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Missing Piece pt. 6 !

warnings: groping, unwanted sexual advances, reader injury, punishment, spanking with a belt

This part is also a lot longer than the other ones, around 8k give or take

You get no peace. Not after that dreaded fucking dream.

Days have passed and you still keep your head bowed, too embarrassed to show your face. This is worse than when John spanked you.

After fleeing to the bathroom that night, you got in the shower and stayed there until the water ran cold. You had only planned to get yourself off, using the shower for guaranteed privacy (and to cover any noise), but after your need washed away, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave.

It was a miracle Johnny had even let you go in the first place. What if he was still there, in your bed, waiting?

What would you say to him? What would he say to you? It was safer to just stay in the shower.

After three hours in the bathroom, you finally gathered the courage to sneak back to your room. The hallway was empty. Safe.

You tiptoed back to your room. It was empty, Johnny nowhere to be seen. Safe.

You didn’t try to sleep anymore that night, afraid you’d fall victim to another stupid dream.

—

Staying in the bathroom that long was not safe, and you should’ve fucking known that.

You were still on edge, sneaking down the stairs to the kitchen. When you heard voices, you stopped, eavesdropping.

All four of your kidnappers were already awake and sat at the table, with Johnny of course leading the conversation.

“Poor thing was whimperin’ an’ twitchin. Thought it was a bad dream at first… couldn’t ‘ave been more wrong!”

They all laugh, and you wish you could just wither away right there.

“Ah wanted tae help,” he continues, “but she was bein’ stubborn, tryin’ to pretend she didnae want it. She went for a shower, and I waited outside the door. To be honest, Ah was listenin’ in. She’s a quiet one, Ghost— I bet you’ll have fun wi’ her.”

Oh god. He was listening.

Hearing them talk was humiliating, but you couldn’t make yourself walk away. You needed to hear what Johnny told them, needed to know what they’d know.

“She was in there for a while, but Ah dinna ken how long. I stopped waiting after the first hour.”

There was more laughing and a grunted comment from Simon, something about Johnny deserving a ‘reward’ for listening. It was astounding to hear that he’d be rewarded for not assaulting you, but then again, Simon fucking kidnapped you and none of them had any issue with that.

You skipped breakfast that morning.

As you had already learned, hiding out in your room all day isn’t an option. The only reason nobody came to get you for breakfast was, you assumed, because of your dream. They either thought you needed some extra sleep, or they knew you’d be too embarrassed to eat with them all.

Lunch, however, was a different story. Kyle came up to your room around noon to get you, and, to your surprise, he acted as if he knew nothing of your dream. He said nothing when you refused to look at him or speak to him. He merely coaxed you out of your room, not dissimilar from how he had to coax you out during your very first days as their captive.

Of course, not all of them could be as gracious as Kyle.

John was the first to say something, waiting until you were sat down with your meal so you couldn’t run away.

“Next time come to my room, sweetheart,” he grinned. “My shower head is detachable.”

You still cringe thinking about how pink you must’ve turned. The heat had to have been pouring off your cheeks. Even the tips of your ears felt hot.

Johnny wrapped his arm around your shoulder and tugged you into his side. He tried to kiss the crown of your head, but you shoved him off you before he could. They all laughed some more while you sat with your head down, hoping that they’d all choke on their lunch and die.

–

Now, three whole days have come and gone, and they still manage to find ways to bring it up. Johnny is the worst about it.

“Our three week anniversary is comin’ up…”

You’re sitting on the couch, you with a book and the rest watching something on the TV. All five of you are in the living room, sitting in your usual spots. It’s peaceful– was peaceful– and Johnny decided to open his big mouth again.

Everyone turns their attention to him, waiting to hear where he’s going with this.

“Now, the way things go with dating is ya fuck on the third. I think we can apply the same rule here, since bonnie’s clearly gettin’ needy, aye?”

Immediately you move to stand, practically rocketing yourself up from your spot. You don’t manage a single step before Kyle grabs your arm, pulling you down into his lap.

“You don’t need to run away,” he chastises. “He’s only teasing.”

You glance around at Johnny, Simon, and John. Judging by their heated looks, Johnny is not just teasing.

“Now, why don’t you just settle down and keep reading your book like a good girl, hm?”

It’s phrased as a question, but you know you have no choice. Kyle picks your book up from the couch and slides it back into your hands before wrapping his arms around your middle. He leans back, settling into the couch and taking you with him.

You try to do as you’re told, but you can feel eyes on you. You know you’re being watched, which only distracts you further. You shift your attention to the television, but it’s some boring history show. It’s a little surprising that they don’t watch Ancient Aliens.

You return to your book, trying to focus. This is one of your books, something you’ve been wanting to read for a long while now, but the burning stare from just Johnny has you itching to leave.

