#bluelizard100

John held you firmly over his thighs, his palm coming down sharply against your bare ass.

Simon caught you escaping on your third day with them, and the boys were not happy at all.

Kyle had to take Johnny to another room. He was livid, but seeing you cry from your punishment would’ve broken his heart worse than the fact that you tried to leave.

John tugged your jeans and your panties down, scolding at you to hush when you shouted at him to stop. It doesn’t mater that you’re shy, that you don’t want them to see these parts of you; they’d see soon enough anyway, and bad girls need to learn somehow.

John was firm and unsympathetic as he spanked you, ignoring your pleas for mercy. You did this to yourself, darling. Breakin’ our hearts trying to leave us… need a proper lesson.

Simon, the bulky, terrifying brute whose face you haven’t even seen, sat crouched in front of yours, wiping the snot and tears from your face with tissues and petting your hair. He was the last person you’d expect to be comforted by, but there he was, drying your tears and cooing at you.

I know, sweetheart. ‘S a lot, I know. Shhh, I know it hurts… I know you’re scared, know y’r not a bad girl. ‘S okay, doll, me n’ the team’ll take care o’ ya.

John’s palm came down over and over, turning your backside red and hot. He wasn’t gentle, didn’t try to go easy on you even though it was your first offense. He was firm, blocking out your sobs because he knew if he heard your pleas, his resolve would crumble. By the time he decided you had enough, he had you limp over his lap and bawling, unable to control your tears.

“There now,” John hummed, “took your punishment like a good girl. Gonna try that again? Hm?”

A weak shake of your head was all he needed.

They didn’t let you up yet. John held you over his lap so he could soothe the sting while Simon went to retrieve aloe (and the sergeants).

Kyle was very disappointed in you for trying to escape, and he made that clear to you before. Johnny was furious, feeling so betrayed. How could you leave them? It had only been three days, yeah, but they were so good to you those three days. Why would you even want to leave?

Now, though, seeing you laying over John’s thighs like a wet noodle had them softening. Your ass was bright red, and they could make out a few welts raised on your skin.

They could all share a bit of empathy, Johnny specifically; after his brain injury, he’d have these… spells. Nothing made sense, everything was foggy, and he just couldn’t think. He never told anyone about it, just let his anger build up each time, until one day Simon bent him over the arm of their couch and belted him until he was forced to spill his guts, unable to keep to himself anymore.

Johnny couldn’t be mad anymore, not when you looked so worn out and sad.

Kyle wasn’t that upset… you learned your lesson, after all. No reason to beat a dead horse.

Johnny peppered kisses over your tear-streaked face while Simon massaged the cool aloe gel into your burning skin. John rubbed your lower back, traced your spine with the tips of his fingers. Kyle, when he could manage to get Johnny off you, gave you little sips of water and promised you everything would be okay, reassured you they weren’t mad anymore.

Finally, after John had pulled your pants back up and Simon helped you stand up from over John’s knees, the four men watched pityingly as you scurried away to find a place to hide; a scolded puppy with her tail tucked between her legs.

Simon, John, and Kyle all knew you were just embarrassed and needed some time. Johnny, though, couldn’t trust that you wouldn’t try to escape again.

He followed you, found you squished between the bed and the wall in his room. He had given up his room so you’d have your own space until you got used to living with them, and was bunking with Kyle in the meantime.

“C’mere” was all he had said before he dragged you out from your hiding spot, not even acknowledging your frantic kicking and wailing.

He didn’t care that you were scared, didn’t care that you were embarrassed. You were their girl now, their sweet angel, and he couldn’t let you get away from them.

It didn’t matter to him right now that you thought he was trying to hurt you. He’ll show you he’s safe, that they’re all safe.

“Need a good cuddle, aye?”

And then you were squished between the mattress and him. He laid on top of you, used your chest as his pillow.

“I ken it’s embarrassin’, bonnie. Dinnae worry yer pretty head, alright? We know what ya need, and we’ll make sure you get it.”

You couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be comforting or not. After just being fucking spanked like a child, it sounded more like a threat than anything.

