#Unfatedghoap

[transmascsimonriley]

cw: offscreeen minor character death

my thing for the ghostsoap server soulmate event

[gomzdrawfr]

Soul Marks

they form when soulmates come in contact skin-to-skin, it blooms into colours and shapes only fate will tell

as such, one should choose carefully on where they touch and hold

.....or don't

part 2 link below!

this is my submission for the ghoap server soulmate event! :D

part 2

[milkydough]

Simple touch.

made for the soulmate server event on discord!

[bressynonym]

bound 🪢

[mizushibart]

Cover for "Give me back my heart", a monster romance soulmates fic written by @anamelesstraveler for #UnFatedGhoap event!

It was a fun collaboration, i hope you will check it out ^^

[concernedgravy]

✨’The colour of your eyes manifest when you lock eyes with your soulmate’ ✨

A tale told to so many young dreamers that it eventually became just that.

Both Soap and Ghost had heard the stories but never thought they’d see it for themselves…

[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.

[11gns]

[v0id000]

Why can't I seem to find you outside of my dreams

Bit background information to this piece

Soap and ghost are soulmates. They don't know each other in real life but soap sees ghost in his dreams and tries to find him. While ghost trying to find himself again.

[vollumecontroll]

In all lives we will ever live, we will find each other again. Our devotion runs deep, beyond even the influence of stardust, Our very souls forever entwined, never able to be kept apart. My submission for the UnFated Soulmate event in the GhostSoap discord! Mainly soulmay themed told through AUs with a sprinkling of mermay in there as a treat for myself. I initially had more AU ideas in mind but artblock + college is a terrible combo so I only managed three. Cannon, civilian, and selkie made it to canvas while cryptid, dragonrider, na'vi, and ark didn't.

[inkformyblood]

the red on my face is matching you (GhostSoap)

Canon Era, Soulmate AU. Part 1/4

The meeting room booked for this debriefing is a fucking disgrace. They could have one of the newly refurbished digs closer to the centre of the base, the scent of fresh paint still bleeding off the walls and all the furniture still slightly uncomfortable in that never-been-used way, but no. Ghost couldn’t be that fortunate. 

Two months stuck in a bleeding ditch with rainwater up his arse, no cover so he was being slowly roasted alive, somehow freezing and boiling all at the same time, and they get one of the off-shoot debriefing rooms miles away from everywhere and not even a crappy coffee machine to get some dishwater that labelled itself as tea. 

Ghost bites the flat of his tongue, holds the pressure steady until the ache is all he can think about, the pain dull to dead nerves, and let's go. In the end, he hadn’t really been needed, just left on the line to dry while the forward team swept through the compound like a wildfire. All flash, no bang. He’d watched them through his scope, just distant moving shadows that were somehow people all the same, seen a couple fall and not even been able to take out their killers thanks to the red tape garrotting him. 

Ghost had his orders straight from Price, smelling faintly of cigar smoke and delivered in the rattle of the plane. Price’s knuckles were white on the tangle of the harness in his grasp, swaying the motion of the plane as he leant down to speak to Ghost. His words had clattered like gunfire and Ghost felt them burrow into his skin, rotting him from the inside out. It wasn’t Price’s doing, he had his own marionette strings knotted around his limbs, pulled taut in that moment, and Ghost understands that well enough.

He’s a dead man walking so he needed to stay out of the mission. Observation, nothing more. Note down the time and position that each man dies, the scope boring a hole through his skull, the trigger a tripwire against his finger, and do nothing.

Fucking bastards.

Ghost tips himself back in the chair before he settles all four legs on the floor once more. It creaks beneath his weight, some flimsy dumpster find, the wood pitted with numerous scuffs, the scrawl of someone’s initials over the back. The singular fan, a goddamn divine miracle at this rate, sits off to his right. It wheezes through the cloud of dust coating the blades, orbiting from one side to the other as if that would do anything. 

He can feel his eye black running down his face, sweat stinging at his eyes as it goes, and it makes his skin crawl, the hollows of his gum aching. His fingers curl, the tapered edge of his fingers catching on every uneven scuff on the table, every dent from a slammed fist. Maybe a couple were from a quick fuck, too pent up to wait until they were behind doors that locked, still stupidly besotted enough that getting caught added a thrill of excitement, and Ghost’s fingers catches on those scratches like all the others, indistinguishable, unimportant. 

Copper coats his tongue, a fresh tear in his lip that he’s been chewing without realising. The nerves are too fried to transmit much about pressure or temperature and he relies on habit rather than sensation most of the time. Sometimes it works. Blood joins the sweat accumulating on the inside of his mask, the fabric beginning to smell more like an open body pit than the nondescript fabric paint he’d used at the start. He wants to take it off. He wants to sew it to his skin and then, maybe, maybe—

“Here we are.”