Unable to take it anymore, you turn and stare directly at him. It’s something you remember an old friend telling you: if someone stares, stare right back to assert dominance. She was only joking when she told you this, but with no other options, you decide to try. It goes along with the ‘make them uncomfortable too’ mindset that had been gaining popularity online. At least, it had been before you were kidnapped.

The only issue here is that Johnny isn’t just some random creep you’d find on the streets. He’s a professional creep, one that aids in your captivity.

You glare at him, staring straight into his stupidly blue eyes. Johnny only smirks, settling further into his spot.

You refuse to look away, even as the seconds tick into minutes. Johnny, on the other hand, is either determined to make you lose this little challenge you’ve started, or he’s sorely misunderstood your reason for staring in the first place.

He lifts his hand from the armrest of the couch and brings it to his crotch, palming himself through his jeans. Your eyes go wide and unconsciously shoot down, looking directly at his groin.

Johnny barks a laugh, and you feel your cheeks flame with anger and embarrassment. Again you try to stand up, and again Kyle keeps you trapped. “Stop it,” he demands, his voice laced with annoyance.

So far, you’ve only ever had to deal with Simon and John’s anger. You aren’t particularly keen on experiencing an angry Kyle. So, with a petulant huff, you relax as much as your agitation will let you and pick your book back up.

The frustration of being bossed around and helpless to stop it eats at you. Instead of reading, you spend the rest of the evening imagining them all behind bars.

–

Kyle doesn’t let you up from his lap until it’s time for bed. He kisses your cheek goodnight, as well as John and Simon. When it’s Johnny’s turn, he stares at your lips. Lucky for you, Simon swats him upside the head, and, with a grumble, Johnny kisses your cheek like everyone else.

You had gotten used to their affections, but now, after The Dream, you’re once again repulsed. As soon as Johnny pulls away, you’re beelining for the stairs. You have a routine to follow– brush your teeth, shower if you have enough energy, and then bed. Tonight, you skip the shower. Typically, if you choose to shower in the morning, the four are usually finished with their breakfast by the time you’re done and you can eat alone. You’d rather be alone now, especially in the mornings when everything seems to grate against your nerves.

After brushing your teeth and changing into pajamas, you slip into your room and crawl under the covers.

Before closing your eyes, you spare a glance at the windows. They’re tilt and turn, with bug screens. You doubt it’d be that hard to pop them out of the window frame.

Your dream tonight is escape themed.

–

Your days go on like normal. You eat, do some chores, read, Simon takes you for a walk, you eat again, do some more chores, Couch Time, and then bed. On paper it all seems monotonous and simple, but dodging your apparently unashamed captors makes it anything but.

Your ‘three week anniversary’ is tomorrow. John has decided that today, you’re going to bake cookies with him. He leads you from the living room to the kitchen where ingredients are already set out on the counter. If he can be normal about this and you can keep your ever-shortening temper in check, then this might actually be a bit fun.

Your hope is crushed when you turn around. John stands behind you, holding out an apron for you. It’s a stereotypical housewife apron, frilled at the straps with two pockets at the front. It’s a very light blue, patterned with little pieces of cake, cookies, and muffins.

“Don’t just stare at it– put it on,” John laughs, though you can hear the subtle warning.

You take the dreaded apron and tie the top strings around your neck. When you move to the ones at your back, John stops you, turning you away from him. “Let me,” he hums.

John ties the strings tight, accentuating the curves of your body. You hate it, but you keep your mouth shut.

“Aren’t you pretty,” John croons, looking you up and down. “All you’re missing is a ring on your finger, and you’d be my perfect wife.”

You tense, grimacing at the thought of being married to him– or any of the four.

That’s what this is about, then. The cookies, meant to be a treat for your ‘anniversary,’ double as a ploy for him to play house: His sweet, doting housewife baking cookies for her husband. It’s like a scene from the 60s, only without the Valium to ‘help’ you along.

John leads you over to the counter where the ingredients, measuring cups, and a recipe all wait for you.

You look over the recipe. When your eyes land on a bag of chocolate chips, you scan the back. John looks at you, his expression a mixture of confusion and slight annoyance. When you find what you’re looking for– a recipe– you take the one laid out on the table and crumple it up.

John’s expression twists, first to surprise and then to anger. “What the bloody hell was that for?” He barks, his volume raising towards a shout.

You shrug, trying to play uninterested while you simultaneously celebrate and fear his reaction. “There’s a recipe on the chocolate chip bag. I don’t need this one.”

John narrows his eyes at you. “So you crumpled up the one I had written out for you?”

You nod your head. “Yup.” At the start of your captivity, your repulsion to them was fueled by fear. Now, however, you’re fueled by spite.

John grabs your wrist and yanks you over to him, getting in your face. “You’d better wipe that smirk off your face if you don’t want to find yourself bent over this counter,” he growls. “We don’t have to bake today. I could just paddle your arse with a wooden spoon and send you to the corner like the brat you’re being.”