He was heavy on top of you, kept you from squirming away but made sure you could still breathe. At first it was panic inducing, being trapped underneath one of your kidnappers. Once it was clear he wasn’t going to try anything, though, once you realized you could still take full breaths, he had the same effect as a weighted blanket.

He fell asleep on top of you, and while you tried to fight sleep, you were truly exhausted. For the first time in the three days you had been here, you felt safe enough to get real sleep.

You couldn’t really trust that you wouldn’t be harmed, but Johnny’s weight and body heat comforted the reptilian part of your brain, assured your primordial survival instincts that you were tucked away somewhere safe, hidden from predators.

Exhaustion overtook your body and your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.

Of course, by morning, everyone has heard of Kyle's pain management method. Kyle the lapdog, you think to yourself, sulking in the bathroom. Ran right to John like a loyal mutt. You don't even need the bathroom— it's just the only place you can find some privacy now. Johnny is up your ass constantly, asking if you need "something stronger" for your cramps, and Simon now stares at you with heated eyes. He doesn't say anything— just stares. It should freak you out more, because it's creepy and weird, but you're used to it by now. You'd rather the staring than Johnny's harassment.

You sit on the floor, leaning against the side of the bathtub, and play with the stupid bracelet stuck on your wrist. You scowl at the sapphire, the stupid heart shape mocking you. The tracker has to be under the stone, but you've got no way to get it out. It's not secured with a bezel, so you can't pry it out, and you can't take the stupid thing off, so crushing it is out of the question. The only good thing to come of it is that you've got something to fidget with.

You shift your attention to the brace on your ankle. How much longer do you have to wear it? It's too hard to keep track of the days. You guess you'll only have about a week left until it can come off, give or take. You just want it off. You didn't realize how much you liked the walks until you sprained your stupid ankle.

Stupid sapphire, stupid bracelet, stupid ankle… today is going to be a bad day.

You're not sure how long you've been sitting in the bathroom, but you're sure it won't be long until someone comes looking for you.

Perhaps you're psychic. Somewhere between 5-10 minutes pass before Kyle knocks on the door, asking if you're doing alright. It's more pattern recognition than it is psychic ability, but you need some sort of whimsy in your life right now.

You stand with a groan and open the door, begrudgingly leaving your bathroom oasis because 'it's lunchtime.' You're pleasantly surprised to learn that the other three are gone.

"We're gonna get back on a schedule," Kyle hums, sliding you a plated sandwich. "Me 'n the lads. Gotta get back to the gym, keep ourselves fit. Cap is gettin' soft in the middle already."

It's meant to be a joke, but you're too foul of a mood to laugh. You choke down a rather large bite of sandwich, eager to go back into hiding.

"What's wrong, lovey?" Kyle asks, a grating hint of sympathy in his tone. "Is it your cramps again?"

You feel your eye twitch. Of course it's got to be the cramps— not that his joke wasn't funny, or that you're mad at him for running his mouth and giving everyone— particularly Johnny— more reason to harass you.

"No," you grumble. "Just don't feel good today."

He gives you a pitying look, and you wish you could scratch his eyes out.

"I'm going to my room," you mutter, popping the last bite of your lunch into your mouth and standing from your seat.

"Wait," Kyle grabs your arm before you can leave, and it takes everything in you not to slap him.

"One last thing, lovey. Tomorrow's Simon's turn to stay behind. Then Soap, then John. That'll be the schedule, just so you know what to expect."

He releases you, and you try not to stomp on your way back to your room. Johnny better hope your mood improves by tomorrow.

Your head starts to ache, so you lay down for a nap, trying to fall asleep before it gets bad.

The day isn't even over, but you've already declared it a bad one.

—

You manage the rest of your period without anyone's fingers down your underwear, and you're quite proud of yourself for how you managed. Johnny had been pestering you on day three, getting too handsy, so you started retching. He let go, and you ran to the bathroom, faking a sick episode. Sometimes you do get nauseous on your period, so it wasn't too big of a lie, and you know others do, too, making it extra believable. They left you alone for the rest of your cycle.

