bakerstreet | the soul bond meme

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the soul bond meme

"I can't live without you...literally."

Wake up. Do what you have to. Work. School. Save the world. Avenge your father's death. Go back to sleep. Average day, for human, demon, sailor scout, angel, slayer, what have you. Though there's some part of you that wonders, in the back of your mind, if this is the day you'll meet your bond.

Because your world is just like ours - or how yours was, in another universe - but with one addition: the soul bond. The soul bond is a concept as old as time itself. People don't question the process, it just is. Some say that it comes from the beginning of time, where each soul was created in a pair, and throughout the lifetimes those souls are reborn into, they search for each other. This is the soul bond. Even if that's mostly faded into myth, it's generally excepted that there is only only one person for anyone. So, soulmates.

Not exactly. Soul bonds are more. They are about the joining of bodies: sexually and psychically. The bond isn't necessarily about love, though the close connection facilitates that emotion growing, and some fondness does appear in almost every case. It's bigger than love, bigger than hate, bigger than anything else; it's finding yourself in someone else, and your never wanting to lose that. Needless to say, the soul bond is the cornerstone of life and society. Marriage is reserved for the bonded, and you're expected to be searching for that other half. There's a good biological reason for that, too, as the unbonded cannot reproduce and those who have not found their bond are doomed to die extremely early in comparison to their peers and in a most painful, withering fashion. Who would want that?

In this world, sex is had with those who are not the other half of your bond, even if society considers that frivolous. For the truth is, sex with any other will never be as good as sex with your other half. When you make love to someone who isn't yours, you'll know it. It's a disappointment.

When you so much as see your bond for the first time, or at least for the first time after you've reached sexual maturity, you'll know, even if you're already "with" someone else. The signs are inescapable. You'll know it's them. You'll become hyper-focused on them, your heart will race, your muscles tighten, your brain shoot off every signal it nose...and you will become aroused beyond belief. Any arousal you've had prior pales in comparison. So go ahead, if you don't want a bond, ignore it. Try. It won't work. The more you ignore it, the more control you'll lose. Did I forget to mention? In this world, sexual drives are a little more animalistic than usual. They would have to be when the mainstay of the races is a sexual-based bond. Those who try to ward off the desire to become one with their other half can achieve mild success - until they absolutely lose themselves. It's not uncommon to see bonds going at it in the streets, unabashed and unashamed, for trying to hold off the inevitable. Sex between bonds in public, generally, is not looked down upon.

You've given in. Of course you did. But what now? The first time you have sex with your bond, it will be beyond compare. You will share memories with each other, as this is the opening of your psychic connection with them. Yes, psychic connection. How would you expect to be truly bonded otherwise? How strong this link is depends on how often you have sex. Even at baseline, though, you'll know if your bond is hurt or in trouble. Fair warning: this will pull at that animal brain, and you will go into a beserker mode to get them back with you. Similarly, you will behave in a territorial manner if you feel the bond is threatened; jealousy often results in shameless public sex, in hopes to re-establish the strength of your connection and make your bond realize that YOU'RE the other part of them, no one else. In addition, bonds don't handle separation well and each partner will be antsy and on edge. It can be done, and most pairs do because of work, duties, and life in general, but returns are usually accompanied by sometimes days-long sex sessions.

Aside from those quirks, the bonding process can be quite useful. A bond can calm you down, and sex with your bond can serve as the ultimate relaxer. Your bond is the one who can heal you, and sex boosts your strength and power. Yes, those of you looking to achieve your ultimate goal...or ultimate form. Being a bond makes you stronger. Don't resist, no matter how surly you are.

The bond is no respecter of person. Outside of sexuality such as straight or gay, types or species don't matter. You could be bonded with someone as different from you as night and day. However, no matter what the case, you'll begin to care for them in some fashion. You'll feel the need to be with each other as much as possible, both sexually and otherwise. They'll become the most important person in the world to you. Of course, this is assuming your bond is someone you can feasibly be with. Perhaps there is some truth to that reincarnation business, as sometimes, those souls are reborn into people who are never meant to be bonds - warring tribes, at-odds species, and even relatives or people with a great amount of age between them.

