Are We Gonna Get A Part Four For Love Potion Pretty Please I‘m Eating Drywall Right Now

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

part two here! / part three here

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

that 141 x reader you just did was so good! i need to know what happens next. like after reader is better, do they stay in the military? stay in 141? or do they take a discharge? I’m not the original ask but it was just so good.

love your writing btw!

thank you! here’s part two :)

part one here / part three here

you were beginning to hate the infirmary.

the white walls. the moans of pain. the smell of bleach and blood.

the reminder of why you were here. of who put you here.

your friends. your family. your team. john. johnny. kyle. simon.

you’d told the doctor to not let your teammates in, and she had tried, but there was only so much she could do. she couldn’t monitor the door all the time, and so a week after waking up from your coma, john price is sitting at your beside once again.

his hands are clasped together, knuckles white with the intensity of his grip. he’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the bed, hands under his chin. his position conveys his regret and worry. he looks like he should be in church, knelt between the pews and spewing silent prayers to a god that isn’t listening.

you haven’t spoken to him since he sat down ten minutes ago. the second you saw him step inside the infirmary, you knew he was there for you. there to try and speak to you, to apologize.

fuck him and his apologies.

you turned your head to the side, eyes staring at the white curtain separating your bed from the next. you studied the stitching while you listened to him breathe next to you. he hadn’t spoken either— just sat down and watched you.

it made your skin crawl, how he thought this was okay. how he thought this would be the way to get back into your good graces.

he clears his throat then, a sound you’ve heard a million times before. it makes you want to gag now.

“love,” his voice is soft, caring. you want to hit him in the jaw.

“can we talk? please?”

you don’t turn over, don’t even spare him a glance. you keep your gaze trained on the curtain. the only giveaway that he has your attention is the fists you clench at your sides.

he takes the silence as an invitation, that bastard.

“what happened—” he begins, then grunts. stops. takes a second, then begins again.

“what we did,” he says, and you roll your eyes. “it wasn’t right. the intel was from a trusted source. we—” he sighs then, and you can tell he’s rubbing his temple. he did that when he was stressed. when he was anxious.

“we were wrong to believe them over you, love. and im— im sorry.”

silence ensues. you don’t give him any indication that you’ve heard what he said. he sighs again, inhaling deeply.

“you’re still part of this team. johnny and gaz, they’ve been sitting outside this damn room like sentries. can barely pry ‘em away for drills.” he chuckles then, but it’s sad. pitiful. mournful.

“there’s nothing we can do to make this right,” he tells you. you’re still mulling over what he said about johnny and gaz. still hung up on the fact that he didn’t mention simon at all.

simon, who did the most damage to you, both psychologically and physically. simon, who shared your bed. simon.

simon, who is too much of a coward to face you for his crimes.

“but we want to try,” price is speaking again. “if you’ll let us.”

he stops talking. waits a beat, then two. then, you hear his chair scrape. he’s getting up, and that’s when you turn your head to face him.

he looks bad. bags under the eyes, skin pale, beard overgrown. you think he deserves this. deserves worse than this. his eyes meet yours, and they widen the tiniest bit at the attention you’re showing him.

your voice is full of venom as you speak.

“nothing,” you seethe, angry tears blurring your vision. “will ever undo what you did to me. what he did to me.”

price knows you’re talking about simon. the whole team knew you were a thing. hell, when they’d strapped you to that chair and debated who would ‘interrogate’ you, they hadn’t even thought to include simon. why would he want to torture the person he loved?

to their surprise, he had volunteered to take point.

“when i get out of this bed,” you continue. “im gone. and i never, never, want to see any of you again, or else im putting a fucking bullet between your eyes.”

the captain doesn’t speak. you can see the remorse on his face. you couldn’t care less about his feelings.

he gives a short nod, and without another word, he turns and leaves the room.

after john’s visit, no one else tries to visit you. you no longer catch glimpses of kyle or johnny outside the infirmary door. you’re glad they’re starting to get the hint.

but you’re still getting flowers. you don’t know where they’re coming from. sometimes they’re dropped off by a nurse, other times they appear in the morning after a restless sleep. there’s never a note. never anything to suggest who would be leaving them.

you know it’s one of the 141, but you don’t know exactly who. you feel certain it’s not simon.

but, unbeknownst to you, it is him. he knows you don’t want to see him— to see any of them. price had told them all about what you’d said to him during your talk.