Another few days go by, and you're out of the brace. You think that, since the two weeks have gone by, and you're walking without pain, that this is the end of it. You're excited for the walks. You didn't realize how much you enjoyed them until you couldn't go anymore. The excitement dims when you remember the harness and leash, but still, it'll be nice to be back outside.

Unfortunately for you, it isn't over. Simon and Kyle approach you, Simon wearing a balaclava and carrying a bottle of mystery liquid. They sit on either side of you.

"Lovey," Kyle says softly, cautiously. "Don't worry… but we have to take you back to the doctor."

Your eyes dart to the bottle Simon holds, realization dawning on you. That's the sedative he dosed you with the night you escaped.

"No," you hiss, panic bubbling. "I'm not drinking that again."

Simon sighs, having the audacity to sound exasperated. Like this is an inconvenience to him. "You 'ave to, doll. 'S for yer own good we take ya to the doc, make sure everythin' looks how it should."

"I don't need to be sedated," you argue, scooting away from Simon only to bump into Kyle. You're trapped.

"Cap and Johnny already got the car warm," Simon sighs, not even bothering to argue back. "They're waitin'. Just a few sips, doll. C'mon."

"I said no!" You shout. You can only see Simon's eyes, but that's all you need to see to know he's unhappy with you. They harden, and he sets the bottle down on a side table.

You think you're getting away, but instead, he grabs you, yanking you into his lap. He's got your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you tightly. He squeezes you like an anaconda, so tight you can't move, genuine fear icing your blood. You swear you can feel your ribcage bowing in with how tight he's holding you.

Kyle grabs the bottle and then your chin, tilting your head back and bringing the lip of the bottle to your mouth. You don't even think to turn you're head away, not with Simon crushing you, and Kyle tips the bottle, forcing a few swallows of mystery sedative down your throat.

Kyle pulls the bottle away, and Simon releases you, letting you fall forwards out of his lap and onto the couch. You suck down desperate gulps of air, trembling from your fear. Kyle puts his hand on your shoulder, but you jerk away, to startled for touch. You glance over your shoulder at Simon, who spares you an apologetic glance before collecting the bottle and hurrying out of the living room.

You push yourself up, only to fall back down onto your front, your arms too weak to hold you. That shit works fast.

The last thing you see before everything goes dark is Kyle, kneeling in front of you and reaching for your face.

—

John and Simon are in the front of the vehicle, Johnny and Kyle in the back, cradling their sleeping beauty. Simon's leg bounces furiously in the passengers seat, his foot thumping against the weather mats on the floor.

John plants a firm hand on Simon's knee. "Stop that. You'll wear a fuckin' hole in the floor of my SUV. Paid good money for this, so I could haul you lads around comfortably."

Johnny leans forwards, clapping a hand on his former lieutenant's shoulder. "What's wrong with ye, LT?"

Simon says nothing at first, only sighing. But, he remembers himself. He's not in the military anymore— his feelings are no longer considered a weakness. He's with his men, his family; there isn't a safer place to be vulnerable than with them.

"She's scared o' me," he mutters. "She didn't want the sedative, didn't cooperate, and I had to hold her down. Squeezed 'er tight, held her still, and she shook like a leaf when I let her go."

Johnny pats his shoulder, and John squeezes his knee. Kyle cradles their sweetheart, her head in his lap.

"'S okay, mate," Kyle assures. "She'll forgive you. Cap's spooked her before, and she's warmed back up."

Simon sighs again. "…I was the one who took her. I thought maybe if I was soft on 'er, it would make up for it, and now I'm the one hurtin' her."

"You watch yourself, lieutenant," John orders, squeezing Simon's knee again, though this time in warning. "You know good and fuckin' well that she's better off with us. You saw 'er yerself workin' in that filthy petrol station, and ya saw her sorry excuse of a flat. Don't feel bad for savin' her. She'll come around."

Simon nods. "I just don't like scarin' her when she 'asn't been bad. Feels wrong."

Johnny gives Simon a gentle shake. "Yer only doin' what's best for her, LT. She'll realize it eventually."

Simon clasps a hand over Johnny's, squeezing it in a wordless thanks.

