’s sure Ghost thinks of his own soulmate occasionally, but neither of them truly loved someone until they met the other.

Maybe your soulmate isn’t someone who the universe chooses for you—your soulmate is someone you choose for yourself.

[kosmic-euphoria]

🔞 MDNI | Simon x Fem!Reader (blurb) 🔞

CW: Soulmate AU (thought hearing), masturbation (m & f), some cursing.

Note: Getting over an all-day migraine, only to have the midnight thoughts cook this up on my phone. Not sure if I'll make something out of this, but enjoy. I dunno if people play sounds in their head, but I sure do. ;)

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

His voice groaned in the back of your mind, the huskiness sending a shiver down your spine. You still didn't know if he was aware that you could hear him or not, considering his thoughts flooded your mind a few days ago, and vice versa. Even if he did, there was a lot of doubt that he would even care. He groaned again, the guttural sound clawing at your brain so viciously that you couldn't help but slide a hand down to your cunny.

One finger, two fingers, the tips curling every now and then as you slid them in and out. You tried to keep your breathing in tune with his groans, but faltered when your own pleasure began to flood your senses. A string of moans fell from your lips, hips bucking up against your hand as you chased that euphoric feeling.

"Fuck me." It was a small slip up, really. Something that should've fallen from your lips rather than echo softly in your mind. The realization of what occurred only hit you when his delicious sounds ceased, and you began to panic.

One minute, two, it was silent on his end before hearing a gruff, "Fuckin' 'ell, bird." He heard you plain as day. "Again," he breathed out. His voice was raspy, a telltale sign he came and wanted another wank. You hadn't even crossed the line on your end, but you couldn't deny his wish.

You were cheeky with it, letting your mind conjure up a plethora of things for him to listen to in his own head. From whiny moans to full on begging, and letting it slip with certain positions for when the two of you would finally meet. Your fingers sank into your slick cunt one last time as you let out a shaky cry, with gummy walls clenching tightly around your digits.

He knew you came, and he fucking loved it. Simon wondered what it would be like when finally meeting. If you would talk like that with him, make all those pretty sounds, how your mouth would feel around his cock, how your pussy--.

"Fuck," he groaned for a final time, hand gripping his thick length tightly as his spend coated parts of his hand, abdomen, and thighs, again.

Oh, bird, you are going to be the death of him one day. Occupying his thoughts more than ever now, until he finally finds you.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Red string soulmate au where when your soulmate dies the string doesn't disappear, it snaps, and to keep from tripping over it, it's customary to have it wrapped around the forearm/wrist (Especially in the military, it's required) because the world doesn't end just because they're gone...

Soap with his string tied up nice and neat around his arm, meets ghost, who's is still attached to Soap...

Nobody notices for a long time, not even soap, because he's used to seeing strings out of the corner of hie eye, either a floating strand of his own, or a section of someone else's in the wind. Strings are common place enough, and even if it was noticed it's socially inappropriate to bring up someone else's string. And ghost... he hasn't even looked at his in years... not since crawling out of death

[auspicioustidings]

Someone pls tell me if this has been done and direct me to it so I can inject it into my veins but soulmate au Ghoap x Reader where the distance on your wrist tells you how close you are to your soulmate.

Ghost and Soap found one another and have been happy for years before they get far enough apart in distance due to separate missions that both of their trackers snap to a completely different number. And then they realise that it shows how close you are to the soulmate that is NEAREST to you and they have a 3rd soulmate that they've never realised existed that they need to immediately hunt down.

Bonus points for some delicious angst about how soulmates usually do everything to find one another and reader has spent their life thinking their soulmates are running from them because anytime you get closer they seem to get on a plane across the world 😩

[pupyr0arz]

To Color

to influence, especially in a negative way; distort or exaggerate.

Soap x m!reader: references to reader being AMAB, being a gay man, being in a gay relationship, etc. minimal pronouns. Part 1.

Summary: Every human on earth sees the world in blacks and whites and grey until they touch a specific individual, romanticized as their fates love. You don’t buy into that, you’re happy as you are and don’t need or want a stranger barging into your life just because your eyes decided they were important. Johnny disagrees with this conclusion.

warnings: Johnny is a bad, bad man, and reader is going to be miserable for a while, sorry. General cws for creepy, pushy behavior, sexual harassment, stalking, and Johnny not respecting Reader’s autonomy or ability to choose. More warnings may be added. Mentions of sex. Minors DNI

@gatlily @focalor-hydro-archon hey pst. Pssst.

Soulmates are overrated, overhyped, over-mentioned, over talked about. It’s awfully inescapable, in movies, in ads, on the news, in books, and the looks you get for complaining about it, like you’ve declared a blood feud on the concept. You just want some peace from the expectation and all the assumptions of glitz and glamor for five goddamn seconds, but lately that blood feud is looking mighty tempting.

Your cynicism in regards to fated lovers wasn’t part of anything dramatic, like in the movies where the skeptic always got revealed to be the child of a divorce caused by soulmates or something equally inane. Your parents weren’t soulmates, which was honestly average. Most people never met their soulmates and lived perfectly fulfilling lives. Soulmates weren’t the end all be all of love, and when they did show up they certainly didn’t all fall into the simple shapes a romcom would tell you.

Your father could see color, his soulmate was platonic in his cousin, the two of them were close friends and they lived just down the street. You’d come up on the porch while your cousins played in the yard and sipped sour lemonade and bother them about how colors looked, and they’d argue about shades and how to describe it. Your father always wanted you to meet your soulmate, wistfully regaling the first time he ever saw the blueness of the sky. Uncle Jeremy would just pinch your cheek and wave you off with a laugh. You had a really normal childhood, honestly.

You got tired of the game in high school, when blossoming hormones and teen drama rocked the school for weeks on end over and over about the same damn things. You were old enough to really have coherent opinions about the world, and fated lovers had turned from funny stories from your father and ads on tv to in your face irritants. One of your friends friends faked seeing color for two weeks to date a guy she really liked. You weren’t extremely close to either, you sat with them at lunch and watched them in periods and they seemed happy. He dumped her in a flash, and moped around school afterwards and all you could think about was why color seemed to matter so much to people.

It sounded fantastical, sure, you wouldn’t mind having an extra sense. You daydreamed about color coming to you in a whirl, setting the world alight in a billion lights, seeing things in new clarity and depth. It was hard to imagine, some other attribute lurking just outside of vision that stained the world in strange, vivid ways.

Bonded people opened museums, attractions built for viewing color in odd ways that blended and blurred together to your black and white vision. Hidden objects and paintings and other things that they cooed over, long essays about vibrancy and the million metaphors for color. You don’t really buy into any of it, if you could taste the crispness of a shade of ‘red’ then what’s the deal with feeling it with your eyes? You’ve eaten apples before, you don’t need to see the flavor to enjoy it. Why should you be so desperate to sacrifice so much, when you already have senses that give you joy?The thing is, with fantastical things is that they’re fantasy, they aren’t grounded in anything solid or real, and you weren’t enthusiastic to take that leap of faith and step onto open air and pray it was a trust fall, not a jump to your death.