The threat has your spine straightening, and you find yourself shrinking back into fear. All it took was one threat of punishment. So much for spite.

Gingerly, you uncrumple the recipe and smooth out as much of the wrinkles as you can. It’s a meager attempt to appease John, but it seems to work anyway. He smiles and pats your flank. “There we are,” he says, back to crooning at you. “Just needed a reminder, hm?” He gives you a final pat before turning to the counter, and you take that as your cue to start.

–

Thankfully, John stays out of your way while you bake. You worried he’d try to help and you’d have to pretend that he wasn’t in your way, but instead he stood off to the side, happy to watch you mix ingredients and roll balls of dough.

The only interference of his is when the cookies come out of the oven. You set them on top of the stove to cool for a bit, and then John uses a little spatula to get them off the pan and onto a cooling rack, repeating the process until all the dough is gone.

It really wasn’t as bad as you suspected it would be. Even the apron came in handy– you hadn’t realized how much time you could save by wiping your hands on clothes instead of stopping for a paper towel. The only thing you have to fret about now is the mess.

You stare at all the dirty pans, measuring cups, spatula, and the big mixing bowl with dough still stuck to the sides. A brief thought flashes through your mind; scraping all the dough off the sides of the bowl and feeding it to Johnny, giving him salmonella. It’s not a realistic thought, but it amuses you nonetheless.

With a sigh, you drop all the utensils into the mixing bowl and then fill it with water, deciding it should soak before you try to scrub the sticky cookie dough off the sides.

Maybe you could make them all dishwater cocktails.

“Don’t worry about the dishes, sweetheart,” John says, interrupting the nice quiet. “I bet Gaz would be willing to lend a hand, later. You know by now how much he enjoys doing his chores with you.”

John has a point. His comment brings attention to the other three, Kyle and Simon both having gone along with Johnny to another appointment. It’s just you and John here. Only one man here to keep you captive rather than four.

You entertain the idea of escape for only a moment before John is by your side, wordlessly untying the strings of your apron. You’re reminded that, when the number of men here to watch you lessens, the stricter they are about watching you. John will be practically glued to you until Johnny, Kyle, and Simon return. There’s no hope of escape now, not today. You’ll have to wait until they’re all here, as nerve wracking as that idea is.

John fishes you from your thoughts when he laces his fingers between yours, giving you a gentle tug to follow him. He takes you out of the kitchen and to the living room, leading you to his recliner. It’s not often you sit with John, or with Simon, for that matter. You have two theories: the sergeants, or Johnny, at least, are too unwilling to share your attention, or it simply makes more sense to sit you on the couch where there’s more room.

John sits down and pulls you with him, settling you down in his lap. You assume he’s going to turn on the television, but you stiffen when his hands pet slowly over your thighs, his hands sliding over the material of your sweatpants.

“Mmh, so tense,” he murmurs. “You really do need a massage, don’t you?”

His hands smooth up, settling at the tops of your thighs.

“But after that dream, I’d wager you need a different kind of massage.”

Like every other time your dream is brought up, you try to launch yourself up from your seat. John wraps his arms around you, trapping you in his lap.

“Don’t you go runnin’ away,” he huffs, wrapping one arm around your torso, trapping your arms to your sides, while his free hand splays across your belly.

“Me and the lads, we’ve got questions…”

John trails off only long enough to press a soft kiss just below your ear.

“Without fail, whenever that little dream of yours gets brought up, you get all flustered and worked up.”

His hand slips under your shirt, calloused fingers brushing against your bare skin.

“So, then, tell me. What’s got our darling acting like such a prude?”

You can feel your face heat, warmed by shame and indignation. Squirming proves to be futile, John only banding his arm tighter around you and nipping at your earlobe when you try to move.

“C’mon, tell me what you dreamt about.”

His words are soft, gentle, trying to coax the information from you.

“No,” you manage to hiss. “That’s-... private.”

John scoffs, the sound only feeding your growing resentment.

“It’s hardly a secret, sweetheart.” He’s so condescending, it makes your blood boil.

“We all know you had a dirty little dream, and we all know it left you so worked up that you needed to run and hide in the shower to get yourself off.

“I bet it wasn’t even that good, was it? Your fingers are so small compared to ours, so useless. Probably took too much work getting there to even enjoy your sad little orgasm.”

You squirm again, jerking in his hold. You refuse to sit idly and let this bastard humiliate you.

“Settle,” he growls. “You’re not getting up until you tell me what happened in that dream.” His hand slides higher, his fingertips trailing the underwire of your bra.

“I can always force it out of you, if you want to keep bein’ stubborn,” he grunts. “I’ve a long history of interrogation. I can get very creative, darling.”

