#141!reader

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.

it'd all started not even an hour ago, after you'd all touched down on base again from the last mission. exhaustion weighed down your bones, dark circles rimmed your eyes. now was the time for a hot cup of tea, a kiss on the forehead, and a very long nap.

"aye, y'alright?" your boyfriend asks, his eyes filled with a loving sort of knowing concern. he gets it, gets the weariness you're experiencing.

you barely have the chance to shake your head no when he notices your pouted lips, the downturn of your face. a big arm swoops behind your back, pulling you to him.

somehow you missed the way he locked the door behind him as you stumbled in for something you can’t even remember anymore.

“lemme help ya,” he says, his lips dragging open-mouthed, burning kisses up your neck, your jaw. 

his arms draw tighter around your waist, grounding you, anchoring you. in turn, you intertwine your fingers into the crop of hair at the nape of his neck. playing it cool, you tug, much to his delight and subsequent pleasure: his hips rut into yours, cock already hardening underneath his fatigues. 

“there ya are, girl.”

just like clockwork, his attention has you flustered. heat crawls up your neck as surely as his eyes read hungry. 

it’s an undeniable fact of your relationship, since before its inception—the two of you just cannot get enough of each other. 

before you know it, johnny’s bullying a thumb against your clit as he rubs himself hard, eyes glued to the slick gathering at your entrance. 

the cheap, worn leather of the common room couch squeaks behind your back as you tense up, thighs spasming. 

“johnny, ‘m gonna—,” the words fall from your lips like melting honey, warm, your voice thick. your boyfriend watches the way you clench, pussy flutting around nothing, ready to fix that for you. 

“i kno’, love,” he replies, spitting from above you, the glob landing on your cunt. two fingers quickly follow, pushing their way inside of you as you shudder, shaking at the way he curls them against your sweet spot. 

johnny’s face grows hot as he watches you come apart around him, just like it always does. it feels unreal, the way it’s so picture perfect every time. 

if the two of you were back in the barracks, in bed, he’d be letting you, making you ride out your orgasm, giving you two more. but today he’s too impatient. today, he’s fucking you on the shared couch. 

barely biting back a moan, your eyes flutter shut as he bottoms out. the pleasure’s like a warm cup of tea on a cold night, sinking into your bones as it settles into you. the sheer girth of your boyfriend’s cock used to make you nervous, the lead up to sex filled with clammy hands and reminders to breathe deeply from johnny. now? you were more than used to it, and you reckon both him and the way he uses it has ruined sex for you permanently. 

“jus’ wanna make ya feel better, lovely,” johnny groans, his cock seated fully inside of you.

you moan out, nodding nonsensically at everything he’s saying. 

you know him well enough to know what he’s not saying: that he needs this too.

that he needs to wind down from the bleeding brutality of the last mission too. born to die as a soldier—but human nonetheless. not immune to anything, even if he acts like it.

“looked so gorgeous when y’were watchin’ my flank earlier, lass.” 

you giggle, your nose crinkling as the sound bubbles from your throat. 

“oh, yeah?” you challenge, eyes zeroed in on his. 

“course. i‘d trust you w’me life.” 

his sturdy hands press your legs to your chest, your thighs together as he kneels over you. it’s not enough, not deep enough, and he can read it in the way you mewl, the pleading in your eyes. johnny lifts a leg, planting his boot on the couch beside your head as he plunges himself deeper into you. somehow your leg’s ended up over his shoulder, the sting of your muscles nothing but delicious. 

“there ya are.”

you can barely breathe. you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“j’needed tae be fucked righ’ n’ good,” your teammate murmurs, half to himself. 

“my girl, so happy tae be b’neath me,” he trails off, snarling as you clench around him. “takin’ my cock so damn well, aren’t ya?”

nodding, you whimper, folded up like a contortionist as johnny’s balls slap against your ass with every thrust.

it’s unbearable, a thin layer of sweat coating your back as you lay there and take it, letting johnny fuck into you. the look in your eyes, heavy-lidded and sultry despite the surroundings, has him gritting his teeth as he fights not to come too early. 

the angle is awkward, but the objective is achievable. with one hand, you grab johnny’s ass, nails biting at the plush skin. that alone would do it, you’re aware, but there’s a glint in your eye that he’s a little scared of as the other hand reaches down between your bodies and grabs at his balls.

it takes him by surprise, and you pulse around him as he comes inside of you, hard and hot. 

“aye,” he rasps, face tight as he shudders above you, sweaty forehead falling into the crook of your neck. “tha’ was a,” he stops, panting, swallowing hard. “cheap trick.”

༄ first time writing for soap, what’d we think!?!? shoutout birthday girl for giving this a read, love u big time 🤍🤍

༄ inbox is open to soap requests!

Except you just couldn’t get over the way her eyes always seemed to linger on Ghost. The way she’d accidentally brush up against him as they walked side by side through the hallway. The way she laughed a little too loud at his terrible Army jokes. And right now, the way her hand rests on his shoulder as she studies the screen. 

Your fist unconsciously clenches around your water bottle causing the ice cold water to gush over the loosened cap, spilling all over your lap. 

You let out a shout, jumping to your feet as the cold water soaks through your layers. Bex jumps as well, surprised by the outburst, stepping back from the mess. 

Simon is on his feet in a heartbeat. 