Johnny sits back in his seat, massaging his bonnie girl's legs. Kyle pets her hair. John brings both hands back to the steering wheel. Simon watches out the window.

—

The world blurs back into existence as you stir from your sedative-induced sleep. You're warm all around, and the air smells of roses. You blink your eyes a few times and stretch, startling at the slosh of water. Your eyes pop open, met with the sight of foamy bubbles.

You're in a bath.

A quick glance to your side reveals Simon, kneeling next to the tub, quietly watching. The balaclava is gone, now.

You sink deeper into the water, hiding under the bubbles. You spare Simon a quick glare before turning away, staring at the faucet.

"Doc said yer ankle's fine," he says quietly.

You say nothing.

"We can go walkin' again. Today, if ya want."

You shut him down fast, barely letting him finish.

"I don't want to walk with you."

Out of the corner of your eye, he startles. You can't tell for sure, but you tell yourself you hurt his little feelings.

"Don't be like that, doll," he sighs. "I'm sorry I squeezed ya so hard. We needed ya out fast, 'else we'd miss the doc."

"I didn't need to go," you argue.

"Yes, you did," he argues back, though his tone is much softer than yours.

You don't bother responding, or even looking at him, giving him only your silence.

He lets you ignore him for only a moment before sighing again, as if he's the one with something to be stressed about. He reaches over you, grabbing your washcloth and the bottle of your body wash.

"Don't," you snap, slapping his hand away when he dips the cloth beneath the bath water. "I'll wash myself."

Simon grips your chin, forcing you to face him.

"You fuckin' know better," he scolds, his voice dropping lower. "This is the last time I'll tell you— ya don't fight when we're carin' for ya. Do you understand?"

You try to nod, but his hold on your chin makes it look more like you're twitching. Thankfully, Simon considers your answer good enough.

"Now apologize, doll. Say you're sorry for bein' a brat, and I won't pull ya outta this tub and give ya a lesson that'll stick."

You swallow, glancing away from his eyes. He gives you a gentle shake, pulling your gaze right back to his.

"I'm sorry," you mumble, your voice catching in your throat.

"Sorry for what, doll?"

You should've known you wouldn't get away without any humiliation.

"…for being a brat."

He smiles at you, his eyes crinkling just a bit in the corners. "Good girl." He releases your chin and picks the washcloth up from the bottom of the tub.

You grit your teeth and ready yourself for another awkward bath, but this time, Simon goes slow. He drags the sudsy cloth up and down your arms, over your collarbone and your chest, until dipping lower, where the rest of you hides beneath the bubbles.

He shushes you gently when you stiffen, your breath catching. "Yer alright, doll. I'm only washin'."

Stupid asshole. This isn't the way to earning your forgiveness.

He moves just as slowly, just as carefully, over your breasts, his fingers ghosting over your nipples before he moves down to your stomach.

You sit rigid in the tub, trying your hardest to ignore this brush his skin over yours. He notices, you know he does, but he hasn't said anything more.

He moves to your legs, and you let out a tiny puff of breath in relief that he didn't just keep going down.

He laughs softly, just a puff of air from his nostrils. "I'm not gonna touch ya like that, doll. Not right now."

His hands press firmer against your thighs. "But I want to."

That has your head snapping to him, and he gives you a small smirk, quirking just the corner of his mouth up.

"Hearin' the sergeants run their mouths about how they touched ya, how they made ya squirm…"

He laughs again when you turn away, staring back at the faucet while your cheeks flush bright pink.

Why are you always fucking blushing? You shouldn't be blushing right now anyway. You're supposed to be mad at him.

"Can barely stand watchin' ya turn pink like tha'. You drive me mad, doll."

He abandons the washcloth, instead splaying his big hand over your belly. You grab onto his wrist, trying to stop him, but it just makes him laugh again.

"Don't be so nervous, pup. I'm only petting."

'Pup.' Not him, too.

His hand slides lower, now, and you dig your nails into the skin of his wrist. What the fuck is he doing?