His fingers press at the wire, trying to force their way under it. That, coupled with his threat, gets you talking.

“It was Johnny!”

He stops, and you know he’s smirking without even seeing it.

“Yeah? And what was our Johnny doing?”

You swallow, clearly uninterested in talking about it. John sighs behind you and forces his entire hand under the wire of your bra, cupping your breast. The band stretches and digs slightly into your skin. You can’t help the cry that sounds from your lips.

“Tell me,” John commands, giving your breast a squeeze.

Anything to get his hands off you.

“He was–” you try, cutting yourself off to find the least vulgar phrasing.

“...he was going down on me,” you finally mutter.

John laughs. The bastard fucking laughs at you.

“That’s all? All this fussing because Johnny was licking your cunt in a dream?”

Why does he have to be so vulgar?

“It’s not funny!” That’s all you can think to say, trapped in his lap while he laughs at your embarrassment and gropes your chest.

The bastard doesn’t let go, either. You hoped he’d back off once you told him what he wanted to hear, but he doesn’t move.

“No, it’s not funny,” he concedes. There’s a patronizing lilt to his voice, stirring up your temper. You aren’t sure which is preferable: the vulgarity or the patronizing.

“Our poor darling, so flustered over just a little dream… you must be real innocent, then. You don’t have much experience, do you?”

Why is he insistent on this torment?

“That’s none of your business!”

John tsks at you, squeezing you again before you can start squirming.

“It is my business,” he murmurs into your ear. “It’s all our business. You’re our woman, now, sweetheart. Did you forget?”

He gives you one last squeeze around your middle, a small warning not to move, before unwrapping his arm from your body. He slides his now free hand up under your bra, cupping your other breast.

You feel him smile against your ear when you tense again.

“So skittish,” he murmurs.

His hips shift beneath you, pressing deliberately against your ass.

“You’ve been so neglected. You wouldn’t know real pleasure if it came to you in a dream...”

He speaks directly into your ear, the low timbre of his voice sending a shiver down your spine despite your displeasure.

“Not funny,” you try, but your voice is nothing more than a meek whisper.

“I’m not laughing, am I?”

His thumbs brush over your nipples, eliciting a gasp from you.

“Sensitive, too,” he hums, amusement lacing his words.

“Stop,” you hiss, scratching at his arms.

“You knock that off,” he scolds, though he still maintains that playful lilt. “Don’t be naughty. I’m just touching.”

You scratch deeper, but he presses his bulge harder into your ass. “Keep scratchin’ and I’ll do more than just touch.”

Stifling a nervous whine, you stop scratching and let him touch. Maybe if you try hard enough, if you just close your eyes, you can ignore it and not even feel it.

It doesn’t take that long for John to catch on, though.

“Open those eyes,” he commands softly. “You’re fine. I’m not hurtin’ you.”

When you don’t obey, he pinches your nipples cruelly. Your hands move back to his arms, clutching and trying to pull them away.

“But I can hurt you,” he grunts. “Eyes open.”

You finally listen, releasing a breath when he stops pinching.

“There,” he murmurs. His thumbs brush over your nipples, soothing the pain.

“Keep bein’ good for me. I’m almost done.”

You fight with yourself to keep your eyes open, one part of you all too eager to block it out and the other part trying to avoid more pain.

John’s hands are warm and calloused, his rough skin scraping against yours. You focus on your breathing, breathing in for four counts and out for four. It’s not much of a distraction, but it allows you to focus on something other than the warm tingle of his hands on your body.

This shouldn’t feel good. This should disgust you, but this evil man knows where and how to touch. Worry bubbles up the longer he touches.

He said he was almost done. What does that even mean? Is he just touching to touch? What defines ‘being done’ for him? How much longer is he going to keep this up?

Finally, finally, his hands slide out of your bra and back down to your belly.

“Was that so bad?”

That patronizing lilt has returned, but you’re too relieved for anger.

John’s fingers skirt idly over your belly. He still hasn’t taken his hands out from under your shirt.

“The lads won’t be home for a bit.”

You tense again, unsure of where he’s going with this.

“Relax,” he huffs, his fingers stilling. “I’m just thinkin’ of something to watch, that’s all.”

John resumes his petting with one hand while the other reaches for the TV remote.

Relax. No more touching.

–

Kyle holds the door open and Simon and Johnny trudge through, the latter hanging off the former.

“No strenuous movement,” Kyle calls out. You don’t know who he’s talking to.

Simon leads Johnny into the room and settles him down on the couch, dragging an ottoman forwards for him to prop one leg on. Kyle walks in a moment later, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other.

“We might have to get the brace out again,” Simon grunts, examining Johnny’s knee. You wonder how much first aid stuff they actually know and how much is guesswork.

“Ah told ye all those bawbags do is hurt me,” Johnny snaps, sounding particularly petulant today.