The bond is permanent. This is the person you were meant to be with, after all, until you die (and soul bonds usually die within years of each other). Theoretically, though, it can be broken. Mostly, this is done when one side betrays the other side somehow. As the bond is initiated through sex, it's broken in the same way. What happens next is rarely pretty. Police reports usually find the bodies of the dead bonded, cause of death specifically unknown.

Head spinning yet? It shouldn't be! This is the world you live in.

rules
- Comment with your character, preferences, what you're interested in, and what you're not interested in.
- Crosscanon tagging is expected and encouraged. Mention if you want to make some kind of canon-insertion AU with one of the characters or just have a nebulous AU.

prompts

Meeting - You see your bond in that way for the first time, and it's done. You're done. You have to have them to be complete.

Trying to Fight It - No, you're the type who rebels against this whole "soul bond" system. You're the master of your own design, and you won't give in despite the fact that you could just start masturbating right now.

Failure to Fight - The whole fighting thing didn't work out, and now you're going at each other like you'll die of thirst.

First Time - The legendary first time with soaring sensations, amazing orgasms, and the sharing of memories.

Not the Sharing Type - You're a private person and don't want your brain in someone else's. How can you reconcile this? Maybe doing the act can change your mind. Or maybe you just want relief so badly, you don't care.

Feedback - You feel all of your partners pleasure as well as their pain. If you can't come up with something kinky, I can't help you.

Dirty Thoughts - You know what's naughty? Sending mental images of what you'd like to do to your bond through your connection. It's like mental sexting - or a fun way to torture them.

Learning About Each Other - You're learning what both of you like and don't like and sharing as you go.

Jealousy - Someone tried to approach your bond and it made you a bit miffed. Now it's time for some affirmation of the connection and to make sure that you're still on their mind.

Rough Bond - Your bond is more hate than love sometimes, but it's a thin line. Besides, you still care more about them than anyone else, and god forbid someone hurt them. Besides, rough sex is fun.

Separation - You'll be apart for a while. You need one last hurrah

Reunion - You're back together. Now to make up for lost time. Not just because you want to, either.

Public - Remember how I said sex in public is accepted for bonds. Why not take advantage?

Chasing That High - You keep having sex with people, trying to find you bond.

Chasing That Low - In contrast to the above, you're trying to keep away from a bond by desensitizing yourself to sex.

Bond Party - Some young people throw "mixers" where, hopefully, you may meet your bond. Experimentation is bound to happen...even experimentation with multiple people at the same time, trying to find that one.

Can Never Be - Your bond is with someone you shouldn't have one with. They're your sworn enemy, your teacher, or your sibling. Your body and soul says yes, but your mind says no.

Strengthen - You need energy to defeat the big bad or rule the world. Go to your bond and recharge.

Comfort - A bond is often the only one who can calm their other half down, and that sometimes happens through a grounding via sex, bringing the upset party back to what really matters.

Healing - Healing wounds and healing the connection all comes down to body pressed against body. Just be careful of blood.

Long Time Bond - You've been together for some time now and you know each other like the back of your hands. You can make them come in ten seconds flat if need be, but it's more fun to drag things out, isn't it?

Ritual - You want to make your bond official in the eyes of the government. Unsurprisingly, the marriage ceremony is ritualistic sex.

Impregnation - There's no fertilization between the eggs and sperm of non-bonds, so one surefire way to make sure everything's on the up and up is to get pregnant.
Mind Games - Being psychically connected is all good until they fuck with your head.

Dependency - It's not always easy, being for, all intents and purposes, addicted to a person. You need them like you need breathing, and you'll take what you can even if you're ashamed.

Already with Someone - You love someone, but they're not your bond. Can they keep you when you meet your real bond?

I'm Not Yours, You're Not Mine - You know you're not bonds. Still you want them to stay with you and you'll do anything and try to be better.