"Put those claws away," he scolds, though he sounds more mirthful than he does angry. "Had ya pegged for a pup, and here you are scratchin' me up like a kitty."

Again, he laughs, presumably at your not-so-subtle grimace.

"Not a kitty after all, then? So I was right; just a sweet little puppy."

His hand slides further down, his fingertips sliding into coarse hair.

"You said you wouldn't." Your voice comes out as a sharp, nervous squeak. It's almost embarrassing how scared you sound— your only saving grace being that you have good fucking reason to be scared.

Surprisingly, Simon actually stops. He doesn't pull away, but his hand doesn't slide any lower down. It would be nice if he'd get his hands out of your fucking bush, though. How long is he gonna sit like this? Realistically it's only been a few seconds, but that's a long fucking time to be petting someone's bush.

Finally, he pulls away, sighing as if he's the one who's inconvenienced. "You're right. I did say I wouldn't touch."

He reaches for your shampoo, and you let out a small breath, letting your muscles unclench. He stopped, for real.

He stopped this one. How much longer will he hold out before he doesn't stop?

Don't think about that. You'll only stress yourself out.

He stopped. That's what matters. You asked him to stop, and he stopped.

He listened.

—

Days go by and it ends up Simon's turn to stay home again. You're still holding a grudge against him for almost breaking your ribs and then drugging you, but there's not much you can do other than simply holding a grudge.

While the others go off to the gym, he takes you for a walk. He straps you up into the wretched harness, pulling it tight against you. "Don't want ya slipping loose," he hums. "Imagine the headache I'd get if you slipped free under my watch."

He clips the stupid leash in place and takes you outside, grinning when the wind blows your hair in your face.

"Missed our walks, puppy," he hums, sounding quite content.

"Stop calling me puppy," you huff, trying and failing to keep your hair from blowing back into your face.

"I'll think about it."

He tugs on the leash, pulling you along with him as he sets off to your typical path. He sets a leisurely pace, walking you through the woods to admire the changing trees.

You let yourself enjoy the smell of the autumn air. It's crisp, earthy, and even though the cold of the winter is formidable, the brisk chill of autumn is welcomed (as long as you're wearing a coat). You'll kick yourself for welcoming the cold when snow starts to fall, but you can only take so much summer heat.

You should let yourself enjoy the fall, while you still can. You'll miss it when winter hits, and you'll kick yourself again for letting the last stretch of warmth slip through your fingers.

It's a good fucking thing your ankle's better, or you'd be stuck all winter pitying and loathing yourself your getting too injured to go outside while you still want to.

"You like Halloween, doll?"

The question startles you. Where did that come from?

It feels like when you think about a product, and then get an ad on your phone just a few minutes later.

"…yeah. Why?"

"'S in a few days. Was thinkin' maybe, if ya wanted, we could carve pumpkins."

You turn your gaze from the trees to focus fully on him, now. He's focused on you, waiting for an answer.

"You'd let me carve a pumpkin?" You find it hard to believe they'd let you around anything sharp.

He snorts. "Why wouldn't we?"

…is this another trick?

"Because I'd have a knife."

He stops, turning to face you with a smirk on his lips.

"Sweetheart, even with a knife, you wouldn't be able to hurt any of us. We'd 'ave ya unarmed and bent over in seconds."

You feel small, reminded of just how powerless you are compared to them.

"'Sides, we'd pick up one o' those carving kits, too. Cap wouldn't be very happy if we used the kitchen knifes to carve pumpkins."

Simon turns back to the trail, continuing the walk. You tell yourself his excuse is just a lie, and they are afraid of giving you weapons.

—

The others are still gone by the time you get back from your walk. Your cheeks and nose sting from the cold wind, your hair is a mess, and you're shivering, covered in goosebumps under your clothes. The house is barely warmer than the outside, offering no reprieve from the chilly fall temperature. You had noticed the house getting colder a few days ago, but you said nothing, thinking that since nobody else brought it up, you were the only one who noticed it. Now you know you're not imagining it.

