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.

Day 1: The Supply Closet

"Where the hell is Mouse?"

Price’s voice echoed through the barracks, already laced with exasperation. It had only been an hour since they'd last seen you. An hour. And you’d already vanished.

Gaz, standing casually by the doorway, sipped his tea. “Check the supply closet.”

Soap narrowed his eyes. “Why the hell would she be in the—”

Ghost, moving like a man far too used to this, didn’t wait for the debate. He walked straight to the supply closet, gripped the handle, and pulled it open.

There you were.

Curled up on one of the metal shelves, wedged between a stack of MREs and a pile of folded tarps. Your cheek was pressed against a plastic-wrapped ration pack, arms tucked under your head like a damn cat.

Soap stared. “Yer kiddin’.”

Price sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "How the hell do you find this comfortable?"

You stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent before sleepily muttering, “Warm.”

Gaz snorted. “Comfortable, Mouse?”

A small nod. “Mm.”

Ghost studied you in silence, then turned and walked away.

Soap gawked. "We’re just leaving her here?"

Ghost shrugged. “She’ll wake up eventually.”

Price sighed. He wasn’t paid enough for this.

——

Day 5: The First Shift in the Game

It started small.

The first time Soap found you tucked into an abandoned supply box, he huffed out a laugh, shook his head—and left his jacket over you.

The next time, Gaz found you curled up under a desk and quietly slid his extra hoodie beneath your head.

Price, despite all his grumbling, was the one leaving snacks.

And Ghost? He never woke you. Never disturbed you. But he stood guard.

The others didn’t notice at first. But after a few days, Soap started eyeing him.

"Y’know, mate," he smirked, "fer someone who acts like he don’t care, you sure stand ‘round a lot whenever Tiny’s sleepin’."

Ghost didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.

But the next morning, when you woke up in your favorite nap spot, there was a blanket over you.

——

Day 12: The Wrong Soldier Found You First

This was not part of the game.

Normally, it was them who found you. Normally, you’d wake up to soft teasing, grumbling, or just being carried away in Soap’s arms.

But today?

Today, some random soldier found you first.

It was innocent at first.

The guy had walked into the break room, noticed your small form curled up in the corner, and let out a snicker.

"Christ, does she ever actually work?"

The temperature dropped.

The conversation across the room stopped.

The soldier barely had time to react before four very dangerous men turned to look at him.

Ghost’s voice was low. Cold. "What did you just say?"

Soap moved first, stepping closer—a little too close. "Say it again, mate."

Gaz threw an arm around your shoulders, very pointedly shifting you away from the guy.

And Price? Price just gave the final nail in the coffin.

“She’s with us.”

The soldier left.

Quickly.

——

Day 20: The Final Nap

At this point, Price was done.

"Alright," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "Where the hell is she now?"

Soap groaned. "We've checked the barracks, the mess hall, the damn armory—"

Gaz cut in. "—and all the lockers."

Ghost, silent as ever, merely looked up.

The team followed his gaze.

And there, sticking out of an open vent, were a pair of very familiar boots.

Soap wheezed. “Oh, no bloody way!”

Gaz just stared. “I don’t even wanna know how she got up there.”

Price turned on his heel and walked away.

“I don’t care anymore,” he announced. “If she falls, she falls.”

Ghost crossed his arms. “She’ll come down eventually.”

Soap grinned. “God, I love this game.”

——

Day 27: The End of the Game

They weren’t expecting to find you here.

Ghost stopped in the doorway first.

Soap nearly bumped into him before looking past and freezing.

Gaz, coming up behind them, just blinked. “Well… shit.”

There you were.

Curled up in Ghost’s bed.

And not just curled up—wrapped in his blanket, half-buried under the heavy black comforter, nuzzled into his damn pillow.

Ghost just stared.

Soap broke first. He grinned. “Oh, this is rich.”

Price, arriving last, sighed. "At this point, she’s not hiding anymore. She’s just making a statement."

Ghost finally moved forward, stepping to the edge of the bed. He tugged at the blanket.

Nothing.

You made a soft, grumpy noise, burrowing deeper.

Soap snorted. “Mate, she just claimed yer bed.”

Gaz smirked. "Might as well get in."

Ghost glared.

Price, done with all of them, turned to leave. “You deal with it.”

Ghost exhaled through his nose before sitting on the bed.

The shift in weight made you stir, eyes cracking open.

"...Ghost?"

He hummed.