price had also told them that he’d already started preparing your transfer papers. that had caused an uproar from soap, who’d quickly been quieted by a saddened price.

simon had expected it. expected worse, actually. he knew that if the roles had been reversed, he wouldn’t have been as merciful as you. it made him hate what they’d done to you so much more.

there had been the tiniest doubt in his mind when all the evidence pointed to you. he hadn’t believed it at first— and then things became damning. everything pointed to you. trusted sources were pointing their fingers at you, and everyone listened. he had listened.

he had volunteered to torture you because he’d been angry. rage he hadn’t felt in years bubbled to the surface of his skin, and he wanted to tear you limb from limb. how dare you come into their lives— his life— and betray them so substantially?

simon didn’t trust easily. he was battered and broken and scarred. shattered and malformed pieces hastily glued back together. he let the team in. let you in. let you see his face. let you into his bed. let you into his fucking heart.

and you turned around and drove a dagger into him. or so he thought.

he thought his anger and actions had been justified. thought he was doing the world a favor by butchering you. but he was wrong. the team was wrong.

he finds himself regretting how he hadn’t listened to your pleas, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

he knows the chances of you forgiving him, of letting him back into your life, are slim to none. but how could he not at least try?

you’d know each other for years. been together for years. all of it thrown away because he still knew the hurt of betrayal all too well. because it was too easy to fall back into the mindset that it was him against everyone. that the only person he knew, the only one he could rely on, was himself.

so he left flowers. your favorite ones. and he did so without making you face him, without apologizing or groveling. it was the least he owed you.

a month after your coma, you were finally allowed out of the infirmary. you were still healing, skin still tender and bruised. pink, jagged scars lining your skin; eternal reminders of the pain you’d been subjected to.

you’d been given a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, which you’d pulled on with much fuss. every time you struggled or stumbled, you found yourself getting angry. angry at the men who did this to you.

the anger was going to eat you alive, at least that’s what the psychologist that had been dropping by to see you had said. she’d told you you need to let it go, and you’d laughed in her face.

how do you let something like this go?

you didn’t know. you didn’t think you were strong enough to do that. not a good enough person to forgive the men that had carved into you.

once you had dressed, you shuffled out into the hallway. you’d profusely denied an escort, and the doctor had reluctantly acquiesced. she’d let you go, with just the promise that you’d keep your iv hooked in.

so here you were, trudging down the halls of the base, iv pole rattling along behind you.

you could feel eyes on you, but no one dared to get too close. you were glad. you didn’t want more empty apologies and sympathetic words.

you still remembered the way to price’s office like the back of your hand. you doubted you’d ever forget it.

time and time again you’d found yourself here. sometimes, getting reprimanded. others, congratulated. a few times you’d shown up in tears, and price had let you in without a word.

now you were standing outside his door, trying to contain the rage in your veins.

you raised a hand. knocked once, firm and loud.

“come in!” price called from inside.

you were already twisting the door knob, pushing into the room.

your eyes found price first. he was leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. his hat was absent from his head, instead resting beside him on the desk.

and then you noticed simon.

he was wearing all black. his hands were covered, bones decorating the black gloves. gloves you’d seen many times before. gloves that had been pressed to gunshots, trying to stop the bleeding.

the lower half of his face was covered, allowing you to see from his eyes up. his sandy blonde hair was ruffled.

you quickly turned your attention back to price.

“love, what are you doin’ here? you should be in bed—” he began, but you waved a hand as you stepped further into the room. you pulled your iv pole in behind you, then kicked the door shut.

“don’t talk, just listen. i still mean what i said when you came to visit. the only reason im here right now is because you haven’t put in for my fucking transfer.” you hissed.

the captain’s eyes widened, his face taking on a sheepish expression at the revelation that he’d been caught. simon stood quietly beside him, eyes trained on you. you ignored him.

“love, i didn’t want to do anything before you were ready—” he began. you cut him off.

“bullshit! you didn’t want to do anything because you don’t want me to leave. you want me to forgive you, right? hear you all out? come back and be a happy little family again?”

the room fell eerily silent as you stared at the captain. your heart was roaring in your ears.

“put in the fucking transfer, john.” you finished.

he reluctantly nodded. he inhaled, his eyes glancing at his lieutenant briefly, before he spoke again.