False Bond - You thought you were bonded, you really did, until you met them

Faking It - There are benefits to faking a bond, including for safety, financial gain, and to secure alliances. Of course, you can't fake it in the bedroom.

Manipulating - You'll get what you want, even if you have to lie and pretend you're bonded to them...how you can fake that, no one knows, but it's worth a shot.

It's Not Me, It's You - Sometimes, mistakes are made. They're your bond, but you're not theirs.

Break the Bond - Because you have a death wish or a snuff kink.

My Ex-Lover is Dead - Your soul bond is gone and you're trying to fill the gap.

OR MAKE UP YOUR OWN

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The day they'd met was really a blur in Crawford's mind. He vaguely recalled an argument. Insults. Something crass being said. Fists flying. The only thing he really remembered clearly was waking up the next morning in his shoebox apartment with a black eye, swollen knuckles, and a chipped tooth. Time went by. He put the guy out of his mind, just another in a long string of fights. Nothing special. He went to work. He dealt with his friend. He handled his brother. And more fights happened.

Those fights, for Crawford, were always so much more than just beating in someone's face. Everyone had their thing. Some would create, some had anonymous sex, some took up dangerous hobbies. He started fights. But ever since that one, with the guy he could only recall as the vague notion of "not what he expected" nothing seemed quite the same. The thing that had him chasing fights seemed to just be gone. Like he was just going through the motions, but it didn't really do anything anymore.

Weeks later, he finally returned to the bar where it had happened. He felt numb and over sensitive at the same time. It wasn't all that different from how he normal felt, honestly. It was just more. He dropped into a stool at the bar and demanded his usual of a double whiskey. If nothing else, getting black out drunk would solve everything for a few hours.

Ever since Fraternity, Wesley has been drifting. He shook Chicago off his shoes and just lived in his car. Of course he hadn't been able to stop what he had been doing before. He took them out when it seemed like there was no other way. Being a vigilante wasn't exactly great. Money was shit, in that job but he survived somehow.

He didn't have anyone, though. Because everyone he had known or cared about had either died or betrayed him. Being truly alone was both freeing and numbing as hell. No one was here to tell him to get up when he just laid down for a week without moving a muscle, drifting away in disgust and horror of his own mind. There was no one to share the satisfaction from doing something physical, work, an assassination, sex. It was just him.

He didn't usually start fights. But he definitely didn't push them back when they happened. He might get a few bruises. He might have a few cuts or bullet holes. He didn't really care. He gave back just as hard, just as viciously. And he was a trained killer, a man with perfect combat reflexes and enough enhancements to take down an army of trained assassins on his own. Sometimes he left bodies in his wake. Sometimes he just walked away.

But there was this redhead that he remembered. Something about him had stuck in Wesley's mind. Maybe it had been the fact that for once he hadn't felt like killing a person. Quite the opposite. He had felt alive. For that brief moment in time. He had felt clearheaded, blood pumping in his veins.

And there he is again tonight. Sitting at the bar. Wesley takes a seat beside him and leans his elbow on the bar.

"Why the hell did you come back here?"

Crawford's head jerked around at the question. Blue eyes searched over the man's face, with only the vaguest hint of recollection. Could this be the guy? He didn't look like someone who could have left him in such a state. That did fit the whole "not what he expected" mold, but so did the lady in the purple leopard jacket with skin as fresh and smooth as dried meat.

"Am I banned?" he growled, turning to give just a nod to the bartender as his drink arrived. "You gonna tell this is your fuckin' territory or some shit?" It wouldn't be the first time for either thing. "I drink where I want, and there ain't nothin' gonna stop me."

He didn't know if he wanted this guy to be the one he was looking for or not. He wanted to find the guy, sure. But he also wanted to prove that this was just a funk, that it wasn't just about a person. Because it could pass without ever finding him, and that would prove it all.

Really, he just wanted things to go back to the way they were.