Kyle hands him a few pills and the water. “And they told us that it’ll get worse before it gets better. It’s a process, and your knee won’t get better any faster if you keep stressing it.”

Johnny shoots Kyle a glare before he takes the pills from them.

“Stay off that knee,” Simon grunts. “If it starts hurtin’ worse, tell me and I’ll get your brace.”

You watch with interest. A nefarious little connection forms as you take in everything they say.

The windows in your room.

One man down.

Only a bug screen to keep you in.

–

You need to do this tonight.

Your three week ‘anniversary’ is tomorrow, and if there was even the slightest bit of truth to Johnny’s third date, third week of captivity false equivalency, you don’t want to be there to experience it.

Sat in the middle of your bed, you force a third sock over the two you’ve already got on. You’ve dressed yourself, knowing that running in your pajamas is more than dumb– but you have no shoes. A few layers of cotton is better than nothing.

Once the third sock is on, you stare at the window, chewing your lip. Your nerves are eating at you. The men don’t go to bed at the same time you do, not always. Some nights, like tonight, they stay up and do… whatever it is they do.

This could be a good thing, though. They’re all downstairs; they might not hear as much as they would if they were all upstairs.

The issue is, though, they’re all awake. Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll be drinking, their senses inhibited.

You squeeze your eyes shut and whisper a little prayer to whatever divine force may listen, then stand from your bed and sneak to the windows.

You grab the handle and pull it down, tugging the window open and wincing when it snaps. This window probably hasn’t been opened in a while.

You pause, holding your breath and listening for any movement.

When you hear none, you move to the screen.

Popping it out will make more noise than opening the window did. You have to be careful.

You grab the metal lip on one bottom corner, then the lip on the opposite top corner. With a breath to steady yourself, you start to wiggle.

Pulling it out would make too much noise. You have to loosen it first.

The screen scrapes against the windowframe, each little noise sending your heartrate climbing. Seconds feel like minutes, and you can’t help but look over your shoulder to the door.

You can’t even block it with anything; they’d hear the scrape of furniture against the floor through the ceiling.

You turn back to the bug screen. Your wiggling is working. Sucking in another breath, you give the screen a firm pull.

It comes out with a pop.

You flinch at the sound and pause, listening once more.

Nothing.

You peek out the window, and your stomach twists when you see the drop.

There’s a little bit of roof protruding from the sides of the house for you to land on without hurting yourself, but that would make a considerable amount of noise. There’s also the drop from that lower section of roof to worry about.

You take another deep breath. Something about climbing out a window to escape your four former-special forces kidnappers has you incredibly anxious. How curious.

You glance down at the roof below you before swinging one leg out over the window sill. You maneuver yourself until you’re hanging out the window, clutching the sill with your hands. All you have to do is let go.

Just let go.

Thoughts spin around your mind like a storm.

It isn’t too late to back out. Just climb back up, put the screen in the window, change into your pajamas, and go to bed.

The thought of giving up and going back to your kidnappers when your chance is right here is nauseating.

You look down, eyeing the spot you’ll land, and let go.

A tiny cry slips past your lips despite how tightly you’ve pressed them together.

You hit the roof, but your feet slide behind you. Fear shoots through your veins like ice as you slip, landing on your belly and sliding.

By some miracle, the shingles, the friction of your clothes and of your feet digging into them, saves you from sliding all the way down.

You know you don’t have much time, but you need a moment to gather yourself. You’re shaking far too much, and already your legs feel like jell-o.

You turn onto your back, glancing out into the dark woods. There is no light pollution out here, the sky alarmingly dark.

You should’ve thought this through. Should’ve waited, planned it out better– but there is no turning back now. You couldn’t get back up to the window if you tried.

Slowly, you inch down the roof, towards the gutters. You can hang off those and fall from there, like you did with the window.

This drop is higher, but it’s not nearly as bad as it would’ve been without the roof you’re on right now. The universe is on your side.

When you reach the gutters, you roll until you’re parallel with the gutters. You inch down, maneuvering until you can grab the gutters. You grip the edge of the gutter tight before letting your body fall down from the roof. Your palms are sweaty, so slippery you nearly lose your grip.

Another startled cry, but you manage to keep your lips pursed.

You’ve gotta hurry.

You look back down at the ground and, with another breath, let go.

Don’t forget to roll, don’t forget to roll, don’t forget to roll–

You don’t roll.

You hit the ground, one leg bearing all your weight. Your ankle snaps to the side at a sickening angle, and this time your scream is opened-mouthed.

Fuck fuck fuck– you are so fucked.

You try to crawl, but any movement at all has pain shooting through your ankle. You’re helpless, laying on the grass as you listen to worried voices through the open bedroom window.

You see someone’s head stick out the window– Kyle, maybe– and then you hear more yelling.