“of course, love. ‘m sorry.”

you didn’t say anything else. you turned to go, your back to the men, when simon’s voice cut through the air.

“you should be respectful to your captain, sergeant.”

you froze as you took in his words. was he fucking serious?

you didn’t turn around. you trained your eyes on the door as you spoke words through gritted teeth.

“you should watch your tongue, lieutenant, before I fucking cut it off.”

with that, you pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, slamming it loudly behind you.

author’s note:

apologies for the wait! I hope everyone enjoyed! (this is being posted before proofreading, so I hope it’s okay— I’ll read through it later, it’s just late and im tired lol)

spring 🌼🌧️

Alive / Part XI

Trigger warning: Talking and descriptions about sexual abuse and rape. Word count: 669 They started the hike in silence. An awkward silence. They both knew they'd have to talk about it, but neither of them knew how to start. They knew how to kill, but they didn't know how to love.

About an hour of silence went by before they stopped. It was a beautiful view from a hill down the valley on the one side, and a steep cliff looking down on the wind whipped sea on the other.

Ghost took off the backpack he was carrying, taking out a water bottle and handing it to Soap. "Thanks", he mumbled before taking a few sips.

After a few minutes of more silence passed. "We have to talk", Soap said. This one phrase made Ghost more nervous than he'd like to admit. Less nervous than when he was on a mission that could easily end deadly. "Yea...", he mumbled.

Soap seemed nervous too. "I'm sorry, Simon. I shouldn't have done that", he said awkwardly. Ghost wanted to tell him he didn't mind, but that wasn't the truth. At least not the whole one.

Soap sighed. "When I uh, when... The accident. I could hear you. You said you loved me", he looked at Ghost with those blue eyes of his. The same colour as the stormy sea, dangerouse but, oh, so tempting. Ghost wished he could live in them. Soaps words hit him. He hadn't expected him to hear them. Hell, he thought he was dead.

"You, you what?", was all he could say. Soap smiled. "You heard me. And I heard you." His gaze seemed to stare into Ghosts soul. "Do you love me, Simon?", he asked, plainly. Ghost was taken aback, not knowing what to say. Well, he knew what to say, but he didn't know if he could say it.

Ghost sat down clumsily on the grass, Soap sitting down a meter in front of him. "I thought if you liked me too, I could, you know, I thought you'd like it...", Soap tried to explain himself. Ghost wished he could tell him, tell him everything, but it hurt, it hurt so bad.

"I'm sorry, Simon.", he apologized. Ghost wanted to scream. "I love you", he mumbled. Soap looked at him with a mix of surprise, sadness and hope. He smiled. "Well, that's good. Because I love you too, you muttonhead". A quiet sigh of relief escaped Ghosts lips.

Soap seemed to be contemplating what to say. Ghost leaned back, lying down on the green grass. Soap did the same thing, lying next to him. "If you like me too, then why'd you seem so.... Averse?", he asked.

Ghosts mouth opened and closed like a fish. The words, the truth wanted to rip out his body so desperately. But he knew it'd rip him apart. But if he left it unspoken, it would eat him from the inside.

"They hurt me....", he whispered. "They touched me, they made me do things", he got choked up. "I had to, I had to, I had to survive, it wasn't my fault", he got panicky. "Hey, hey, Simon", Soap tried to ground him. "It's alright, I'm here, I'm right here", he placed a careful hand on Ghosts side. "You're safe now"

Slowly Ghost started to calm down a bit. "I just want you to know that we don't have to do anything. I'm just happy to be here with you" Ghost wanted to scream yet again. He didn't deserve this, he hadn't allowed himself to indulge in many things. Pretty much nothing.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?", Soap asked. Ghost gulped. "They touched me... I didn't want them to, I didn't want it", he breathed heavily. "They forced me on my knees... I couldn't breathe". Soap sighed. "I'm so sorry that happened, Simon".

They just kept lying in silence. It was a comfortable silence. The memories still hurt. But it felt like they couldn't quite reach him. He felt safer.

He felt safe. For the first times in ages.

Notes: I know that this description of deep trauma is pretty unrealistic, but this is for the sake of the fanfiction, since I don't want to write a hundred parts of unlinear healing and therapy until they finally bone.

Alive / Part X

Trigger warning: Mentions and descriptions about sexual abuse and rape. Word count: 459

The rest of the breakfast was tasty, but awkward. Ghost felt like Molly knew. (She does). She kept glancing at him and Soap, who were sitting next to each other, a mischevious smirk on her face.