"If I'd claim territory for myself, I'd choose something else than this shitty bar," Wesley gave the bartender a shrug for the glare he got. It was a shitty bar.

"Just figured you might not feel like coming back after the last time."

Wesley didn't go out looking for fights. He didn't see any reason to go greet an opponent that he hadn't killed after the fact.

He tossed back his beer, studying the redhead in the meanwhile. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something was definitely different about him. Different than the rest of the people in this wretched place.

"Who are you anyway?"

Oh.

That was just it. Oh. He wanted to keep denying it. This guy had just seen the fight. Just a random bystander. But there was no denying it. In a way Crawford could actually feel it. Some distant bell in his head ringing wildly, crying "this is it! this is him!" like it was something to celebrate. He really hadn't wanted it to be him at all, not in that way.

Crawford didn't even look at Wes. He picked up his drink, studied it for a moment, before slowly tipping it back into his mouth. He swallowed, his lip barely curling up at the burn that crept down into his stomach. Only when he set the glass down, his hand clad a ratty fingerless glove wrapped around it, did he speak.

"Nunya."

He wasn't usually one for humor. It was an old joke. His friend's joke. But he found himself without a response of his own. He was a man of few words, but he usually had at least a few at his disposal. Not this time.

The answer had Wesley's eyes narrowing. He usually dealt with assholes like Crawford without a problem. Because he didn't give a flying fuck what they thought. But somehow he felt like there was something worth his attention here, like he should actually want the redhead to like him. Maybe respect him. He wasn't fucking sure what he wanted, but he wanted something.

"Yeah, okay, go fuck yourself, Nunya."

Unusually testy, Wesley stood up so abruptly that the chair he had been sitting on toppled over. The pint he had just finished went flying over the counter as he sent it towards Crawford. Not aggressively so, not yet, but it would tip over the ledge eventually and crash on the ground.

Wesley would be half way on his way towards the door at that point, though.

For as much as Crawford tried to be a surly, thick-skinned bastard to everyone he met, he operated almost entirely on an emotional basis. Logic, forethought, reason. All of that came much later. Emotion always led the charge. Emotion was what dictated his actions. So no matter how much he told himself the guy himself couldn't be the cause, no matter how much he tried to tell himself he just wanted to have another drink, it did not go the way he wanted.

Had Wes' bottle in his hand before he thought to grab it. He was on his feet moments after, hurling it at the man's back. Because that same place that held the bells now yelled at him "Don't let him leave. This is your chance! FIGHT!" And he wanted that more than anything. He needed that rush it gave him. That raw, brutal moment where nothing else mattered. Where thought could get him into trouble. Where he could just be completely in the moment and everything was clear as crystal.

The bottle was thick enough glass that it didn't break against Wesley's back, but crashed onto the ground once it had clipped him between the shoulder plates. Turning around, Wesley stared at the redhead for a moment in that perfect calm that you get before a fight. The whole bar seemed to be suspended in the same dreading silence. The bartender was looking at him with an expression that said clearly Dude, no, the barmaid already pulling back from from the crowd towards the counter and the other customers around them looking at them with mixture of alarm and intoxicated outrage.

Wesley gave a grin, his lips quirking so fast and so pleasantly upward that it felt alien on his face that had been frowning for the whole time he had been in the pub. Then he was moving. He approached Red from front, elbows against his sides, waiting for the first punch, and when it came, he'd dodge under it, aim a punch towards Red's abdomen, then dance to the side and past him, deliver another hook towards the back. He was fast and relentless, absolutely brutal with his blows. He put his muscles behind each and every one, twisting his whole body to throw his whole weight into it.

They'd be swarmed with security and other customes in a second or two. He aimed to take all out of the few moments they were just the two of them. And every time there was a connection, however brief, he felt a little better.

While Crawford had size on his side, he did not look like he'd make that formidable of an opponent. He stood slouched, not even standing up properly as Wes approached. He just stared at the other man, his eyes the only part that seemed to have any steel to him. For all his attitude, he was frequently mistaken for someone who was soft in a fight, that he was all bark and no bite.