You could live without color, and honestly thousands and thousands of people got on perfectly fine. It’s not like any part of society was really based on seeing color these days, other than the fine arts. You weren’t artsy anyways, you never managed to get into it. So what if you didn’t really know whatever ‘green’ really was, did it really mean the end of the world? the end of a relationship? Why would you throw away something that made you happy, something stable, for a complete stranger? Your mother was perfectly happy with your father, and she had never met her soulmate. What if your soulmate was a family member, or a friend? Why did everyone always hold out hope they’d find a perfect marriage partner, when it seemed like soulmate bonds could be something like a perfect smoking buddy to a perfect brother? Honestly, romance didn’t seem so dependent on the whole farce at all. You could build something that didn’t need anything but whites and blacks and all of the shades between. You might not be able to see the red of a rose, but you could enjoy the shades of gray that painted the world with someone you could trust to always hold your hand and have your back.

You dated a handful of people, most of whom were still holding out hope of brushing fingers with their ‘truest love’ to see the beauty in the world. As you got older, more likeminded people cropped up, less likely to vanish and ghost you to wander off on their ‘journey’ to find their soulmate. You had your first kiss, lost your virginity, moved in and out with other people. Relationships blossomed and fizzled and died and you picked yourself up afterward with the occasional thought of ‘Jesus, I couldn’t imagine trying to make THAT one work as my one and only’ before you carried on. But all of that was before, in the section of your life cut so neatly and sharply in two that it was hard to believe they were ever, or could ever be joined.

All before you met him.

You met him on a dating app, which was remarkable enough. It was built for quick hookups, but most dating apps that advertised themselves for long term relationships were soulmate based and you found that crowd to be endlessly irritating. He’s bi-curious, you’re the first man he’s ever dated and honestly that almost turns you off entirely. But you decide you have no better prospects at the moment, so what the hell.

Charlie’s cute, and he greets you with a nervous smile and can barely meet your eyes, he tells you with red eats that he’s ninety nine percent sure that he’s gay and that his friend has been begging him to just take them plunge and you nod and give him some dutiful advice. You’re definitely not looking to be a guys experiment, that rarely ends well, but he invites you out to dinner where he loosens up after a glass and goes on an impassioned rant about theater etiquette and suddenly things are actually interesting and you’re talking too loudly for the table over but you couldn’t care less.

He’s funny, nervous but out there and you talk about musicals you’ve never heard of and tv shows he’s never seen for forty five minutes before you reach across the table and grab his wrist. The sex is light, he makes you laugh through blunders like banging his head against the wall and you kiss afterwards and it feels light and sweet. It’s blissful, honestly, something you’ve forgotten you were missing at all until you’ve been handed it. You keep things non penetrative, he’s far from trying bottoming and you’re not a fan of being on the other side of it, and you have plenty of fun keeping him awake with all the other options. You talk to him again the next day, and then the next, and then his number is in your phone and you’ve been going steady for months.

Charlie isnt a perfect Prince Charming, he’s got his issues. He’s over the top and he pushes himself to meet standards and crumbles at the last second and you’ve had your fair share of screaming arguments. Work is stressful and some nights you go to bed in different rooms because you can’t stand dealing with him. You have your own issues and Charlie complains more than once, rightfully you’re forced to admit, about you being cold and reclusive when you get angry at him, and you’ve had to buy apology ice cream more than a couple times. But you have movie nights and kisses and cake together and a warm, building feeling in your chest. You go out to the zoo, try and fail to learn how to knit together and eat buttered toast with too much black pepper over the kitchen sink on Saturday mornings. You don’t get into anal but he gets really good at giving blowjobs, and those slept mornings spend kissing and exploring each others bodies fill you with a precious glow.

Charlie isn’t your one size fits all, but you’ve managed to find him a slot in your puzzle, and built him a home in your heart together. You love Charlie, and he loves you too, tells you so with cheesy flowers and you buy him one of those dumb necklaces that click together that you totally don’t love. He brings you lunch at work and you drive him home from visiting his parents, and your friends are fine enough with his to go drinking together every couple of times. His best friend does your tarot readings and gets an awful tattoo you laugh about together. You cry and he doesn’t

Life is good. It’s not effortless, it’s not magic, but it’s good because you made it so. You’ve pushed and pulled and made something with your bare hands, and you have the luxury to sit back and watch the alabaster glow of the sun brighten Charlie’s face into a million beautiful shades of gray.

Life settles into a comfortable rhythm, and soon Charlie’s inviting you as plus one to a wedding and you start thinking about rings and commitment.

That’s all before you met him, though.

It happens like in a storybook, so trite that hours after it happens you’re wondering if you suffered some serious brain damage. Maybe you got hit by a car, or had a delayed reaction to the weed your friend passed you last week, or something happened to scramble your thoughts into this strange new unreality.

You’re visiting the library when it happens, dropping by after your shift to pick up some new reading material, not looking where you’re going. Charlie’s texting you a million and a half recommendations while you’re planning on picking up some awful garbage to groan and complain about later while he makes fun of you, and you’re typing a dick joke involving one of the sillier titles you spotted on the shelves. You bump into him, not a shoulder check but you run into him like a wall and he barely stumbles back. You’re not a small guy in the slightest but he’s built like a brick shithouse, Jesus.

“Ah, hell, sorry man.” You apologize, giving him a sheepish smile. “My foul. I should watch where I’m going.”

He doesn’t puff up with anger or anything but flashes you a toothy smile, so you relax. “Dinnae worry ‘bout it, mate.”

Oh, he’s Irish or something, the accent is thick as all hell. It sparks your interest, a definite standout from the midwestern folks living here, and you don’t rush away to continue your browsing. You don’t walk away, like you should’ve, you don’t realize that in two years this will have become your biggest, most shameful regret.

He peers down at you, light eyes, ivory maybe? He’s got a weird haircut, some kind of half committed Mohawk thing. It’s an awful haircut, really shitty, so you politely avert your eyes from the active train wreck and send a prayer for any casualties, and realize you’ve dropped your phone on the ground.

“Ye dropped—“

“Ah, let me—“

You both reach for it at the same time, and your fingers brush, and the world changes, and you have all of a half a second to freeze in shock and confusion before you accidentally headbutt him and fall over.

Maybe he had a thick enough skull to really hurt you. You would know.

[wyrmarchives]

Thinking of a fic for 141 COD based off this age old post.

Idea: “Bioweapon” gas exposed to the public during its testing, meant to cause radiation in the cells and produce a rapid cancer; but instead it “hyper charged” electrons in atoms of the affected people(s).

The hyper charge causing atoms to become “static” to their counterparts. Atoms causing electric charges their polars’.

Soulmates being shocked with electricity when they touch their soulmate leaving dark burns behind. Soul marks.

Update (08/23/24): Ghost it is

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

1.8k / 24 / soap soulmate au, part 4

...

Price takes a seat opposite you. Ghost stands behind him, massive arms crossed. Price folds his hands together.

"Tea?" he asks.