Price. Self-assured swagger to his step that came along with the bars they’d added to his shoulders when he was promoted way back when. It’s a distinct enough walk that Ghost relaxes back into his seat, letting his legs sprawl out as best as the confines of the chair will allow him. He’s enough of an open book to the other man — open the same way an academic text in a dead fucking language so mostly targeted guesswork — and Price will read his annoyance like a signal tower. Bastard. 

Ghost inclines his head in greeting to Price, his attention snapping to the puppy trailing Price in. Fresh meat. Fuck, had he ever been that young, that bright-eyed? He must have been the same age as the other man at one point, hell, given how young Ghost was when he joined they might be the same age now, but he never felt that young. Adult responsibilities piled onto childish shoulders that grew quickly enough to hold them. 

The lad’s got a mohawk for fucks sake.

It’s intentional, a peacock shaking its iridescent tail for attention, because the realisation that the other man is also wearing a mask is slow coming. There’s introductions — “John MacTavish, our new recruit.” “Soap, please, sir.” — and Price is several sentences into an explanation before Ghost can fully take the other man in. 

The hissing undulation of the fan ruffles Soap’s hair and he pushes a section back from his face without looking away from Price. He’s keen, hungrily so, more likely to slit his own throat for guts and glory and Ghost is ready to dismiss him in the same breath. Just another dog, leashed like Ghost is, but this one hasn’t learnt the incoming hand is more than often a blow instead of a pat. He must sense Ghost watching him — a prickle across the base of his name, someone walking over his grave — as he glances over, his eyes crinkling as he grins and Ghost realises. 

Soap MacTavish is wearing a mask too.

It isn’t the same as Ghost’s, medical instead of tactical, camo print splashed over the front until it’s dismissed as just another part of the uniform. But it’s pulled higher than Ghost is used to seeing people wear, drawn to rest just beneath his eyes and held close to his jaw, a custom job. It’s not uncommon for other soldiers to wear masks, some people are picky about their privacy although not to the same extent that Ghost is, but Soap is another mystery all together. 

The meeting room door opens once more and Gaz slides into his seat, blinking at the newcomer before he covers it with a grin. Must already know Soap because there’s only a whispered exchange before Gaz’s attention glides onto Price like it’s been there all along. Price takes it all in without a second glance, sliding a file over to Gaz without tripping over his words as he brings up the next image. Standard compound, just remote enough to fuck with the delivery drivers, several foot of trees cleared from the hastily constructed walls. Dropped into the centre, a gigantic fuck-you to any thoughts Ghost had of some R&R between missions, is a tower, leaning sideways already, a kid getting distracted and swiping at the blocks as they move away.

He can see his grave when it’s laid out in front of him.

Turning his attention back to Soap, it isn’t a surprise that the other man is staring. Not just staring, devouring, consuming, drinking Ghost down like he's air and water both, mana from heaven and the holy fucking sacrament. There’s a silver cross on Soap’s chest, the chain shining while the token is tarnished, and his hand rises to it, brushing over the metal before it drops once more. 

Ghost hasn’t seen the inside of a church that hadn’t doubled as a battleground for years. Might prove a problem if Soap turns out to be the judgemental type.

But… the mask.

Why?

Ghost grinds his teeth together, the sound echoing in the confines of his skull, and Gaz flinches, a scowl already traced over his mouth. Price barely pauses in his speech, his gaze flickering over to Ghost in a silent chastisement that always twists something in the base of his throat, some scrap of a heart that’s keeping him upright and moving. Soap watches all of this, the fabric of his mask indented over his lip as he chews on it. There’s a damp patch when he releases it, nearly hidden behind the pattern of the camo. Ghost tugs on the edge of his gloves, pulls up his sleeve, folds the scrap of skin in danger of showing away once more. 

It’s a choice, a deliberately maintained choice, something cared for and cultivated. Soap must have a stake in the game, something heavier than just vanity, or is it? Ghost fights the urge to grind his teeth together once more, his gums aching, a spark of restlessness burning through his joints like kindling tossed in the undergrowth. Too long spent huddled in one position and not enough time between missions and then this mystery is tipped into his lap, near-enough fucking giftwrapped to torture him about.

Roba should have tried something like this. Might’ve worked out for him better.