You kick off your shoes and throw your jacket off, not bothering to hang it up. You're on a mission— need to get warm. You run upstairs, to your room, and dig for a pair of fleece pajama pants you know you have. When you finally find it, you grab a plain sweater, and a pair of fuzzy socks. You eye your heating pad, but decide to leave it. It gets too hot to use it for just warming up, even on the lowest setting, and it doesn't cover enough surface area.

Next request: electric blanket.

Dressed in your warmest pajamas, you head back downstairs and settle yourself down on the couch, resting your head on the armrest and curling into a ball like animals do to preserve warmth. You grab the big blanket John gifted you and toss it over yourself, waiting for the shivers to go away.

They don't, though. At least not fast enough. You lay shivering, staring at the fireplace like you can set it ablaze with your mind.

Simon joins you in the living room, a mug of tea in hand, and settles down into his recliner with an old man grunt. Neither of you say anything, simply sharing a space, sitting in a comfortable silence.

The cold refuses to leave your bones, even under all your layers. You end up squirming under your blanket, rubbing your legs and feet together and running your hands along your arms.

"What're you doing, doll?" Simon asks, both confused and amused.

"I'm cold," you huff, frustrated by your body's shitty temperature regulation. "I'm using friction to warm up."

Simon hums in acknowledgment and brings his mug to his lips. "I'll get some firewood later, then."

You assume that's the end of the interaction and return to your whole-body-cricket-feeting, thinking nothing of it when Simon stands from his chair. Then he's standing in front of you, your brow furrowing in confusion.

"Sit up, doll. I'll warm ya up."

He doesn't wait for you to listen, instead grabbing your shoulders and pulling you upright. Sometimes you wonder why they even bother telling you what to do when they're just going to move you themselves, anyway.

Simon maneuvers you until you're laying between his legs, your back to his chest— similar to how Kyle and Johnny lay you, only more awkward thanks to his broader frame and longer legs. It's a shock that the couch is even long enough for his body.

The fact that he's even on the couch with you in the first place is a shocker— at least, it would be, had this happened before last week's bath. Simon always kept his hands to himself, so you thought that maybe he just didn't enjoy physical touch and closeness on the same level as the other three. Now you know that's not the case; he was just holding off, apparently. Watching and hearing of the other three touch and grope without shame must've shattered his patience.

You try not to think about what that means for you.

He spreads the blanket back out over the two of you, cocooning you in your combined body heat, and rests his hands on your belly.

"Better?" he hums softly, and you nod, forgetting that you're supposed to be repulsed by him. Johnny is training you well, apparently; you hardly react to their touching anymore, even now while you're holding a grudge.

Maybe that's a good thing, though. It's obvious they're not going to stop touching, so being desensitized to it will help you in the long run. It's basically the same thing as moving to the city and getting used to the all the noise in the night, right? The noise doesn't go away, but you get used to it, and it makes life easier.

Totally the same.

—

John, Kyle, and Johnny return with pumpkins and one of those cheap little carving kits with stencils and pictures to copy. Either Simon was quick to tell them you want to carve a pumpkin, or they had already bought the stuff and realized they should probably ask if it's something you'd even like.

Kyle lines the table with newspapers and sets all five pumpkins on the table, handing you the stencil book. "Here, lovey. You get first pick."

You flip through the book, settling on a stencil of a witches hat with a spider dangling off it. You rip out your page and pass the book to Kyle so you can pick your pumpkin, holding your stencil up to each one to find the pumpkin that it'll fit the best on.

Kyle chooses a stencil with a bubbling cauldron. You wonder if he picked that one because it's on theme with your witch hat.

Johnny chooses a haunted house stencil, and you note it's high difficulty rating on the top of the paper, likely trying to show off.

Simon naturally picks the skull design, and John tosses the book aside, apparently planning to freehand his carving.

You wipe the dirt off your pumpkin and set it on the newspaper, grabbing one of the plastic carving tools. You're pleasantly surprised when you stick your pumpkin, discovering the tools are sturdier than they look. You saw the top off your pumpkin and brace yourself to scoop out the guts.

"Save the seeds, so we can roast 'em," Kyle orders, joining you at the table with his pumpkin. Then Johnny, then Simon, then John.