You say nothing.

"Ghost, go get us some tea."

Ghost leaves. Price examines you, drumming his fingers against the table. He acts friendly. But he's not playing. You have no doubt he'll extract the information he needs by any means necessary. You need to make sure he doesn't figure out which of your buttons to press.

"You're Soap's girl," he says.

You say nothing. His stare presses in on you as heavily as the silence, pushing your back into your seat.

"Who is he to you?"

You shift, uncomfortable in your chair. "A stranger." You roll your shoulders as if trying to shrug off the implications. "An enemy, ostensibly."

Price leans closer. "You kiss your enemies often?"

Not until Johnny walked into your patrol path. 

"Left quite the impression on Soap. You made a bit of a mark on Ghost, too. Not that it’s hard." Price leans back, giving you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "He’s got a soft spot for Soap, hm? So he doesn't want you hurt. Doesn't want Soap put out."

You remain silent, but it doesn't seem to bother him. He studies you, utterly calm. He's trying to read you. It's obvious he has some kind of game plan, and now he thinks you have one, too.

"Weren't quite planning to walk into someone like him, were you? Things happened, didn't they? Things you had to work through."

"No."

"Really. 'Cause with the way you're acting, I'd wager you had different plans for yourself. Now you're all twisted up in this. Plans got ruined because he came along. Maybe you've got your own plans, hm? Got a whole life back home. A career, clearly. Nice little house. Maybe you've got a boyfriend already."

"What do you want?" you grit out.

"Access, love," he says, like this whole interrogation is just a pleasant chat. That new base of yours, the one Graves commandeered. How do you like it?"

"Barely seen it."

"I imagine you're rather busy lately, then. Lot on your mind. Shepherd must have you working hard." You notice a muscle twitching in his jaw. He has an iron grip on his temper. "But you saw enough of it to get a good look around, hm? The layout, the security, the systems. Tell me about it."

"I don't know anything."

"Nothing?" He leans forward again. He doesn't seem to like that answer. "The security cameras. The guards. The patrols. The sensors." His voice is low. "You don't know anything about those?"

"Didn't ask."

"Hm." His shoulders lift in a slight shrug as the expression on his face hardens further. "You didn't ask." He repeats. "Didn't ask. Didn't ask..." Then he pauses, staring through you. He leans back again. "No, of course not. You follow orders. You do your job. Can't fault you for that." He speaks with a cool tone, but there's a tightness in the lines of his jaw as he says it. "And now you're here and your buddies are gone. Just you. The only target left." He lets the silence stretch out. "Do you think Graves'll come for you?"

"No."

"Hm. Why not?"

"I'm a nobody."

"Hmmmmm." His smile doesn't change, but the lines around his eyes shift as if he finds that amusing. "And you're perfectly content with that? With knowing that when you walk into that base every day, you'll just be another body for Graves to throw onto the heap?”

You hold his gaze. "Yes."

"You don't think you're worth more than that?"

You say nothing.

The smile is still there, but his eyes narrow. He's judging you. Judging your worth. You hold his gaze. He seems to recognize something in you--that you're telling the truth. You know what you are. You're a mercenary. You're expendable.

"You must have a low opinion of yourself." He sighs, crossing his arms and settling a little further into his chair. "You've accepted you're not walking out of this base, then."

You nod.

Price examines you, eyes narrow and intense. Peeling you apart. You're certainly not an idiot. Smart enough to know you're expendable; loyal enough to take orders, keep your mouth shut, and follow through without asking questions. Not the type of soldier he prefers, but in the right hands, you'd be lethal.

Tough to crack, too. He rubs his chin. Hard to threaten someone who doesn't have anything to lose.

Two sharp knocks on the door herald Ghost, who slips back inside and closes the door. He's not carrying tea.

"Might want to pick up the pace," Ghost says. "Soap's back."

You stiffen, as much as you try not to show it.

Price's gaze flicks over to you, noting the tensing of your shoulders. "He knows?"

"Affirmative, sir. Someone outside must've seen her mark and tipped him off."

At that moment, there's a banging on the door. Johnny's voice echoes from the other side. "LT!"

Hearing it is a punch to the gut.

Soap keeps knocking. "Ghost, get yer lyin' arse out here!"

Price looks at Ghost and nods toward the door. "Go on, then, handle it."

Ghost curses under his breath and slips outside.

"Hell's fuckin' bells, LT, what's goin' on?"

Ghost's reply is too low and muffled to catch.

"Busy with what?" Soap snaps. "I know she's here. I need to see her."

Ghost's reply this time sounds harsher.

"Like hell I'm not. That's my goddamned soulmate, aye? My girl. I've got a right to see her. You'll not keep me from the one person in the whole bloody world that's mine."

"Captain's interrogating her." Ghost's tone is low and loud now, a warning. "You don't get special privileges with her."

Soap lets loose a string of colorful curses. You can make out roughly half of them through his accent. "What does Price think she's got that's so bloody important I don't get to know about it?"

"She's a Shadow, Johnny. Chrissake."

"Aye, an' she's in that room goin' it alone. She needs me."

Your heart twists in your chest, and it forces out a breath you didn't know you were holding. It's eating at your resolve. Just hearing him speak about you is making you want things you shouldn't. He sounds like he wants to protect you. Like you're worth something to him. You try to shake it out of your head. You're a prisoner here. This isn't a love story. He doesn’t love you. He doesn't know you.

Then you look up, and your blood goes cold. Price is staring at you, and he's smirking.

His eyes move over you, dissecting you piece by piece, and you feel your expression revealing too much. He saw your mask slip. He saw what you're concealing.

"I'll be damned." His smirk grows. "I thought Shadows were all cold-blooded bastards."

Your mouth twitches like it wants to bare teeth. "Go to hell."

"Ghost," he calls mildly at the closed door, "get in here. And bring Soap, would you?"

No no no no. Panic washes over you. You pull at your cuffs, feeling yourself lapse into a freeze response. Not Johnny. You can't face him. You try desperately to get a grip on your body's reaction, to remember your training.

You turn your head away from the door and fix your eyes on the opposite corner of the room. Among the many rifles and launchers racked on the walls, you find a pistol and you concentrate on it as hard as you can. You study the polish smudged near the mouth of the barrel. The scarred grip.

Behind you, the door opens.

Soap is across the room in moments. He kneels next to you, his hands falling to your arm, to your shoulder, your neck. His thumb brushes across one of the many cuts on your cheek.

You feel outside of yourself. Soap seems too fixated on your state of being to notice.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ. What did you rat bastards do to my girl?" he growls.

"She did this to herself," Ghost says. He puts his hand on Soap's shoulder. "And we need her restrained while we question her--"

"Back off," Soap warns, brushing his hand away. "Am not dealin' with you right now."

Price cuts in, voice firm. "Soap, cool off. Now."

Soap's temper flashes hot. His jaw clenches. His muscles tense. But he takes a deep, steadying breath. "Aye, Captain," Soap says. He straightens up, his hands falling away from your face. But it's clear his blood is still simmering. "Permission to remove her cuffs."