You blinked sleepily at him before mumbling, "...Warm."

Soap grinned. "Y’know, mate, if ye just let her sleep with ye, we wouldn’t ‘ave to find her all the time."

Ghost stared.

And, to everyone’s surprise…

He laid down.

Didn’t move you. Didn’t wake you. Just shifted so you weren’t alone.

Soap gawked. “No bloody way.”

Gaz smirked. “I think she wins.”

Ghost just closed his eyes.

Fine.

She wins.

You didn’t mean to tell him. It was just another late night conversation with your friend, and you were way too comfortable near him. Comfortable enough to feel like it wouldn't be a big deal to mention it, you both wrapped in blankets and watching some half-forgotten show rerun on your couch, his shoulder heavy beside yours.

Kyle had asked you how your last relationship ended. A simple thing friends usually know about each other. You felt like you should have had a simple answer, but the truth is that there were so many reasons for the breakup, all tangled into one big and complicated knot, and you rarely really mentioned all those reasons, settling for a short and socially acceptable “We weren't what each other needed, so I didn't want to be wasting our time and broke up”.

But something about the way he asked it gave you the space to actually answer honestly. Not the autopilot script you gave everyone else. Not the polished version that skipped over the shame and the ache, so you told him about the guy you dated before. He’d gotten under your skin with charm, flattered you until you said yes, and settled on bare minimum from then on. You told Kyle how he made everything feel like a transaction — even sex. Especially sex.

The first time you’d ever been with anyone, it had been with him. You told Kyle how he hadn’t even looked at you when it was over, how he just rolled away. Didn’t kiss you, praise you, ask if you needed anything… just turned his back and went to sleep like your body was a hotel bed he didn’t want to pay for.

You laughed as you said it, and you meant it. It did hurt that he didn't bother to make it special when you had told him more than once how important it was to you, but after so long, you just learned how to live with it since you knew you couldn't change that. What was done was done. But it still stung you deep down — the knowledge that you didn't have a good first experience and couldn't do anything to change it.

Kyle didn’t laugh, though. He didn’t even speak for a long few seconds. His jaw clenched slightly, a muscle ticking like he was chewing through words and discarding each one.

“I’m sorry,” you’d said too quickly, like you’d broken some invisible rule. “I shouldn’t have— That was too much.”

“No, luv, you’re allowed to talk about shit that hurt you.”

You blinked, surprised at how that pet name sounded from his mouth — easy, natural, like it just rolled off. Not romantic, not then. But warm.

He stayed a little longer that night. Watched you out of the corner of his eye as you laughed too hard at some dumb joke on the TV, like he was memorizing the sound.

He never forgot.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later — after flirty texts turned into late-night calls and the tension between you built up every time he brushed your hand or said your name just a bit too softly — that you realized Kyle hadn’t forgotten what you told him.

Because when his hands finally touched your skin like he wanted you, not just because you were available and a woman, but because you were you, it was with a care that had no business being so gentle.

It started slow, like it always did with Kyle. He wasn’t pushy, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t intense. He kissed you like the taste of your mouth might save him. His hands ran over your sides, your hips, your jaw, slow and steady like he wanted to memorize every millimetre of your body, like he had all night to.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

He leaned back slightly, warm eyes searching yours. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you said, voice smaller than you intended.

He smiled, a crooked, soft smile that would have looked boyish if it wasn't for the fire behind his eyes.

And when he touched you… God.

It felt like he was trying to erase the memory of your first time with every stroke of his fingers, every kiss he left against your thighs, your stomach, your breasts. Like he could dig into your bones and pull out that leftover ache and replace it with something that felt like reverence.

“You know,” he murmured, mouth against your skin, “you deserve better than what he gave you.”

It took you a while to remember what he was talking about — who “he” was.

“I know” you whispered.

He looked up at you, face deadly serious. “You should’ve known it then too. He should’ve shown you.”

You swallowed hard, not sure what to say. The weight of being wanted like this wasn’t something you were used to. Not like this. Not when there was no rush. No demand. Just… him.

“I’m not gonna fuck you like it’s routine,” he said softly. “You’re not a goddamn checkbox, love.”

And somehow, that made your breath catch more than anything else he’d said or done.

You weren’t a checkbox.

Not to him.

Not ever.

His mouth found yours again before you could say anything else, stealing whatever breath you had left.