It doesn’t take long for your captors, sans Johnny, to surround you. The pain, the fear, and the adrenaline rush wearing off, work together to make your vision spot. Your head feels fuzzy, your limbs feel heavy, and your ankle throbs.

Your body is jostled as someone, you don’t know who, scoops you up off the ground. You’re so tired, but not enough to black out like you so desperately want to.

They carry you inside, all three scolding and yelling at you. You’re laid on the couch, wincing at the sound of heavy thumping.

The thumping turns out to be Johnny, who hopped his way over to you.

“Ye really shouldnae have done that,” he growls.

You try to turn away, but he grabs your chin and yanks you back to him.

“Dinna fuckin’ look away from me,” he snaps, his volume raising. “If ye had any idea just how angry I am– let alone the others,” he snarls, “you’d be tryin’ much, much harder tae look sorry.”

Tears prickle behind your eyes. You look up at Johnny, but he’s pushed out of the way by Simon.

He says nothing to you, only sitting you up enough to press a bottle to your lips. You recoil at the bitter, medicinal taste, but he pushes your head back in place. You drink multiple sips before he finally lets you go, and Johnny’s back in your face again.

“If Ah were nae so angry, maybe Ah’d feel bad for ya,” he growls.

Your eyelids get considerably heavier than they were just a second ago. When you can keep your eyes open, your vision is blurred, unfocused. Words start to lose their meaning, turning to muffled sounds.

What did Simon make you drink?

The last thing you register before everything goes dark, is a shoot of pain through your injured foot.

–

When you wake, you’re laying back in your bed. You rub the sleep from your eyes before looking to the window. It’s daylight now, the sun shining through the new metal bars screwed into the wall.

You were always a prisoner here, but now you truly feel like one.

The dull ache in your ankle pulls your attention from the window. You throw back the covers to inspect, scared to see what kind of horror awaits, but you find your ankle already wrapped.

You also notice you’ve been changed back into your pajamas. You grimace at the thought of one of them, or realistically, all of them looking at your unconscious body.

The last thing is a bracelet on your wrist. It’s actually quite pretty, a dainty chain with a single, heart-shaped sapphire. Upon further examination, though, you realize there’s no clasp. It won’t fit over your hand, either. This bracelet can’t be taken off.

The door to your room opens and you stiffen, fear spiking immediately.

Kyle walks in, looking less than pleased with you.

“How’s the ankle?” he asks, and though he’s very clearly angry at you, there’s genuine concern in his question.

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “Who wrapped it?”

“We took you to get it x-rayed,” he answers.

Your eyes nearly bug out of your head. “You took me to a hospital, unconscious, and they let you leave with me??”

He shoots you a hurt look, sensing your disappointment at the fact that you were allowed to come home.

“No,” he grunts. At your confused look, he sighs. “We’re shady men, luv. Do you really think we don’t have shady friends who’ll do some shady things for us?”

Oh.

Kyle moves on quickly.

“It’s just sprained. No broken bones,” he explains. “Grade two sprain. You’ll have to stay off it for at least a month.”

He watches you closely, noting every nuance of your expression.

“We got you crutches,” he continues, “and one of those knee-walkers. If we have you, we can get Johnny’s old wheelchair out for you.”

You didn’t know Johnny was in a wheelchair. You don’t bother dwelling on it, either.

You’re worried about your punishment. You look from your ankle back up to Kyle.

“...how much trouble am I in?”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, you don’t know the half of it. Simon’s down there negotiating on your behalf; he says the sprained ankle should be punishment enough, and that it’s our fault you ran because we pushed you too much.

“As for the rest of us,” he sighs, “the rest of us are very, very unhappy with you. I was sent up here to check on you. The only reason I’m not punishing you myself is that Cap ordered me not to. I’m just supposed to see if you’re awake.”

Dread sits heavy in your gut.

“And, since I know you’ll ask later,” he adds on, “that bracelet is your tracker. Implanting a chip is too risky, so we went with the next best thing.”

They were gonna chip you?

He walks over to you, to the bed, and sits down on the edge.

“As for your clothes, Simon changed you. I was sitting with a very distressed Johnny, and Cap was too angry to see you.

“You’d better be extra sweet to Simon, by the way. He’s doing a lot to save your ungrateful arse.”

You shrink back instinctively, shameful tears prickling your eyes.

You can’t believe it, but you actually feel bad for trying to run. You tell yourself that the shame is from running with such a piss poor plan, but deep down, you know you feel guilty for trying to leave them. This isn’t fair. They’re manipulating you– that’s gotta be it. They’re manipulating you and brainwashing you into feeling guilty.

Kyle touches your cheek, drawing your eyes back to his.

“You look sorry,” he murmurs. “Are you?”

Are you sorry?

Your turmoil seems to show on your face. Kyle grips your chin now, jerking your attention back to him.