"Negative," Price says. Soap starts to say something, but Price cuts him off. "No. She's unpredictable. You know that as well as we do. We can't afford to trust her until we understand what Graves' orders are."

Soap curls and uncurls his fists, evidence of the sheer will he's exerting to keep his feet planted where they are. "And what do you expect me to do? Just leave her here? Not say a word to her?"

That smirk curls Price's lips again. "Quite the opposite. I'd like you to do the talking for us."

Price stands and gestures to Ghost again, and Ghost guides Soap by the shoulder over to him. Soap resists on principle for a moment before his mind catches up and he walks stiffly to the other side of the table.

“She has information we need," Price says. "Alejandro, remember? Once that's squared away, we'll need no hostage. You understand me?"

There's a beat of silence.

"You want me to interrogate her," Soap says.

"I want access," Price replies.

"And once I have the information?"

"Then she’s all yours. You can do whatever you like. Let her go. Hell, drive her to the airport if you want. But until then" --Price's hand lands on Soap's shoulder and pushes him down into the interrogator's seat across from you-- "she doesn't leave this room. You understand?"

You feel Soap's eyes on you.

"Fine. I'll do it. But it's gotta be me and her. No one else. You let me do my job the way I know it needs to be done."

"Hm." Price glances at you. You're still concentrating on the pistol on the far wall. "That's just fine. Ghost, let's give 'em some time alone."

Ghost follows Price out of the room, closing and locking the door behind them.

"Sir?" Ghost's voice is low and uncertain.

"Trust me, Soap is the leverage we needed. He'll do just fine.”

Ghost is quiet for a moment. "If he keeps his head on straight."

Price hums in agreement, his smile genuine now. "If he keeps his head on straight."

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / [part 4] / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12

more Soap / masterlist tag

[soaphawk]

bright blue, honey brown

w/c: 5.5k warnings: canon-typical violence, blood and injuries, hospitals written for ghoap soulmay 2024 <3 | posted to ao3

It’d been said that when you and your soulmate first touch, the colour of their eyes will bloom across your skin. Simon had seen it before, he knew it was real, but that didn’t change the fact that experiencing it for himself was infinitely more terrifying than he could’ve ever imagined.

“Soap, keep up!” Ghost barked, long legs propelling him forward. Occasional grunts would meet their stumbling footfalls as they fled through the treeline, relying on compasses to find their way back to relative safety. Thankfully, the sounds of barking and machine gun fire behind them had ceased, leaving the woods silent save for their laboured breaths and the whispers of the windy evening air. 

”Right behind ye, Lt,” Soap wheezed, his stride unsteady and slowing behind him.

“Y’allright?” Quickly surveying the area for hidden threats, Ghost slowed his sprint, giving his sergeant a moment to catch up. 

“Solid,” Soap replied, voice still strained in a way that had Ghost narrowing his eyes as he limped closer. One hand clutched his side, chest heaving with shaky breaths. Breaths that rattled in his chest, that set the hairs on the back of Ghost’s neck on edge with how… exhausted Soap sounded. “How much… further?”

”Half a klick. Come on, we’re both proper rank.” Ghost frowned under his mask as he watched Soap stumble forward for a few steps before tripping. He reached out, grabbing at his sergeant’s arm to steady him before he could fall. “Almost ‘ere, Johnny. Come on, put your arm around me.”

”Didnae take ye fer th’ touchy-feely type, sir.” Soap offered a cheeky smile as Ghost pulled his uninjured arm over his broad shoulders. 

Ghost suppressed an eye-roll while he slid an arm around the other man’s waist. “Yeah, well, you’re not gonna quit your wingin’ unless I fuckin’ carry you, MacTavish.” Not that I’d mind it one bit, holding you close like that. I’d make sure nothing else could ever hurt you. 

Together—with Ghost supporting most of Soap’s weight—they trudged onwards. No words passed between them, save for his sergeant’s pained grunts every so often. Out of the corner of his eye, Ghost watched him grit his teeth, face unusually pale. Soap’s silence worried him; the man barely stopped talking, even in the middle of an op. Nope, don’t like this, he thought, clenching his jaw. Usually can’t get him to shut the fuck up. Both lost in their own thoughts, Ghost’s kept tearing back and forth between the mission at hand and wanting those distressed noises to stop, because something hurt his Johnny.

”Almost there,” Ghost murmured, as much for his benefit as for Soap’s. The rattling breaths had weakened slightly, only reminding Ghost that he couldn’t slow, couldn’t falter, Johnny needed him. Thankfully, the safe house drew closer, hurrying their steps towards it as much as either man dared. Ghost left Soap stationed just outside of the front door, gun in hand while he worked to crack it open before sweeping the rooms one by one. 

Once he felt satisfied that the area was safe, Ghost finally helped Soap inside, settling him on a rarely used, dusty sofa, wishing for something more comfortable as Soap winced. He himself stayed standing a few paces away as a gloved hand reached for his comms.

“Watcher, this is Bravo 0-7, how copy?” 

“Good to hear your voice, Ghost.” Laswell’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “What’s your status?”

”Made it to the safe house. Just need an ETA on extraction. Soap’s hurt, gonna get him patched up in the meantime.”

”Roger that. Stand by for ETA. I’ll get a bird out to you ASAP.”

”Gh’st…?” 

His heart fell as he turned, seeing Soap—no, Johnny—even more inexplicably pale. Slowly, too slowly, he followed the line of Soap’s newly exposed chest, all the way down to the red blossoming beneath his shirt. Forcing his eyes back up, Ghost’s gaze locked on his sergeant, noting with almost clinical detachment how fearful his bright blue orbs looked in this moment. No, Johnny… you’re not supposed to be afraid. You’re not supposed to be hurt! 

Ghost wracked his brain, every detail of the mission flashing through in overdrive until—

“Think ‘m bleedin’…”

That snapped Ghost back into action. Panic flooded his veins as the stain grew larger, crashing to his knees in front of Johnny in an instant. No longer feeling like everything existed in slow-motion, his entire thought process honed in on his friend, his teammate, his…

No, no. Focus on the task at hand. 

“No fuckin’ shit,” Ghost heard himself say before he fumbled single handedly with his comms. ”Watcher, we’re gonna need that evac sooner rather than later,” he rasped into his mic, pulling Johnny’s shirt up and exposing the bloody hole torn in his side.

The man in question went quiet, save for a pained whimper. “Soap, I need you to keep talking!”

Soap grunted softly as Ghost’s fingers probed the wound, already reaching for his emergency kit as crimson blood flowed like an angry tide across his fingers. Frustrated, he tore his skeleton gloves off, exposing his pale digits to the thick, warm fluid. 

“‘S nothin, sir. Dinnae need t’ fuss…” Soap groaned, eyes focusing and unfocusing. 

A low, pained whine fell from his lips as Ghost pressed hard against the gunshot wound, using his free hand to pack as much gauze as he could into the mess—anything to stop the bleeding—terror thrumming through his mind at the fact that, with the amount of blood pooling under his fingers, he may very well lose the man he’d inexplicably fallen in lov—

”Bloody hell, Soap!” 