Soap’s still watching him. He’s being careful about it now, thanks to Price’s momentarily diverted attention, sneaking glances out of the corner of his eye between blinks. Price presses a button and the lights dim, a sprawl of surveillance footage rolling across the screen. Ghost watches it without taking it in, green-toned sepia rolling across the whites of his eyes and falling back off again. His attention —  carved up for decoration like scrimshaw, thoughts gnarled together even as the upcoming battle plan etches itself on the inside of his skull — is diverted, compromised. He tips his chair back carefully and Soap straightens at the noise of protest it makes, his brow furrowing before he relaxes deliberately. Already a bleeding heart, Ghost guesses, trying to make sure he doesn’t die somewhere nonsensical before he can die and decay somewhere it would be useful, a puppy whining from its basket. Sit. Stay. Shoot. 

Ghost tips his head to one side, pressure along the side of his neck, a matching ache in his thighs as he braces himself against the floor. There’s still mud on his boots and he scrapes one against the table leg, jolting it slightly. Gaz flips him off behind Soap’s back like he’s a schoolboy hiding from the teacher and Soap twitches, his mouth caught halfway between a grin and a gasp, terror woven so neatly into joy. He catches Ghost’s gaze once more, locked onto him like there’s an entire missile tracking system whirring behind his eyes, and, for all Ghost knows about the government programs twitching curtains behind the scenes, there damn well might be. 

Soap looks ordinary enough, cut mostly from the same cloth as any other soldier.

His arms are mostly bare, sleeves pushed up to his elbows due to the heat. There’s the faint lines of scars visible when he shifts, the light catching off of the silver marks and the notched counterparts, a tattoo on his right forearm of a familiar logo. Cocky fuck. If they both survive this mission, and Soap can manage to find his feet on solid ground, he might grow to like this new stray Price has brought in off the street. The tattoo is too faded to be new, the ink bedded into Soap’s skin aspirational or in memoriam. Could be chasing after his own ghosts and Simon is just another notch on his belt of actions he’ll regret. The mask hides the majority of his features, suggestions of a crooked nose beneath the fabric, a grin bright enough to be noticeable despite it all.

“Any questions?”

Ghost shakes his head at Price, rocking his chair back onto four legs. He’ll be glad to be out of here in any capacity, even if it is to another squeeze into a metal box before he can be thrown into battle once more. Price might sit next to him for the flight, the cigar smoke clinging to the weathered lines of his palms, a curved line of heat at his side to combat the chill of so many booted feet marching over his grave.

Soap could sit next to him.

Ghost dismisses the thought in an instant, anger burning in the base of his throat, bitter like he should be. He’s dead, buried in a grave he was too stubborn to stay in; life isn’t for men like him.

“Good.” Price nods once, pride clear in his wide stance, the easy grin he wears. “It’s going to be a small team this time, lads, so in and out, no guts, no glory. Understand?”

Another nod from Ghost bumping up against the regulation-size “Yessir,” from Gaz, both torn apart at the heels by the bright “sir, yes, sir” from their newest addition. Soap’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins, every piece of his face that is visible utilised to shout his emotions to the world, a fanfare covered by a tea towel. Fuck, Ghost needs a drink. Preferably several, each strong, all served alone in the quiet nest of his room, but he’ll take whatever cheap swill he can coax from a coffee machine before he has to shrug all of his gear back on. It’s been days since he’s taken off his eye black and caught a glimpse of his own reflection, years since he’d wanted to. 

Gaz dawdles and Ghost is going to gut him for it. Give him a new set of scars over his rib cage to show off to his flock of twittering admirers, each one burning with jealousy and trying to catch alight on the reflected glory of Gaz’s attention. 

It gives Soap time to break away as Ghost makes his escape, to slip out of the door moments after he does.

“Hey, LT.”

Ghost stops. Soap doesn’t.

“Looks like we’re going to be working together on this one. Hope it’s a good one, yeah.”

Standing, they’re nearly of a height, Ghost claiming a few inches over Soap. He glares down at the other man, his jaw clenched tight enough he thinks it might shatter, spilling blood and bile down onto the bleach-stained floor. “What are you doing, Sergeant?” 

The fuck off and leave me alone is unspoken, landing like a tactical nuke in the space between them, and Soap ignores it utterly. He’s still grinning, sharper now, somehow, the bright blue of his eyes drawn darker beneath the fluorescence. “Getting to know my teammates, sir. I’ve been hoping to get assigned this unit for a long time now.”

“Why?” Like a gunshot, better to be over sooner rather than later, a quick impact between the eyes than a slow puncture in the belly. Ghost folds his arms over his chest, tipping his head to one side. The cut on his lip had scabbed over, now torn open anew.

Soap meets his glare head-on, the same stubborn streak painted over every aspect of his being that must have set him on this course. “Got my reasons, sir. Not about to kiss and tell on the first date, so to speak.”

