#definetly wish i took more time to refine and properly work on this

[cod-thoughts]

There is a road that leads to home

Word count: 48.9k (yup o_o)

Relationships: GhostPrice, PriceGhost

Tags: PricGhostweek2024, Soulmate AU, Soulmate marks, getting together, second chances, hurt/comfort, fluff, they love each other, teeny tiny bit of suggestive themes but more cause Ghost is flirty as fuck.

Day 7 of GhostPrice week: "fate" and the title is from "A story never told" - Opeth

Everyone knew about soulmates. They were as much a part of life as birthdays or growing pains—inevitable, unavoidable, something you didn’t have to think about until the moment it happened to you. It was a rite of passage, or at least that was how the adults had described it. Like an appointment you couldn’t skip or a birthday you couldn’t miss, even if you weren’t ready for it. Sometime between the ages of ten and twelve, they’d said, your mark would appear. A short phrase, written on your skin, that would be the first words your soulmate ever said to you. OR A GhostPrice soulmate AU Read the first chapter under the cut and the rest can be found on AO3

Soulmates were the kind of thing Simon Riley had learned to think of as other people’s business. They belonged to the couples holding hands in the streets, to the kids at school showing off their marks with a pride he could never quite understand, and to the kind of life he couldn’t quite picture for himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in soulmates—not exactly—but the concept felt distant, like a story he’d overheard in passing and never fully grasped.

He sat cross-legged on the floor of his small bedroom, his back pressed against the bedframe. The wooden edge bit into his shoulders, a faint and familiar discomfort. The worn carpet beneath him scratched faintly against his legs, its texture rougher where the threads had frayed with age. His jumper, stretched thin from too many winters and too few replacements, did little to shield him from the creeping chill that seeped through the cracks in the room. He tugged the cuffs down over his hands, the loose, unravelling fabric dangling awkwardly past his fingers as if trying to hide him from the cold.

The streetlamp outside cast a pale, flickering light through the gap in the curtains, slicing the dim room into uneven patches of light and shadow. One beam landed squarely on the carpet in front of him, turning the grey fibres an almost silver hue, while the rest of the room remained cloaked in a soft, unyielding gloom. He traced the edge of the carpet absently, fingers finding the loose threads with a practised kind of familiarity, tugging at them just enough to feel the resistance but never enough to unravel them completely.

Everyone knew about soulmates. They were as much a part of life as birthdays or growing pains—inevitable, unavoidable, something you didn’t have to think about until the moment it happened to you. It was a rite of passage, or at least that was how the adults had described it. Like an appointment you couldn’t skip or a birthday you couldn’t miss, even if you weren’t ready for it. Sometime between the ages of ten and twelve, they’d said, your mark would appear.

A short phrase, written on your skin, that would be the first words your soulmate ever said to you.

The idea had always sounded strange to Simon, the notion that a few words could mean so much. But people believed in it. They cherished their marks, carried them like tiny pieces of destiny etched into their bodies. The location of the mark was supposed to mean something too—a clue about your soulmate, like a treasure map waiting to be deciphered.

Marks on hands or wrists were common, the kind of places people naturally reached for when they met someone important. Others were bolder, etched along collarbones or resting close to the heart, symbols of intimacy and pride. Those with marks in unexpected places, tucked away on ankles, shoulders, or the curve of a rib, often spoke of their soulmates with an air of mystery, as if fate had hidden the words on purpose, just to make their story that much more compelling.

The one thing everyone seemed to agree on, though, was the moment soulmates met. When the words were finally spoken aloud.

It burned.

Not just a tingle, not even a spark, but an all-consuming, undeniable heat that branded itself into your very being. People said it wasn’t something you could miss, no matter how distracted or oblivious you might be. It was unmistakable. The kind of feeling that forced you to stop, to recognise it, to understand. You didn’t have to question it, didn’t have to wonder or doubt. It was how you’d know, beyond anything else, that this was your person.

Simon didn’t know what to think about that. At school, he kept his head down when his classmates whispered about their marks, their voices barely hushed, filled with a mix of awe and envy that rippled through the group. One boy had shown off the small phrase curving neatly over his forearm*—“You dropped this”*—with a grin that didn’t leave his face for days. He’d rolled up his sleeve at every opportunity, basking in the attention like he’d just been handed a trophy. A girl had mumbled something about hers being on her ankle, her voice shy but threaded with pride.