“Listen closely,” he says. “I am very, very mad at you for trying to run, and I’m even angrier that you managed to hurt yourself in the process. If it were up to me, I’d be punishing you right now instead of talking.”

You take a shaky breath in, trying to focus on Kyle instead of your overwhelming anxiety.

“But I understand why you did.” He sighs again. “Simon does, too. Johnny and the Captain, though? Not so much.”

He releases your chin, moving to cup your face.

“And I know by the look in your eyes that you are sorry, you’re just worried that feeling sorry for trying to escape your kidnappers is ‘wrong.’ I know you’re confused, sweetheart, and Simon does, too. We know you’re overwhelmed.

“When I take you downstairs, you keep yourself lookin’ sorry– and don’t hesitate to say you are when John asks. He might not be too hard on you if he believes you’re sorry, and you’ll get Johnny back on your side again.”

Suspicion creeps up on you. You must show it, because Kyle frowns.

“If you’re so angry with me, then why are you telling me this?”

“I just told you,” he huffs. “Simon and I both know you’re only running because you’re overwhelmed and confused by what you’re feeling. We know you’re warming up to us, and we know it scares you.

“On the other hand, Johnny feels betrayed, and Cap doesn’t like that you disobeyed us. The first time you tried to run, you said you wouldn’t do it again. You lied. Cap doesn’t like liars.”

When your expression shifts back to worry, Kyle smooths his thumb up and down your cheek, trying to comfort you.

“That’s why I’m telling you. I’m upset with you for running, but I know why, and I don’t think you should be punished so hard for being afraid.”

Oh. That’s… considerate. And not at all what you expected. You knew they’d all be angry, but you didn’t expect any empathy at all.

Is this a trick? A scheme to manipulate you into trusting them– at least, Kyle and Simon?

You don’t get to dwell on it. Kyle stands from your bed and, with a pitying look, scoops you up into his arms.

“Price is probably done listening to Simon by now,” he murmurs. “Remember, make sure you show him you’re sorry.”

–

Kyle carries you to the sitting room where John and Simon are sitting in their recliners. Johnny’s on the couch, an ice pack on his propped-up knee.

He tries to stand when he sees Kyle carrying you in, but Simon orders him to sit back down. You’re surprised (and relieved) that he listens. You know he’s livid.

Kyle carries you over to John, setting you down gingerly in his lap. You feel your hands start to tremble, and you glance down at the floor to avoid his stern eye.

John doesn’t bother holding you down, knowing that you can’t get away on your own with your ankle freshly sprained.

“Well,” he says, his voice gruff. “Explain yourself.”

He doesn’t sound angry; he sounds calm, dangerously so.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. You try to speak, but your body and mind are betraying you, trapping your words in your throat.

“Spit it out,” Johnny snaps from the couch. You flinch.

“Oh, so now we’re scared?” John scoffs. “Climbing out the window and jumping off the roof are just fine, but this is where things get scary?” John grabs your chin and jerks your head towards his, forcing you to look at him.

“Explain yourself. Now.”

You glance at Kyle, but John uses his grip on your chin to shake you. “Fuckin’ look at me when I’m speaking to you,” he growls. Your heart rate spikes.

“Last chance. Tell us why you ran.” He releases your chin.

“I was scared,” you finally choke out.

This doesn’t seem to appease him, or Johnny.

“Scared o’ what?” Johnny demands, his volume inching towards shouting.

You flinch again, hunching your shoulders inwards as if making yourself smaller will save you.

“Answer him,” John commands. “What are you afraid of? We don’t hurt you, we don’t threaten you, we don’t neglect you– so what exactly do you have to be afraid of?”

His tone is steady again, but his anger is still potent in his words.

Your own anger starts to build. They do hurt you, they do threaten you, and they stole your freedom away from you. Your fear is valid and you have every reason to want to get away from them. You want to tell them this, to scream and kick and fight– but you remember what Kyle told you.

Look sorry.

So, you take a steadying breath, and let your guilt seep back into you.

“...you keep talking about sex. You touch me where you shouldn’t touch me. I thought today you were gonna-..” You cut yourself off. This admission is a gamble; they could take pity on you for this bashful display, or they could get even angrier at you for thinking that they aren’t allowed to touch you wherever and whenever they want.

John scoffs again, but there’s less irritation this time. “So you jumped out a fuckin’ window because you thought we were gonna fuck you?”

He puts his hands on you then, moving you onto your belly, across his thighs. A small, anxious cry leaves you as you squirm against him.

“Lets say you didn’t sprain your ankle,” he huffs. “Let’s say we didn’t find you. Do you know how much danger you’d be in?”

He takes one hand off your body, and you tense when you hear him unbuckling his belt.

“We’re many, many kilometers away from the nearest town, and you don’t even know which way to go to get to it.”

He pulls his belt from his belt loops, the sound of leather sliding against denim sending shivers across your body.