Even with the wound plugged, the bleeding wouldn’t stop. Everywhere he looked, Ghost saw red—blood red—and watched as discoloured marks bloomed over where their bare skin touched. Fear truly gripped him as Johnny gasped again, a pained noise but also—

—shocked as he grabbed onto Ghost’s bare wrist, holding on so hard he nearly crushed the bones. 

“Huh, that’s never… happen’d b’fore…” Ghost refocused his gaze, blinking down at where they linked in shock. Down to where the Scot’s hand gripped, as blue—bright blue, the exact colour of Soap’s eyes—spread across Ghost’s skin like ink. A shaky breath in and Ghost pressed his fingers against one of the few unmarred spots on Soap’s chest, watching with horrified fascination as honey brown bloomed across the pallor. 

The exact same way that, as a kid, as a teenager, as an adult, Ghost had been told people found their soulmates. The exact colour of their eyes blooming across the skin wherever they happen to meet.

My soulmate…?

Johnny… Johnny’s my… my soulmate?

But… this can’t be the first time we’ve ever touched, right? It can’t be, this has gotta be a dream, there’s no way Johnny’s bleeding out in my arms and I’m just now realizing he’s my bloody fucking soulmate—!

“Looks like yer eyes, Si…” Soap slurred out, lidded gaze trained on where Ghost still pressed against his ravaged skin. “S’nice. Like it… on…”

”Johnny—“ Whatever Ghost wanted to say next died in his throat as Johnny’s eyes rolled back, his body sagging against the cushions. “Soap? Johnny! Shit!” Scrambling for his comms once again, his hands shook as they depressed the button. “Watcher, we need medevac now! Soap’s down!”

— — — — — — —

While he swirled patterns over Johnny’s arm with his bare fingers, Simon did his best to not think about the marks left behind on his mother’s face.

Every time honey brown followed his carreses, images of father’s handprints leaving green splotches in their wake flashed through his mind. An almost perfect contrast to his mother’s stark white skin, covered in a collage of purple and yellow bruises. 

It had always been a distinct fascination. Something that most people craved—some even going their entire lives searching for it—yet one of the most terrifying things Simon could imagine. 

Riley’s didn’t do love, they didn’t deserve soulmates. Loving another in that way only brought pain and heartache. Especially in this line of work, especially because his bloody fucking soulmate just so happened to be Johnny Fucking MacTavish, the biggest and most wonderful pain in his arse he’d ever had.

Simon Riley-MacTavish. Nice ring to it.

Fuck, Johnny deserved better than him. If it weren’t for Simon, Johnny wouldn’t be lying broken in this bed, relying on a machine to breathe for him. If he had just been faster, kept his finger on the trigger and kept firing even as they ran for their fucking lives—

Simon’s parents had been soulmates. Their relationship ended in tears and bloodshed, bruises in the shape of hands that were supposed to love and nurture and not break and destroy. In blood on the floor and broken bones, shattered as easily as glass. As easily as a heart.

A lone tear beaded in the corners of Simon’s eyes. He had those same hands.

How many things—beautiful things—had he destroyed with these hands?

He couldn’t stand to look at them, knowing how much pain and fear and hurt and anguish they caused. Slowly, carefully, he pulled the gloves back on, waiting for his body to stop shaking. He didn’t want to look at the bare skin anymore, the scars and the bruises and the crooked finger that broke and never healed correctly under his father’s boot.

Tommy and Beth were soulmates, too. And while Tommy never laid a hand against her or their son in anger, he knew those demons haunted his brother like they stalked Simon himself. One of the few things they could bond over as adults, something they maybe could have recovered from together until…

Every good thing in Simon’s life disappeared. How many more things could he lose before he lost the rest of himself? Before Simon Riley finally gave himself over for the Earth to swallow whole, until there was no point where Ghost ended and Simon began anew?

Simon rested his head on Johnny’s chest with a soft sigh. Soulmates were for good people, like the man laying stone still in this bed. Not for people who destroyed every good thing in their lives.

It wouldn’t stop him from loving the man before him, though. It hadn’t, in any case. Simon had loved Johnny from the moment the annoying, pain-in-the-arse Scot managed to worm his way into Simon’s life. 

Fucking hell.

Simon watched the slow rise and fall of Johnny’s breathing for a few long minutes. This would be as close as he ever got to the man he’d inexplicably fallen for ever again. He’d already failed to keep Johnny at arm’s length, instead working to pull the man closer, to protect him under his mask. A silent shadow, daring anyone to come close to the man he so desperately wanted to be his. The man he loved more than anything he’d ever loved before.

Simon had promised himself he’d just… love from afar, that’s all. It’d be enough.

He could stay out of Johnny’s life, but still keep him safe.

And yet here Johnny lay, straddling the barrier between life and death, all because of him. Simon had been foolish to believe he could be the knight in shining armor, whether as Ghost or not. But he couldn’t deny being helplessly caught in Johnny’s orbit, like a moth to a flame every damn time.

He hadn’t been fast enough. Maybe if he could have stopped the bleeding earlier or at least realized something was wrong—

“I’m so sorry, Johnny.” Simon whispered.

The silence didn’t respond.

Simon didn’t deserve a response, anyway.

I love you, he longed to say.

He couldn’t.

It wasn’t safe to be loved by a man like Ghost.

— — — — — — —

Honey brown flashed across Soap’s mind and his skin in his dreams. Every time he felt like he tumbled further into the abyss, warm eyes and a gentle touch pulled him back. A deep, rough voice with words he couldn’t make out played over and over, but the emotions were clear: fear, urgency, care, love…

“…hear me? Soap?”

Head swimming, Soap only groaned and tried to bat the presence away. His hand seared when he lifted it, eyes blinded by the bright white light as he hissed in pain and screwed them shut tight.

”Sorry, son,” the voice gained some clarity at the same time the light shining through his eyelids dimmed, making way for a familiar beard and kind blue eyes when he dared crack his open again. Disappointment speared his gut for a second. For a moment, he had been convinced that Simon was sitting silent vigil beside him. ”Still with me, lad?”

”Yessir,” Soap slurred, tongue heavy and dry in his mouth. Without needing to ask, Price tipped a straw in his direction, allowing him to take long, greedy sips of ice cold water. He gasped as soon as it pulled away. “Thanks.”

”Gave us quite a scare,” Price fake-scolded, voice and expression betraying the fear he clearly tried to push away with a joke. “I told you boys to not break yourselves.”

”Aww, wasnae intentional!” Soap pouted at his captain, pulling a quokka-like smile from the older man. 

“Sure it wasn’t. Danger magnet,” an affectionate hair ruffle followed the captain’s words before his voice dropped to a more serious tone. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I…” Soap trailed off, scouring his thoughts. All he could find were disjointed memories and fragments of the op after everything had gone to shit… “Not much. I—fuck, where’s Si? Is he okay?!”