Cocky fuck. 

If he lives, Ghost might grow to like him.

“Go get your kit. Dismissed.”

Ghost turns and walks away. He doesn’t look back, even when he hears the conspicuous absence of Soap’s footsteps, the heavy starving weight of his stare imprinted on the back of Ghost’s head. One more mission, then he can rest. Another mission before he can sleep. 

[solivagantingrebel]

Finished writing the werewolf x vampire fic! (the first chapter at least)

Presenting Vampire!Ghost, Werewolf!Soap, a healthy amount of angst, 09 Ghost's backstory, SOULMATE MARKS, and my first attempt at an enemies to lover fic. Mind the tags! Hope you enjoy </3

[gomzdrawfr]

Soul Marks

"I had a different place in mind..."

part 1 here :]

:･ﾟ✧Bonus ✧･ﾟ:

[infinite-riches]

The Brightest Blue Is You

Summary: But the most blue was his eyes.

Eyes that didn’t recognize him anymore. And a smile that was hidden away behind a mask.

Or: A soulmate AU where relationship milestones "unlock" things related to your fated partner (I'll add more details for this concept in the author's notes to prevent spoiling things). Ghost is face to face with the man who is supposed to be his soulmate but everything is still ~off~.

(This piece is based off images from the MW3 Season 4 trailer)

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 1329

Warnings: Mentions of Blood, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Emotional angst/comfort

A/N: AU Concept: Hitting milestones w/your soulmate "unlocks" certain things. You can't see the color of their eyes (it appears grey until you see your soulmate) at all- if their eyes are green then the grass is grey until you find that person, etc. The base notes of their scent are subdued until your first hug/cuddle. You can’t taste your soulmate’s favorite sweet until your first kiss (basing it on Cranachan [a traditional Scottish dessert of cream and fresh raspberries, bolstered by Scottish oats and whisky] for this piece).

-----

So… it's been a while. I hope you enjoyed this- honestly, I'm a little unsure about it. In a perfect world, I'd want it to be longer but my brain just isn't letting me get there.

And as always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): The Brightest Blue Is You

His legs gave out as the rubber sole of his assailant’s boot made contact with the back of his knee. Pain shot up through his body as he made contact with the street. His head was already swimming, warm blood seeping into the dark fabric of his mask, knuckles aching from the punches he had landed. His gun was long gone, lost to the fight some time ago.

The bombed-out city was a blur of twisted metal and busted concrete, orange flames reaching high into the deep blue night sky, stars just starting to shine. In any other situation, Soap would’ve commented about how beautiful the sky was. 

He could hear the clink of buckles and gear as the man stood behind him. The metal felt cold as ice against the back of his head, and the sound of the gun cocking sent a chill down his spine, even despite the heat of his love behind him. 

“Save you a seat, LT.”

Blue.

The color nearly knocked Ghost off his feet. It was the only color he hadn’t been able to see, until now. 

That one look had changed his entire life. Something he was sure he didn’t have. Something people like him didn’t get to have, was boarding a helicopter, the promise to save him a seat still fresh on his tongue. His soulmate. 

Blue. 

It was everywhere and he had never known. His shirt was blue. The night sky was blue. But the most blue was his eyes. 

Eyes that didn’t recognize him anymore. And a smile that was hidden away behind a mask. 

“Soap-” 

“Shut it.” He sounded wrong. This wasn’t his Soap. This wasn’t the man he had fought alongside for years. Not the man he would take a bullet for. His voice was harsh, his familiar Scottish accent buried away or maybe beaten out of him.

The unforgiving metal dug further into the back of his head, pushing him farther forward on his knees, the crumbling asphalt below unrelenting. “Now, where’s your captain?”

He looked like his Soap, but his Soap wouldn’t willingly work for Makarov. Not the Soap that had tried to put a bullet in Makarov’s brain. “Soap-”

The pistol came down hard against his temple, a sickening crack ringing out into the night.

The blood pouring from his arm finally slowed, Ghost making quick work of dressing the handiwork of a shadow. 

He was flagging, eyes fluttering shut even as he fought the urge to sleep. Ghost could see how far the man had pushed himself to make it out alive. So Ghost gave in, pulling the man close, tucking his head below his chin, trying to memorize every detail of the moment. 

Pine and fresh rain. 

It was subtle. And comforting. And perfectly him. 

He had never understood what people meant when they said it smelt like rain. Now it made perfect sense and he never wanted to go without again, never wanted to go back to that subdued version he lived with for so long.

“Did it for you, LT.” He wasn’t his usual chatty self, voice soft and laced with exhaustion as he buried himself in Ghost’s side.