Simon stayed quiet. The air around him felt heavier in those moments, like their excitement might crush him if he lingered too long. He wasn’t sure anyone would ask him what he thought, but if they did, he didn’t have an answer. Soulmates felt like something too big, too distant, and he wasn’t ready to reach for it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The low hum of the television downstairs filtered through the walls, a muted backdrop to the sharp, cutting sound of his father’s voice. The cadence was familiar—anger that swelled and fell like the tide, unpredictable yet constant. The words were indistinct, but the tone was unmistakable—edged with anger, rising and falling in bursts that made Simon flinch. His fingers pressed harder into the carpet, his heart beating a little faster.

He leaned back against the bedframe, letting his eyes drift to the ceiling. Cracks ran along the plaster like veins, weaving patterns that his mind tried and failed to make sense of. Some of the lines intersected, forming vague shapes—a jagged star, a crooked branch—but none of it seemed to settle into anything real. The cold air brushed against his skin, sharper in the places where his jumper had pulled away.

Then it hit.

A warmth, faint at first, pulsed low on his thigh. It wasn’t the kind of warmth that came and went, like brushing too close to a heater or wrapping your hands around a cup of tea. He froze, the sensation growing stronger—tingling, steady, undeniable. His hands moved instinctively, fingers brushing against the skin just above his knee. It was smooth, unbroken, but… something was there.

He stared as faint lines began to form, like ink bleeding up from beneath the surface. It spread slowly, deliberately, as though the words had been waiting just beneath his skin all along. His breath hitched, a sharp sound in the quiet room, as the words took shape with deliberate precision:

“You’re early.”

Simon’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his heart thundering as he traced the mark with trembling fingers. The sensation lingered, a faint hum just beneath the surface, like the heat was reluctant to leave. The words were dark, neat, and somehow ordinary against his pale skin. But they weren’t ordinary. Not by a long shot.

Soulmates were supposed to love you, weren’t they? For who you were, not who they wanted you to be. The thought sent a flicker of warmth through his chest, but it faded quickly. He glanced at the door, half-expecting it to burst open. He could already picture his father’s voice cutting through the air, sharp and jagged as broken glass.

The mark was strange—its placement, its meaning. He knew the stories, the way marks appeared where your soulmate was supposed to touch you most often. It didn’t make sense. This wasn’t the curve of a hand reaching for yours or a place someone might rest their head. It wasn’t hidden or intimate, not like some of the others he’d heard about. Just… there.

His fingers hovered over the words. “You’re early.” Early for what? For who?

The door creaked open a fraction, and Simon’s whole body tensed. His mum’s voice filtered through the gap, soft but tentative. “Simon? You alright in there?”

His mouth felt dry, but he managed a reply. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, “Dinner’s ready, love. Come down when you’re ready.”

Her voice lingered for a moment longer than usual, as though she wanted to say more but couldn’t quite find the words. He didn’t answer right away. His mum’s footsteps retreated, and he waited until the sound faded before letting out a slow, shaky breath.

She tried. He knew that. But trying wasn’t the same as doing, and the guilt of knowing he couldn’t help her—couldn’t fix anything—curled around him like a second skin. It was heavy, that guilt, weighing him down in ways he didn’t fully understand yet.

The mark hadn’t changed. It sat there, unyielding and permanent, as real as the cracks in the ceiling. He ran his fingers over it again, half-expecting the words to vanish, to smudge away like writing on a fogged-up mirror. But they stayed, stubborn and solid. Maybe he didn’t hate the idea of a soulmate. Maybe he just couldn’t imagine someone ever loving him.

For now, it was just a set of words on his thigh, a promise he didn’t know how to keep. He tugged his shorts down to cover it, his fingers brushing the fabric absently as he leaned back once more.

If someone out there was meant for him, maybe they’d find him. Maybe not.

But the thought stayed with him, quiet and warm, as he closed his eyes. It was a small thing, that warmth, but it was enough to cling to for now.