But when fists started flying, and they did fly the moment Wes was within arms reach, he was anything but soft. His philosophy in a fight was a simple one. The only good defense was to hit the other guy hard enough that you didn't need a defense. He didn't bother blocking the hits as they came, staggering and grunting when the force of them disrupted his balance. But he didn't flinch or back off. He also lacked anything resembling form. He just swung at any opening he thought he saw, driving his shoulder low or bringing up a knee when his fists wouldn't be enough.

This is what he'd wanted. This feeling. Where each blow, each shock of pain, made the world brighter, crisper, more in focus. Where thought didn't matter, and language was all physical contact and primal sounds. But just as he reached that sweet spot, where the last of his thoughts faded away (which usually marked someone getting knocked out in short order), his fist met only air.

Two people had him around the shoulders, hauling him back off of Wes. He let out a furious, wordless bellow of pure rage. That should have been a sign. It should have told him he needed to back off. He didn't usually get that enraged, even in a regular fight. And it usually took large amounts of alcohol. It was as if whatever fuel fed that particular fire had been stoked beyond capacity, and the only way to tame it was to get his hands on Wes again.

Wesley had learned to brawl with bigger and better opponents. He had learned to brawl with pretty much anything. Guys who could KO him with one good clip to the jaw, with Fox who would slam his head to concrete without any care in the world. He could take hit. He laughed when blood bloomed on his lip, when world darkened around the edges his voice turned throaty, flinging insults, promising hell on earth, all of it probably going to deaf ears.

He was aching so very pleasantly by the time they were interrupted. His body screaming for mercy from bruising. Wesley didn't have end in sight, though. He was running high on adrenaline fever, his heart beating like a humming bird in his chest.

Someone shoved him towards the door. There was yelling and shouting, and he couldn't care less, because his eyes were nailed on Red, grinning with broken lips. Someone said police somewhere in the crowd and Wesley's tongue swiped across his lip to wipe away blood. He needed to leave before they could call the cops. He was a wanted man. They'd lock him up for a long, long while. Someone pushed him out of the door, threw him to be frank and he stumbled onto his feet and started walking, brisk chill of the air clearing his head a little bit.

He paused, leaning on the side of a building while he watched the door to the bar open again and they pushed Red out just as gently. Wesley grinned and kept walking, turning to a dark alley way when he could.

It wasn't the first time Crawford had been physically thrown from a bar, it wouldn't be the last, and it wasn't even the harshest. He managed to stay on his feet, and he was sober enough to turn on the spot and shout a few key phrases back at those who'd thrown him. He got no response apart from the door slamming shut, but it was more about the saying than having it received.

The fight had been short, but it was enough to take the edge off. He didn't feel like he was going to start clawing at the walls anymore, and his face wasn't too banged up. A few bruises, a split lip, but nothing he hadn't had before. Even as he breathed in the cool air, even if the fight had been ended abruptly, he was still left in that space he wanted to be. Where his body felt like it was buzzing and thought was still as far away as the clouds. He could exist on instinct and little else.

He fished out a cigarette from his pocket, hands cupped against the breeze as he lit it. He stepped away from the bar, the cigarette between his lips, and he started down the sidewalk, headed for his train home. Little did he know that he was headed the way Wes had gone, headed right for the alley where he'd taken refuge.

Wesley's problem wasn't numbness. He had been woken up from his coma when Fraternity had put a gun in his hand and told him that he was fine, he wasn't having panic attacks. His problem was coming down from adrenaline high before he killed someone.

In the alley, he crouched down and buried his face in his hands, taking a long breather while trying to collect his thoughts while spitting out the blood that welling up in his mouth. It wasn't such an unusual thing for him to indulge in bar fights. Sometimes it happened without thinking, sometimes he went into it fully well knowing what he was doing. But he never lost control like this.

He heard the steps only when his heart started to calm down. He smelled the smile even before he lifted his head and stood up abruptly, suddenly just a few steps away from Red. What the hell? Had he followed Wesley?