The heart monitor next to the men beeped louder as Soap fought to sit upright, only stilling when Price physically held him down, pushing his shoulders as deep into the bed as he dared. “He’s fine! He’s fine, John. Battered, but he’s fine. I promise.”

Soap breathed a sigh of relief at that. Price wouldn’t lie to him, not at the same time he called him by his actual name. Ghost’s—no, Simon’s?—face flashed through his mind, so ridiculously expressive even behind the mask, but only to those who really took the time to understand.

And Soap did, because he loved the daft bastard. Simon, without a second thought, saved his life yet again… someday maybe he’d get to repay the favour. At the very least, though, he could tell his lieutenant—the man he loved more than anything—thank you with a round of drinks once he was free. “Where’s he at?”

“Sent him to his room to rest. Same thing you need to be doing, ay?” Price replied gruffly. Soap laughed as he leaned over to ruffle his hair again, leaning into the contact with a barely restrained sigh of pleasure. As much as he wanted to see Simon, to beg Price to drag the man to the medical wing… Soap couldn’t deny how tired he felt, eyelids drooping steadily as his captain’s hand radiated warmth into his skin. 

“Just sleep, son. I’ll tell Simon you’re up. Kyle, too. We’ll be back soon enough.”

Soap nodded, mumbling something soft and unintelligible under his breath. He drifted to sleep with a smile, the memory of his lieutenant’s beautiful brown eyes front and centre in his dreams. Simon would be here when he woke up, and he’d reach out and hug the big bastard and pull him close, finally brush their lips against one anothers…

— — — — — — —

Soap—once he finally escaped the clutches of the medical wing—seethed his entire way back to the 141’s barracks. 

Soldiers all but leapt out of the way as he barrelled down the hallways, flinging the doors open and stalking outside. Sunlight kissed his skin, rare warmth radiating across his body after weeks of sterile white lights, but he couldn’t give a single shit. 

After weeks of seeing nothing but scrubs, blue masks, physical therapy… his best friend, his lieutenant, the man he bloody fucking loved, hadn’t come to see him once. 

More than just angry, Soap’s heart ached like someone had taken a vise to it and squeezed. Price and Gaz had stopped by more times than he could count, preventing him from going entirely insane in his room, but never once did he see the man in the mask. 

Every time he asked after Simon, their smiles faded, heads shook as they told him we tried and he’s not talking to anyone and he hasn’t been back to his room in days. 

Furious, Soap’s feet brought him all the way to the lieutenant’s office… but he couldn’t bring himself to knock, to shoulder his way in, to demand the man’s time. His radio silence made it obvious; Ghost didn’t want to see Soap.

Except… Soap saw Ghost. Saw flashes of Simon on base every single day. In the mess, in the showers, training recruits, sparring… 

And every day that passed had the pain in his chest taking root, expanding through his veins, twisting his smile into something ugly. Something venomous to hide the hurt festering in his heart. Something far, far from the roses he’d assumed would bloom once he finally got off his dumb arse, stopped waiting around for Simon to be less oblivious, and told the man he loved him. 

Oh, the roses grew all right. Except no flowers could be seen, instead the thorns grew bigger and bigger until they choked his life from the inside out.

Johnny missed Simon. 

He wanted Simon.

Needed him, really. Just needed to know it was all okay.

Except Soap also wanted to clock the man. 

Seriously, not a single visit? Not a single word from the man every time Soap begged Price and Gaz for information? What, did Ghost think him weak and pathetic, was that it? Had Soap done something wrong, something so heinous that ‘the Ghost’ couldn’t stand to be seen with him?

Those thoughts plagued Soap’s restless nights. He already struggled with turning his brain off enough to sleep, especially without the exhaustion of running ops and coming back bone tired. Instead, he tossed and turned, ruminating after the sting of his nightmares faded enough that he could focus on anything aside from the sting of rejection. 

Why didn’t Simon want him anymore? Was he that angry about the op? Disappointed in Soap for fucking it up? Did he discover how Soap truly felt about him and became too disgusted to even be seen near the other man? 

At first, Soap thought he’d just imagined the whole thing. That the bright blue across Simon’s wrist had just been a trick of a dying man’s thoughts. Some fucked up mainfestation of his dreams and fantasies to soothe him to the other side. Or maybe that the honey brown across Soap’s belly had just been dried blood captured at a different angle. 

The thought plagued him, so much so that sleep became nothing more than a fleeting thought, a passing entity in the night just out of reach. Just like Simon.

After Soap’s fourth night in a row storming through the 141 barracks towards their small gym, bloodying his barely healed knuckles over and over on the punching bag, Price caught up to him. He didn’t resist as the captain peeled him off the floor, leading him back to the office with the promise of some (decaf) coffee and conversation.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Price finally asked, voice thick with sleep.

“I…” Soap audibly gulped. How could he even say what he needed to? That he was a lovesick puppy whose owner kicked him to the curb? “Ma heid’s mince. Did I do summat wrong? ‘S that why Si won’t look at me?”

Price sighed softly, offering a kind smile. “You did nothing wrong. Simon’s… struggling.” Soap rolled his eyes hard in response.

“Am too! Fuck, am the one who’s bin in t’ hospital!” He managed to grind out. “I dinnae understand… jus’ wanna know how I can fix… whatever ah did. Wanna ken why he… won’t talk t’ me anymore. Hurts.”

“I know. But beating yourself bloody isn’t going to fix it,” Price replied, taking a drag from his cigar. “I’ll talk to him when I see him again, ay? See if I can figure it out?”

“Sir…”

“Let me do this for you, son.”

“I… I think he might be my… my soulmate, sir.”

Price didn’t seem surprised, only humming softly in response. “What makes you say that?”

“I cannae remember much, but in t’ safe house… he was jus’ patchin’ me up. Coulda sworn I saw blue on ‘is hands. Like mah eyes. More ah think on it, though… Dunno. Maybe it was jus’ a dream. A hope.”

Silence spanned the room for a few minutes. “Get some rest, Johnny,” was all Price replied, though the knowing look in his eye reassured Soap slightly. “We’ll sort this out.”

With nothing to do the next day, Soap sat in his room. At first, he’d tried sketching, but photos of Simon’s handsome face stared back up at him. He slammed the book closed in disgust.

Movies were out, no way he’d be sitting still long enough to focus.

Training was still off the schedule for the most part, Price adamant that he rest and not strain himself any further, lest the stitches holding his guts together popped.

Soap glared at the wall as the same anger from the past weeks welled inside of him, fidgeting enough that it didn’t matter what he did, he just needed out. 

At first, he walked aimlessly, picking a direction and letting the cool air soothe his mind. It didn’t matter where he ended up, so long as he found a spot where he could sit and scream and fall apart with no one there to witness it. That way, when he went back, he could smile again and pretend like everything was fine.

That’s how Soap found himself on a scarce path leading towards the edge of the forest. A spot Simon himself had taken him to, the same place where he knew the man would sit to have some quiet. And seeing the lone figure on the ridge, clad in all black with his blonde hair exposed—

—Soap saw red.