After finishing eating, they helped clean the dishes and went up to their bedroom to brush their teeth. Ghost was quiet, but he could feel Soaps eyes on him the entire time. He wasn't sure what to say. It wasn't like he didn't enjoy what happened, not at all. It just felt so.... Weird. Unfamiliar. He's had his fair share of experiences, but it has been years. And in the mean time there were some.... Rather unpleasant events. He stood in front of the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. He could feel their hands on him, doing whatever they wanted to with his body, forcing him to go on his knees and please them. He wanted to puke, nausea overcoming him. "I had to , I had to, I had to survive", he repeated over and over in his mind, a tear rolling down his cheek. It had taken years before he could even touch himself again without having a panic attack. Since then no one had touched him in that way. He didn't want them to. Sometimes he missed the intimacy, but he was afraid to crave it, knowing he wouldn't be able to allow someone so close to him. But now there was Soap. Ghost damned himself for it, but he trusted the man. Fuck, he loved him. And for the first time in what seemend like a lifetime, he craved touch. His touch. His hands dug in his neck, knuckles white and leaving small, red shapes in his skin.

"You ok in there, lt?", Soaps voice sounded from outside the door. "Er, yea, 'm fine", Ghost hurried to answer, voice a bit choked up. Soap didn't say anything. Quickly wiping his wet eyes and putting on his stoic expression, he stepped out the bathroom. He was certain Soap could see that he had cried, but he luckily didn't say anything.

"So, you wanna go for a hike?", Soap asked lowly, inching closer to Ghost, putting his hands on his waist. Ghost suddenly felt claustrophobic. He loved his touch and hated it at the same time. He stumbled backwards. Soap looked confused at a bit hurt, no, more regretful.

Ghost cleared his throat. "Yea, why not. Lovely weather", he mumbled. He began to look for his cargo pants and a shirt. Soap was awfully quiet. Ghost wanted to slap himself for repulsing. He craved him so much it hurt. It scared him.

He turned around, wanting to say something. "I'm sorry, Johnny", he said.

But Soap was already gone.

Note: I did not plan for this to turn out this dark, but I wanted to bring in an explanation for Ghosts mixed feelings on intimacy, since his sexual abuse and rape are canon. I've personally never read the comics, so this is just my interpretation. I also want to mention that the reactions to sexual trauma are extremely subjective, how I described it here is just my personal experience.

Soap has problems with a washing Machine...

I want write a Mini fic about this situation, but i'm really Bad with that, so if someone get inspired with this and want do a fic THANK YOU

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Alive / Part VI

Note: I have no idea about Soaps family in canon, so this is all what I hc it. Word count: 546

When Soap had said that his family had a farm, Ghost didn't expect this. It was a giant area in the middle of the highlands, wide paddocks, fluffy sheep and green trees. According to Soap a rocky beach was only five minutes from there. As soon as Ghosts old pick up truck pulled in the drive way, they were swarmed by Soaps mum, Molly, a small, middle aged woman with rosy cheeks and a flour covered yellow apron, who pulled her son into a tight hug. "Ma wee baby!", she exclaimed, pressing a kiss on his forehead before looking at Ghost and extending her hand. "Simon, ah take it?", her smile was big and genuine, apparently not minding the black surgical mask. "Yes, ma'am", he shook her hand, not able to resist a small smile himself. She shushed them inside, and Ghost felt a bit misplaced in the comfy kitchen, where a middled aged man, a woman and a man, each with a toddler in their arms sat on bar stools at the aisle. They were all so... lively. Big smiles on their faces, seemingly unbothered by the 6'2, completely dressed in black and rather intimidating figure in their house. "S'nice to finally meet ya, lad", Soaps dad, Callum, said, firmly shaking his hand. "Y' too". He glanced over to the other man and woman, judging from the likeliness, the woman was Soaps sister, Isla, the man then must be her husband Alec. They both smiled at him. Isla pointed to the little girl in her arms, introducing her as Ailsa, the boy in her husbands grasp as Archie. The urge to hold them suddenly overcame Ghost, scaring him a little. He hadn't felt that since Tommy was the same age as them. The interaction was awkward in itself, but strangely not unpleasant. Ghost knew none of them , yet they seemed to accept him without question or complaint. Didn't ask questions about the mask or his work, just simple small talk, which didn't feel pressured or forced. It seemed like the warmth he knew from Soap ran in the family. "I got yer room ready", Molly interrupted his thoughts, Soap loudly joking with his niece and nephew in the background. "Since Isla and Alec are here too, you'll have to share a room with John", she winked. "Shouldn't be a problem, I hope?" Ghost looked at her for a moment longer than necessary. "Er, no, that won't be a problem, thank you", he hurried to say. Molly grinned. "John! Show Simon around, won't ya? I have to get dinner ready", she patted Ghosts shoulder before getting to work on the cooking aisle. "Yes, ma'am", Soap picked up his bag, wincing slightly, his shoulder still sore. "Give me that", Ghost mumbled and quickly pulled the bag up, letting Soap lead the way up the stairs to a room on the western side of the cottage. It was a small room, but cozy. Old wooden floor, floral wallpaper on the walls, a big window with a small balcony and plants all over the room. And one king sized bed. Ghost didn't know whether he should be happy or nervous. (Molly ships them. She could've put an extra mattress in the room, but then again, she loves weddings)