“You’d get yourself lost. You’d be stranded in the woods, no food or water or shelter– fuck, not even shoes.”

The buckle clinks as he doubles the belt.

“You’d die out there. We wouldn’t be able to find you, to save you and bring you back home where you belong.”

He tugs your pajama bottoms down, bringing your panties along with them. You wail, reaching for them to try and tug them back up. Once again, you’re over John’s knee, bare and vulnerable for all of them to see.

John grabs your wrists in one hand, pinning them to the small of your back.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asks, though you aren’t sure if he really cares.

“I’m sorry!” you yip, panicked.

“Good,” John grunts. “Then you’ll take your punishment.”

The belt connects with your bare skin barely even a second later, leaving a stinging stripe. The sting forces a ragged cry from your throat. You had thought his hand was bad, but the belt is leagues worse.

“I believe you,” he says. “I believe that you’re sorry, but you still need to be punished.” He traces a finger along the stripe from his belt. “I think five for lying,” John muses, “five for putting yourself in danger, five for getting yourself hurt, and ten for trying to run again.”

Twenty-five?

“That was one,” he declares. “Count them. If you skip one, I’m starting over.”

He brings the belt back down, the sting jarring you just as bad as the first one did.

“I said count,” John snaps. “Do you want me to add more?”

“No!” you cry. “I’m sorry, I’ll count!”

“Good,” he grunts, though he doesn’t sound very pleased. “Let’s start over, then. This is one.”

Even with the heads-up, the sting startles you. You lurch forwards instinctively before crying out the first count.

“Good girl,” John growls, bringing the belt down again.

The leather bites into your skin, leaving fresh, stinging welts and aggravating the ones already there.

“Two!”

John sets a steady, mercifully predictable pace. He strikes, allows you a few seconds to cry before you count, and doesn’t strike again until you’ve given him a count.

Most of the punishment is the pain– the horrible, biting sting of leather striping your skin– but the humiliation adds to the lesson. They’re all watching, all of them seeing you get your bare ass whipped with a belt and listening to your pathetic crying and counting.

You’ve only reached ten when you start to beg.

“Please, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t run again, I promise!”

John pauses, taking a moment to feel the heat radiating off your backside. “You said that last time, sweetheart, and now look where we are. How am I supposed to believe you won’t run again without being taught a lesson?”

He brings the belt down, this time aiming for the crease where your thighs meet your ass. You swear your vision blacks for a second, the sting so intense you can’t even scream. You lay shivering and panting, your jaw dropped open.

“What number?”

John’s demand shakes you from your daze, and you mumble out a number.

“I can’t hear you. Speak up, or we’ll start over.”

“Eleven,” you choke out, holding back a sob.

You hear heavy footsteps, and soon Simon is crouching down in front of you. You’re hit with deja vu, thrown back to the first time you were punished. Simon had knelt in front of you and wiped your tears. Your belly turns, worried that this time, he isn’t here to comfort you.

Again the belt comes down, and again you cry and count the number out loud. Simon pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes your nose, his touch gentle. The knots in your belly loosen.

“Halfway there, baby,” Simon murmurs. “It’ll be over soon.”

Simon stays there for the rest of your punishment, wiping tears with his fingers and your nose with his handkerchief. He even whispers a count to you when you forget, saving you from having to start all over.

The last stripe lands, you cry the last count, and Simon is the one to pull your panties back up and lift you from John’s lap.

He carries you to the couch, sitting next to Johnny and settling you in his lap. You wince when your bottom meets his thigh, and he shushes you.

Johnny reaches for you, running his fingers through your hair.

“Ah’m nae mad anymore,” he whispers to you. “Ye said ye were sorry and ye were so good for yer punishment. Behaved better than I do, sometimes.”

Simon huffs out a laugh. You are not so easily amused.

“Will ye take ‘er tae our room?”

Our room?

“She needs some love. And a nap.”

Simon nods, gathering you in his arms and standing up from the couch. Kyle comes over to help Johnny up, and you’re still left wondering why your room is now ‘our’ room.

Simon carries you out of the living room, up the stairs, and to your bedroom. “Johnny’s movin’ back in,” he explains softly. “Can’t trust ya not to run again.”

Simon lays you down in your spot, and a few moments later, Kyle leads Johnny in. He limps over to the other side of the bed and crawls in, making himself comfortable. You imagine this is how he does it when he’s sleepwalking and sneaks into bed with you.

“C’mere,” he coos, snuggling up next to you. He spoons you, and the wounded, punished part of you lights up at the affection.

Simon and Kyle leave you be, their footsteps growing quieter as they descend the stairs.

Johnny tangles his arms around you, trapping you against him. He nuzzles into your neck, pecking little kisses into your delicate skin.

“Happy three week anniversary, bonnie.”

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