"Who the hell are you?" It slipped away from him before he could think.

While passing the mouth of the alley, Crawford had stopped to relight his cigarette, cursing softly under his breath because it hadn't held the first time. He could already feel the fight fading, but he didn't want to focus on that. He just wanted to ride it as long as possible, wishing he'd had a chance to get drunk enough to prolong everything first. Because this was about as normal as it got for him. Almost. But he wasn't going to think about the who of it, just that he'd finally gotten what he wanted.

The question dragged him forcibly back to the moment, back to reality. He looked up, as startled to see Wes there as Wes had been to see him. What was this guy's deal? Couldn't he just go away? It took a moment for Crawford to process the question.

"No one," he said finally, trying to shove a sudden panic down. Why would he panic? Because he'd almost blurted out his name, that's why. A very strange urge given he'd developed strong, life-long habits of giving as little information as possible. There were regulars at his bar who didn't even know his name. And fewer still who knew his last name, and he'd felt the full thing right there on his tongue. "Not knowin' how to mind yer own fuckin' business is gonna get you a lot worse than what you just got."

"If you think I'm afraid of you, you have something else coming," Wesley said clearly and simply as he took a step closer. Those blue eyes were now focused, still narrowed with irritation but not high on something between adrenaline and blood rush and everything else, and this guy...

This was crazy. It wouldn't bother Wesley worth one dime if someone wouldn't want to introduce themselves. He didn't give a fuck, that was the gist of it. He didn't want to know anyone by their names, least of all a dude whose face he wanted to bound in.

But for some reason he wanted it. He wanted to know the name and he wanted to give his own. He wanted to make sure they'd cross paths again. He wanted more, but it was hard to articulate any of that because he'd never felt anything like it.

Annoyed, he brushed his hand across his nose, wiping away blood. "You're the one who followed me. I'm Wesley. You better remember that, Red." If he wasn't telling his own name, Wesley couldn't help with that. But he'd call him somehting.

"You actually think I give enough of a damn to follow your sorry ass?" To mark this, he spat on the ground at Wes's feet. It appeared to be more blood than anything else. He wanted the name to mean nothing, he wanted it to evaporate the way so many other details did when it came to other people. Even when he wanted to, he had a difficult time remembering things like names, something he greatly appreciated. It was easy to not care if he couldn't remember. But he could almost feel that name sticking hard instead of slipping away. Why should this name stick?

"Get the fuck over yourself, you ain't anything special." He pushed the cigarette back between his lips and turned to continue his path down the sidewalk toward the train. He wanted to put distance between himself and Wes. He almost longed for that building frustration of not having a proper release over his only option being another person. That meant things he never wanted to consider.

"You're here," Wesley said with a shrug and didn't bother looking when Red spat on the ground. He gave a snort of amusement at the hilariously misinformed assumption that next was laid out between them. He didn't think much of himself to start with. How would a person get beneath that? Maybe he should crawl on his stomach. That might work.

"Look in the mirror, asshole. Repeat that a few times. Could be a good New Years resolution."

Wesley didn't bother running after him. He leaned against the wall and watched him walk away. There was nothing on the face of this earth that would make him run after anyone.

Crawford just rolled his eyes. Jabs like that that, the "I'm rubber and you're glue" tactic, never really got to him. He knew he was an asshole to everyone, intentionally. But he wasn't full of himself. In fact, quite the opposite. He thought very little of himself. He knew he could hold his own in a fight, but never assumed he would win. Never puffed himself up bigger than he actually was. In fact, he often sold himself incredibly short when it came to sharing. Not that he ever did, of course. So it was about as effective as calling him a slut. Had to be active in something for it to count.

He just walked away, not looking back. He started digging in his pocket as he left the mouth of the alley, a small piece of paper falling from his pocket. He didn't seem to notice as he inspected something else he'd pulled out. The paper was a receipt from the bar he worked at, with the name in plain print across the top.

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the soul bond meme

34. Because who needs options?

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