”Oi, ye bloody bawbag!” Soap screamed, watching the figure jump with a sadistic kind of glee. He already had the upper hand if he’d startled the man. 

“What, ye think ye’re so bloody fuckin’ special, ‘s that it? Made it oot in one piece, no thanks to yer eejit of a sergeant?! Are ye so bloody ashamed of me that ye couldnae once come t’ visit? Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell, sir, am I that much of a burden to ye?!”

Drawing closer and closer, Soap kept hurling his anger and hurt at the man, reaching out to grab at the lieutenant as soon as he could, intent on bowling the man over and over into the dirt until the aggression worked its way out of his system. He ground his teeth as he watched Ghost’s shoulders shake, the sound coming from the bastard almost like a laugh.

“What, not gonnae turn an’ face me? ‘S that it? ‘S this fuckin’ funny t’ ye?! Seein’ me loose my bloody fuckin’ mind?!”

Close enough to the man, Soap all but slapped down onto Ghost’s shoulder, the feeling of skin on skin reverberating up his arm as he gripped as tight as he could, trying to force the larger man to turn and meet his gaze. 

Ghost—no, Simon?—curled in on himself, flinching away with a harder shudder.

He wasn’t laughing at Soap. He was sobbing.

Simon was… crying? Startled, Soap dropped his grip in an instant, reeling back. 

”Si?” Soap voiced hesitantly. “I—“

”Johnny…” 

All of his anger melted away at the fear and despair in the man’s voice. Days, no weeks, of built-up frustration drained from his bones, leaving weary exhaustion in its wake. Johnny crossed to crouch in front of Simon, angling so he could see his face. “Simon, what—can ah hug ye?”

Simon pulled away the moment Johnny reached forward, as soon as his fingers brushed the man’s chest. “You’re still healing, I don’t—“

“No, ye don’t get t’ do that!” Johnny barked, momentary softness forgotten as he grabbed for the taller man, ignoring his shaky, fearful breaths. “Why’d ye fuckin’ leave me?!”

God, how he hated that his voice broke on the last word.

Finally, Johnny grabbed Simon’s hand, his pale skin nearly glowing in the waning light without his usual skeleton gloves on. Part of him wanted to marvel at how rough Simon’s fingers were, but didn’t get the chance as time slowed, a belated gasp falling from his mouth as the skin beneath his turned bright blue—

—and where they touched, Johnny’s own turned honey brown.

The world went silent and still. Both men locked eyes, staring at each other, souls laid bare. So much swirled through Simon’s expression: fear, desperation, hope, terror, love…

”Si?” Johnny breathed. “It… it wasnae a dream… ye’re… ye’re my—“

”I’m sorry…” Simon whimpered out, cutting Johnny off with a voice so small and scared it cracked his heart. “I… you don’t… I’m so sorry!” 

Johnny didn’t move, didn’t react as Simon curled in on himself, pulling his limbs away to tuck them into safety. He sounded so scared, breaking Johnny’s heart. His soulmate… scared of him?

Had… had he actually done something wrong? Why was Simon afraid of him?

Shit, shit, shit shit shit—

”What are ye on about, love?” Johnny asked, wanting to reach his free hand across and gently grasp his soulmate’s chin. He couldn’t, though, not when tears cascaded down Simon’s cheeks, weak gasps punching from his chest as he screwed his eyes shut. Not when the taller man shuddered and shook and made such unhappy noises, like the thought of being touched was more harrowing than torture.

“You don’t… want me…” Simon managed to sob out, crying openly now. “I… you deserve… more…!”

”Oh, Si…” Johnny sighed. He teared up too, reaching out to rest a hand on his soulmate’s knee. He frowned as Simon flinched again. Definitely fear. My poor bonnie lad… I knew he’d had a tough go of it, but this… my poor bonnie lad. “Can I hug ye, please? Promise, jus’ wanna hug. Not gunna yell, am so sorry, Si…”

Simon didn’t respond for several moments, long enough that Johnny nearly asked again until he found himself with a lapful of anxious, upset, bloody fucking brilliant bonnie Manc. Didn’t matter that it hurt, that the strain on his body definitely popped a few stitches, Johnny took it in stride. 

He wrapped his arms around Simon’s body, pulling the man as close as he could. Wishing he could draw his soulmate into his body, to settle him within his ribcage right next to his heart where Simon belonged, protected and loved and wanted forever. One hand drifted up, carding through the short blonde hair as Johnny guided his head to rest in the crook of his neck. 

“I’m so sorry,” Simon sniffled, trembling in Johnny’s arms. 

“Simon Riley, I’ve spent my entire life searching for ye, an’ ye were here all along? Beautiful bastard,” Johnny breathed out in awe. “Why are ye sorry? Ye’re so bloody perfect for me already. My bonnie lad—”

“No…” Simon sobbed, “No, you… you deserve… better…! Not… broken… worthless…”

“Shh, love. None of tha’, now.” Johnny stroked his hair again, relishing in the feeling of Simon slowly relaxing against his chest. Cradling the man close, brushing his nose across the ridge of his hairline. “Ye’re bloody perfect, baby. How could I want anyone else, knowing I got lucky ‘nough fer someone as bonnie as ye?”

Simon’s struggles faded and fell away under Johnny’s soft words, now clutching him so tight he knew for sure both would be sporting bruises. It didn’t matter, though. He had his soulmate in his arms, the man he’d pined after for so long now… chest swelling with love and care as Simon fell apart.

Despite it all, Simon trusted him enough to fall apart like this.

Johnny wasn’t sure how long they spent there, Simon crying until no more tears came out. His sharp, shuddering breaths eased off, and he didn’t pull away or flinch as Johnny cupped his face, wiped his bright red cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, that same fear and guarded hope simmering in Simon’s eyes. “There ye go… such a bonnie lad. Please… Simon… please tell me ye want this too…”

”Yes,” Simon whimpered, squeezing tighter as if Johnny would disappear into thin air should he let go. “I’m so scared…” He didn’t need to say anything else for Johnny to understand. He’d known the man long enough to know some of his dour history, able to fill in the blanks even without the added context. 

In that moment, Johnny silently vowed to never, ever become another facet of Simon’s nightmares. He breathed that promise into the air, holding the man just a little bit tighter.

”I know, m’eudail. Ye dinnae need t’ tell me anythin’ noe, just… lemme hold ye? Waited so long for ye… hoped ye’d look in mah direction someday…”

”Don’t let go…” More tears brimmed in Simon’s vulnerable, bonnie eyes, threatening to fall until Johnny leaned in to press a soft kiss to his soulmate’s forehead. “Always wanted to… hold you like this. Couldn’t… didn’t deserve it. Don’t… don’t let go please Johnny, I can’t—”

”Never. We’ll figure it out together, aye?” 

Simon nodded at Johnny’s words, pulling away slightly to look at him again with barely disguised wonder. 

Johnny smiled in response, the edges of his lips tugging up into the most genuine, loving smile he’d ever worn. ”I’ve got ye. Not gunna let go, not noe tha’ I finally get t’ have ye.”