This kiss wasn’t the slow burn from earlier. This one was heat and want and teeth. A low groan rumbled in his chest when you pulled him closer, your fingers sliding under his shirt, feeling the muscles beneath. He let you explore for a minute, then pulled back just enough to strip himself of the fabric before reaching for the hem of yours.

“Can I?” he murmured.

You nodded, and he peeled it over your head with care, like he was unwrapping something sacred. His eyes darkened as they dragged down your body, and he swore softly under his breath.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he said, and the way he said it — low, guttural, full of awe — made your cheeks burn.

He kissed down your neck, slow and unhurried, until he reached your chest, taking his time there too, like every part of you deserved his full attention. You arched into his mouth as he suckled and teased, and the way he responded — his hand cradling your side, murmuring something sweet you couldn’t quite catch — made your whole body light up.

You’d had someone touch you before, but it never felt like this, even when he was hornier than usual. Kyle didn’t just want you; he worshipped you. Every touch felt like he was craving you, not sex.

When his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, you gasped, your hips lifting instinctively. He hummed against your skin.

“Shhh, I got you,” he whispered. “Gonna take my time with you.”

He pushed the fabric down and off, kissing your thighs as they trembled under his mouth. His breath ghosted over your cunt before he looked up, checking, he was always checking.

“You want this?” he asked.

“Please”

He groaned again, deeper this time, and then his mouth was on you. He didn’t rush, didn’t force, he listened to every moan, every stuttered breath, every twitch of your hips. His hands pinned you down just enough to make you feel safe.

When you came on his tongue, it wasn’t quiet. Wasn’t graceful. It was raw and shaking, and he held you through every second of it like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

Only then did he kiss his way back up your body, lips swollen, chin wet.

You pulled him into another kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and when you felt him hard against your thigh, you reached down to help him out of the rest of his clothes, and you gasped for a second at the feeling of how big he was.

Still, even now, he paused.

“You sure?” he asked again, voice hoarse.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you said under a chuckle.

He lined himself up, and just before he pushed in, he cupped your cheek, kissing you one more time, like he needed it. Like you grounded him.

The stretch was slow, more careful than anything you’d felt before. Your breath caught, and he stilled immediately, holding you like glass.

“You okay?” he whispered, forehead resting against yours.

Your response was a frantic nod. “I just feel so full.”

He smiled gently. “That’s good, love. Tell me if it’s too much.”

He moved in shallow thrusts at first, letting you adjust, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t believe he was finally inside you. The sound of skin against skin built up slowly, your moans mixing with his, the heat between you unbearable but just perfect.

And then he really started moving. Now it was deeper, harder, and your nails dug into his back.

“Kyle—”

“Fuck, say it again,” he barked, the softness from just minutes ago almost completely gone, the only way you could feel it now was in how he was observing you, looking out for any sign of pain or regret.

“Kyle,” you whimpered.

“God, you feel good— So fuckin’ good around me. So fuckin' tight and wet and all mine— All. Fucking. Mine.”

You cried out, pleasure climbing up your spine like fire. He kept whispering praises disguised as humiliation at you, until you were close again. And he could tell you were there before you even realized. Could feel how much tighter you got.

“I’ve got you, love. Let go for me. Wanna feel you cum all over me.”

And you followed his command like the good girl you are. Feeling you clench around him, he thanked God that you were on birth control, because there was no way he could pull out when you felt so good, dragging him over the edge with you as he buried himself deep with a groan.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just held you and thrusted lazily into you while you both caught your breath.

He pressed kisses to your hair and shoulder before moving the both of you so he could lay down and tuck you into his chest, arms wrapped tightly around you like he never wanted to let go.

Later, when your body was limp with satisfaction and laziness, when he was tracing idle lines on your hipbone, you’d turned your head and asked the question that had been curling in your chest like smoke.

“Why d’you care so much?”

He hadn’t looked at you right away. Just dragged his fingers down your thigh and kissed your shoulder.

“Because,” he said eventually, “if I’d been your first, I’d have made sure you never forgot it, for the right reasons.”

His voice was rough, and you could tell that he hated that it hadn't been him.

You rolled to face him, your heart pulling tight

“You kind of just did,” you whispered.

The look he gave you then was pure fire and tenderness all at once. Possessive. Dangerous.

Yours.

And he didn’t say it, at least not out loud, but you could feel it in the way his hand curled protectively around your waist and tugged you closer like he needed you against him to survive.

This is how it should’ve been the first time.

And this is how it’ll be every time.