“Did what, Johnny?” The Scot was fading fast, the modicum of security provided by Alejandro’s safehouse enough to lure the man to sleep. 

“Fought for you. Lived for you…” The last words came out a whisper, barely there but enough to leave Ghost reeling. 

Ghost blinked the memory away, fighting a quiet sort of sobbing that required every ounce of strength to maintain any semblance of composure. He pulled Ghost’s mask off and tossed it to the side, revealing tears streaking through dust and dirt and blood creeping down his pale skin. 

“I’ve been patient with you, Lieutenant. But now my patience has run short and I want answers.” Calloused fingers pulled at messy blond locks.

Like that night after Chicago.

He had never known what raspberries tasted like before that night. Before they tumbled into a tiny hotel room, one bed between the both of them and no complaints to be found. 

A few awkward moments passed until Ghost zeroed in on it- a cut right at his temple, blood still staining his skin. He fell back on his training, gently cleaning the spot with a warm rag, checking Soap over even though the medics had cleared him. He kept fussing over that cut until Soap pulled his wrist away. 

“Simon-”

“Almost lost you, Johnny. You were there, on that ledge…”

“Simon, look at me.” Ghost all but snapped to attention, ready to burn down the world if Soap asked. 

Warm hands slid across pale skin, up his neck, nudging the fabric of the mask higher and higher until it rested on the bridge of his nose. Pine filled his lungs as Soap leaned closer, warm breath dusting over waiting lips.

“I will never leave you.” The flavor was bright and sharp on his tongue, matching how he kissed him. So much passion and need but also, sweet. A perfect mix Ghost had never had before him. 

The blue that stared back at him now seemed dull. All blue has since that day. Now, he hated blue.

The barrel of the gun was against his forehead now. The silhouette of his lover towered over him as a flash lit up the night sky behind him, illuminating the rain that had begun to fall. 

If he closed his eyes he could pretend he was back at his flat, the taste of raspberries, cream, and whiskey lingering on his lips. But he couldn’t.

Whatever Makarov had done had stolen that from him. Gone was the infectious smile and bright laugh. Gone was the man he loved. 

“You’ve got five seconds, Lieutenant.” His finger shifted on the trigger and Ghost’s heart was shredding itself at the sight. “5… 4… 3-”

In an instant Ghost had both hands around his arm, pushing the gun into the skin of his forehead. The movement made Soap jerk, unsteady and surprised by the sudden action. 

Tears raced down his face as he held his gaze, grip strong, daring the man the pull the trigger. This wasn’t the man he loved. Not anymore. That man was gone and that left Ghost with nothing to live for. 

“I haven’t lived since I held your body in my arms.” His voice cracked. “Just kill me, please, Johnny. There is no living without you.”

Thunder shook the ground as lightning lit up the sky and he could see it. Could see the moment his Johnny realized what he was doing. Blue had never seemed so bright.

Soap dropped the pistol like it had burned his skin, and clutched the offending hand to his chest. The sound of metal hitting asphalt rang in Ghost’s ears as Soap fell to his knees, sobbing and curling in on himself. 

“I’m sorry- so sorry, Simon.” Over and over again, like a mantra, like it was the only thing grounding him. 

“Johnny-” Ghost was instantly reaching for the man, pulling his head into his chest just like in Las Almas. He could smell the rain again. 

His hands were shaking as he worked at the clasp of the mask, unlocking the vile thing and tossing it to the side. 

“‘M here, love. You’re safe.” They were a tangle of limbs and tears, drenched in rain and suddenly aching for the small shared space of their flat. 

“I didn’t- didn’t want to. Don’t know what he did to me-”

“It's alright, Johnny. I’ve got you.” His lips brushed against the star-shaped scar at Soap’s temple as if he could kiss it away. As if he could make up for all the pain that came after he left him in that tunnel.

“You… I-”

“Johnny, I will never leave you.” Ghost grabbed Soap’s face, pressing their lips together. It was a mix of tears and rain and raspberries. Raspberries had never tasted sweeter than in that moment. 

[ghostsoap-server]

The posting period for the Ghoap SoulMay event has officially begun! Don't worry if you're not finished yet, posting will run until June 8th!

Post your works with #UnFatedGhoap to have your art reblogged. Thank you all for an amazing event ❤

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Thank you so much for participating and having so much fun with the event. It's been amazing to see you all chatting in the server, discussing your ideas and supporting each other. For us, this is what fandom is about, and we're thrilled to create a space for it.

-Lt. Bucky

[forestshadow-wolf]

Soulmates Fic for the Ghoap server event