“Don’t… don’t wanna hurt you…” Simon rasped pitifully, glaring down at his hands when he pulled away to settle back on the ground. He remembered, back when they’d first become close, how Simon told him about his ‘father’s’ hands. Johnny had only been teasing when he said something along the lines of Ghost having talons instead of fingers to explain why he always wore the gloves… An idea sparked in Johnny’s head at that, making a soft noise to get the blonde’s attention.

“Can I see yer hands, Si?”

Simon cautiously extended them out, frowning as Johnny took them in his. “Ye always cover them, no matter what.” Turning them over, brushing the pads of their fingers together, tracing the veins and tendons and muscles… he pressed a soft kiss to every spot he could before holding them tight to his chest. 

And how bloody fucking beautiful the colours blooming across their bodies were as Johnny laced their fingers together, gripping tight. “Bonnie hands, attached to mah bonnie lad. Ye’re a gowk if ye think am not gunna love these hands when ye’re always protectin’ me with ‘em. Strong an’ soft an’ so fuckin’ braw, mo ghraidh.”

Simon’s gaze shifted, softened. Slowly, he reached out, pulling Johnny close again and nuzzling against his head, still sniffling, but calmer. Johnny petted at the blonde locks once more, feeling Simon hum in appreciation against his skin. There’d be plenty more time later for discussion. For declarations of love, promises of support, lazy mornings spent in bed until they needed to face the world again. For now, he had Simon in his arms. Exactly what Johnny needed, and—by the feeling of the blonde sagging against him, nuzzling his shoulder now before shyly planting his own tender kiss to the skin to watch the colour blossom—exactly what Simon needed too.

“Come on, m’eudail. ‘S gettin’ cold oot, an am ready t’ coorie in a bigger bed.”

Simon chuckled softly, wiping away tears as they both stood. “It’s not that much bigger.”

“But ‘s gunna have ye in it.” Johnny wiggled his eyebrows, pulling a genuine laugh from Simon as they walked together, hand in hand. He took the lead in bringing them to the barracks, catching a quick glimpse of a smiling Price before the captain disappeared. Pushing Simon into his room, Johnny kicked the door shut and made sure it locked before crowding Simon against the bed, watching with wide eyes as the blonde melted under his hands.

After so long waiting, Johnny finally bridged the distance between his and Simon’s lips, brushing them tenderly at first before diving in for more. Intent on searing his name, his touch, his love into Simon’s skin one kiss at a time.

Their bodies melded together as they curled up, hands grasping everywhere they could reach. Tangled together, Johnny kissed away each and every one of Simon’s lingering tears, a smile on his lips as he whispered every single loving word he could think of to the man he loved beyond all reason.

Finally, when the night began to draw to a close, when they yawned more than spoke, they crowded together on a single pillow. Their twin breaths mixed in the space between them, eyes filled with wonder and joy. 

For once, even if just for a moment, the stars had aligned to make everything perfect. Even knowing they had jobs to do and a world to face when the sun rose again, an unspoken promise filled the air between the two soulmates. They had finally found each other, the rest could come later. 

Nothing mattered to Johnny in this moment except for the—no, his—Ghost. 

His bonnie, braw, pure dead fucking brilliant Ghost.

[cod-dump]

Soulmate AU where someone's soulmate's name is on their skin but it's not their given name but something that has a deep meaning to them. Soap seeing 'Ghost' on his forearm and groaning because where does he even begin to look?

[meowmeowriley]

Me: literally has 15 WIPs to work on.

Also me: cranks out nearly 4.5k words of soulmate AU because everyone else has done and and I wanted to try too!

Call me by Your Name, Mark me With Your Face is now up on AO3 if anyone is interested.

A small snippet, perhaps?

"Is it true? Can ye actually hear his thoughts?" Rudy laughed, and Soap felt a little dumb for asking. They'd started walking again. "Lo siento, we get asked that a lot, you know?" Figures they would. "Sometimes? It is hard to explain. I can push something, a thought or a feeling, and that is when it glows. He is singing." Rudy said with such fondness. It almost hurt, to know that most people would never feel that. Even with a bond, few were strong enough to glow. "Does it hurt?" "Hurt? No. It is warm though, when it glows. It is comforting." A beat passed, "Are you bonded, hermano?" Soap shook his head, sadly. "No." He probably never would be. Being in the military meant he didn't have much of a chance to bond to anyone outside of his brothers in arms.  Platonic soulmates did happen, but Soap was sure if it hadn't happened yet, it wouldn't be happening at all. His current team was so important to him, he'd never been closer to anyone before, and probably wouldn't be after. God forbid there be an after. "I always wondered though, if I did, what would it look like? What would my partner see in me that would mark their body forever?" "Their skin would probably be turned to, what is it... tartan?" Rudy attempted to lighten the mood, and it worked. Soap laughed. "Aye, that or a huge set 'a bagpipes on their chest." He joined in. "The Scottish flag across their ass cheeks." Rudy shot at him. By the time they joined the others, they were howling with laughter.

[marmaladespread]

Soulmate au but they hate eachother!

[melloraconteur]

"And this urge to run away from what I love is a sort of sadism I no longer pretend to understand" - Martha Gellhorn

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

[Reincarnation au]

Word Count -> 453

IMAGINE...

For years Simon has dreamed of you.

He recalls his mother asking him who you were over breakfast. He didn't have an answer back then, and before he could say something, his father stumbled out of the master bedroom and told him to go to school.

He knew that look in his father's eyes, knew that refusing to would only make it worse on his mother. So, with a guilty feeling that rested in his gut, he went off to school.

Even when he was grown and had enlisted, he found himself dreaming of you. Well, he calls them dreams, but they felt so real.

A dream of you curled up beside him, a fire crackling in the fireplace and the wind howling outside. Another dream of you dancing with him, leading him effortlessly through a difficult dance. In every dream, it is only the two of you, doing mundane things. In every dream, he cannot recall your name nor your features, only the feelings of warmth and protection that he seldomly saw in his young life.

When he formally meets you, he is gobsmacked. He knows it is you that has been in his dreams since he can remember. He knows that you are the cause of the warmth and protection that left him yearning in the morning when he succumbed to sleep.

Still, he greets you like he does everyone, even though you are the same rank as him. You appear to not mind his gruff tone and instead take it in stride, like you've done this before.

It both scares and comforts him. No one has been in tune with him like you are, though some have gotten close, they usually die.

When he's having an "off day" you'll accommodate him. You'll take notes for him during debriefs when he spaces out, you'll accompany him in the gym, though you do your own exercise, you are always in the corner of his eye. This is a new territory for him and he doesn't want to fuck up something good like he always has.

You aren't there for just his off days, you hang around him, despite him telling you that you should probably do some paperwork. You only chuckle and tell him you'll do it later.

Sooner than he'd like, he finds you both sitting in his office, him filling out reports and you filling out charts.

He finds it mortifying when he finds himself in grumpier moods when you are out on a mission, when the medic who is treating him isn't you, when your attention isn't on him.

He finds that every part of him, when he's around you, yields to you.

His blood sings yours, yours, yours!