This is how I imagine their farm to look like. Sorry if I accidentally posted you house

Help me I was just at a job fair and went to the army and there was this guy in full combat gear and mask from the special forces and I talked to him about his job and he had these deep brown eyes and was so nice I swear I was trying to listen. But. We were talking about how much his gear weighed and he chuckled, took my hand and put it on his vest so I could lift it and see for myself. Then he told me he could just pick me up and carry me.

Help

Shattered

Ghost and his mask were one. Everyone knew that. Sometimes you thought that he couldn’t take it off if he wanted, that it had grown on his face. But on the most recent mission, things went south. There were more hostiles than you expected, and Ghost got overrun. He was a big boy, but even he couldn’t hold his ground against seven attackers. They knocked him to the ground, beating him until he was unconscious.

By the time you and Gaz finally managed to get through to him, he was covered in blood and bruises. His mask was destroyed. The skull sewn on the balaclava was broken into several pieces that were scattered around him. While a medic rolled him on a stretcher and carried him away with Gaz‘ help, you crouched down and picked up the shattered skull.

Ghost was brought to the infirmary immediately, he had a cracked rib and bad concussion. You cradled the pieces and put them on the desk in you room, carefully putting them back together. Luckily you had a bottle of glue laying around.

After gluing the pieces back together, you decided to paint the cracks a dark black. The mask was broken but now it was whole again. Just like Ghost. Well, for the first part. You wondered if there was something in this world that could slot the pieces of his broken soul back together. He’d never be the same again, just like the mask. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t bee good again.

You were a bit nervous when you knocked against the door. „Yea?“, his usually deep voice was even more gravelly now. It sounded… Weak. You slowly opened the door, looking at the figure laying in the bed. He was pale, his head bandaged, his hand gripping his injured side as he sat up. Even here he had on a black surgical mask.

„I uh, wanted to see how you’re doing“, you said, the nervousness in your voice more audible than you’d like. „Had worse“, he mumbled, suppressing a wince as he shifted. „Yea…“, you didn’t quite know what to say. „I got something“, you reached inside your duffle bag and pulled out the fixed mask.

Ghost froze up immediately as he saw the mask. You got nervous. What if he didn’t like it? What if he’d get angry you painted his mask? You heart beat so fast you’re sure he’d hear it. „It was broken, I fixed it“, you hurried to explain yourself. „I can see that“, he said without any expression or hint as to what he was thinking. „Why are there black streaks?“, he asked. Shit. He didn’t like it. He probably hated it. You shouldn’t have painted it, you shouldn’t even have touched it. „I can get them off, I‘m sorry“, you immediately started to start scratching at the paint, trying to get it off.

„Stop.“, he commanded. You stilled and looked up at him. „Don’t. I like it.“, he reached out. You gave him the mask. „Turn around“. You did as he said.

When you were allowed to turn back, he looked like himself again. He looked like Ghost. The black streaks formed an intricate pattern, making the mask look even more intimidating than it already did. He grabbed his phone and looked at it in the camera. „It looks good“. You held your breath. He liked it. He thought it looked good. That was unexpected, to say the least. „I‘m glad….“

You turned around, opening the door. „Wait“, he said. You looked at him. „Thank you, (name)“. „No problem“

The black streaks had formed a small heart on his forehead.