“You okay?” But not even his deep baritone, usually instantly calming, could soothe your irritation, now at an all time high.

“I’m fine,” you snap, crossing the briefing room in strides to toss the empty bottle in the bin.  Ghost watches you with careful eyes. Though his face is covered by his signature skull balaclava, you didn’t miss his appraising gaze as he tries to assess the situation—ever the tactician. 

You take a deep breath. “I’m fine,” you try again, aiming for a more pleasant tone. “Really. Just a slip of the hand.” 

“Well,” Bex scoffs, “You really should be more careful. We are dealing with electronics here, you know.” Her snarky tone has you nearly seeing red again, but you clench your jaw tight and plaster the friendliest smile you could muster, though you’re certain it must look more like a grimace. 

“Noted,” you grit out before turning your attention back to Ghost. “I’m gonna head to the barracks and grab a shower. Catch you later?” 

Ghost’s head bobs in a subtle nod, but his eyes are still looking at you with that quizzical expression on his face. He knows something is wrong. 

You just subtly shake your head in response, doing your best to a convey a “not now. We’ll talk later” with just a glance. Turning back to the door, you leave the two of them behind to tackle the task at hand. The sooner you crack the encryption and figured out where your target is, the sooner Bex can get the fuck out of here.

Walking across the base, you pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, internally scolding yourself for letting your temper get the best of you. The fresh, cool evening air helps calm your sour mood, and you do your best to reassure yourself. 

I’m sure it’s nothing.

 It’s all in your head. 

He probably doesn’t even like redheads.

You’re so caught up in your thoughts you don’t even see where you were going, which is exactly how you find yourself running face first into the brick wall of Johnny. 

Oomph. The air whooshes out of your lungs as two broad hands reach up to steady you. 

“Easy there, lass,” the Scottsman chuckles. “Watch where yer goin’ bonnie.” 

“Sorry Soap,” your cheeks feel warm with embarrassment. “Didn’t see you there. Lost in my own head.” 

“I’ll say!” Johnny claps a hand on your shoulder, the other balancing a stack of folders. “Hey, while I have you here, have ye seen LT?” 

“Yeah, he’s with Bex in the briefing room. They’re trying to tackle that computer we lifted from the last mission.” 

Soap nods. “More power to her. That shite doesn’t make any fucking sense to me.” 

“Yeah. She’s a real blessing to the team,” you grumble, unable to withhold your eye roll. 

“There’s that fiery sergeant I love so much,” Soap teases. “Am I getting a whiff a jealousy, hen?” 

“Don’t even get me started Soap or I swear to god—“

“Alright, alright,” Soap laughs good naturally, his free hand coming up in mock surrender.  “But hey, would you mind dropping off these files to LT? He needs to review them before our meeting with Laswell in a couple hours and I’ve got to meet up with Price now, don’t have time to trek all the way to the briefing room.” 

“Sure,” you do manage to hold back your sigh this time. “Happy to help.” And you are happy to help Soap—he’s a great friend to both you and Simon—you just aren’t too happy at the thought of seeing your new BFF Bex again so soon. At least the short walk had served its purpose in cooling your temper a bit. 

“You’re a treat, bonnie, I owe you one,” Soap smiles, giving your shoulder a firm pat before taking off in the opposite direction towards price’s office. 

You adjust the stack of sealed papers in your hands as your turned back around towards the briefing room and head across base. 

You quick steps have you approaching the briefing room soon enough. Surprisingly, the door is  left slightly ajar—you must not have shut it all the way when you stormed out of the room earlier, you reason.

You approach silently, softening your footsteps to avoid any kind of noise, a small voice in the back of your mind goading you to surreptitiously see how Bex might behave without an audience. You peer in the room to find Bex and Simon standing at the table, the computer screen lighting up in front of them. 

“We’re in!” Bex exclaims, her voice high pitched with excitement. 

You watch the scene unfold before you and it feels like the world is moving in slow motion. Bex turns her radiant expression up to face Simon, her hands moving upwards and tucking up under his balaclava, and then—in the blink of an eye—she raises it above his chin and presses a kiss to his lips. Simon’s hands reach up to grasp her wrists, already beginning to pull away, but it’s too late. 

You see everything. 

The papers fall to the floor with a crash, and both Simon and Bex jump apart, eyes flashing to the door. 

Bex at least has the good sense to look embarrassed by her actions, her face flushing bright red, eyes cast to the ground. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Simon urges, pulling his mask back down in place. “Wait—“ 

You turn and walked out the door, the scene playing on a loop in your head. 

Her lips. Pressed up against Simon. Your Simon. His lips…kissing her back? The memory already warps, tinged with shades of red matching the shades of anger running through you. 

The rage fuels your steps as you run from the briefing room, desperate to get away.

Simon blinks at the empty space in the doorway, the space where you stood just a second ago, before this colossal shit storm descended. 

“Well, sorry we got interrupted,” Bex’s sultry voice breaks the silence, her small hand reaching towards Ghost’s glove. “Should we continue where we left off?”

“Touch me again, and you lose the whole goddamn hand,” Simon’s hardened voice is laced with the threat of violence. “Keep your bloody hands to yourself.” 

The blood drains from Bex’s face. 

With that, he storms out the door, following your trail. One thought playing on repeat in his mind: I can’t lose her. 

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