The smell of pumpkin insides soon fills the kitchen. You carve pumpkins every Halloween, and every Halloween you have to ask yourself how pumpkin spice smell can come from this.

You grab the scraper tool from the cheesy little kit, again surprised by how well it works. Scraping the sides is much easier than grabbing the guts and trying to pull them out like you're weeding a garden.

Soon enough, you've got a trash bag full of pumpkin guts and a bowl full of seeds. Kyle moves the bowl somewhere else, muttering about how 'someone' can't knock the bowl over again if it isn't on the table.

Now it's time for the stenciling, which is arguably harder than cleaning the pumpkin. You've gotta tape the paper onto the curved pumpkin, then poke holes around the whole design. Your hand cramps before you even get halfway done, and you have to shake it out.

You regret your stencil of choice when you realize just how thin you're supposed to be cutting your pumpkin, especially when you start poking out the legs on the spider. You should've considered the difficulty ratings while picking your stencil.

It's too late to back down now, though. Besides, you wanted to carve this pumpkin, so the challenge might be fun. If there's a will, there's a way. You'll make it work, and it'll look way better than the men's pumpkins.

—

The witch hat looks great. The spider only has five legs.

Still, though, your pumpkin looks much cooler than John's, who carved a ghost into his— only, he just carved the shape of a ghost out. It doesn't have any eyes, so it looks more like a giant apostrophe than it does a ghost.

Kyle's pumpkin looks good, too, though the bubbles look a bit angular. You know you're nitpicking, but you don't really care. You'll jump through hoops to prove to yourself that your pumpkin is the best.

Johnny's pumpkin looks wonderful, though you're the only one shocked by this. Johnny grins at you, looking quite happy with himself. "Ah'm an artist, bonnie. Might show ye my sketchbook, if you'll be my muse."

You choose to tell yourself that your pumpkin is still better because witches are cooler than ghosts, so his haunted house is lame compared to your witch hat.

Simon's pumpkin is… well, it's a pumpkin. You glance at his discarded stencil and discover that his was also rated to be quite difficult, with thin lines and small details that would be difficult for someone with hands as big as his to carve out. Maybe he would've done better if he'd picked up a smaller tool, instead of the biggest fucking one in the kit.

Kyle retrieves some tealight candles, and you all take your pumpkins outside to sit by the door. Kyle passes out the candles, and a lighter makes it's way down the line of you until all your pumpkins are lit up. You're quite proud of yourself and your witch hat (and 5-legged spider), and while you hate to admit it, the other pumpkins look too cool— excluding John's punctuation pumpkin.

You won't get to truly celebrate Halloween this year, but you at least got to carve a pumpkin.

—

Halloween comes and goes, and the clocks turn back. The sun sets at 4 PM now, and the weather only gets colder as the days go on.

Simon kept his word and brought firewood down to the house, but the fire really only heats the living room. There is a heating system in the house, though it apparently doesn't work that great. Shortly after Halloween, they brought out four space heaters to pick up the slack, one for each bedroom.

Today, it's Simon's turn again to watch you while the rest of them go out to the gym. Simon takes you for a walk like he normally does, though it doesn't last very long at all. The sun shines brightly in the sky, so you dressed for warmer weather, only to step out in frost-level temperatures. A weather briefing would be nice if they won't give you any means to check it yourself.

You walk for only about ten minutes before you can't take the cold anymore, breaking and telling Simon you're cold and want to go home. He praises you for being honest and speaking up, and gives you his own jacket to keep warm for the walk back.

By the time you reach home, you're still shivering, and the house of course isn't any fucking warmer. You need a hot shower, need to warm up now. You kick of your shoes as soon as you're in the door, and you throw Simon's jacket off and rush him to get the stupid harness off you.

As soon as you're free, you beeline for the stairs, taking them two at a time to get there faster. You go to your room first, collecting your fleece pajamas, and then hurry to the bathroom. You know the shower will warm you up for a good while, but you'll likely be back for a pair of fuzzy socks later in the evening.

You take a wonderful steaming-hot shower, like the ones Johnny teased you for. He can go to hell, because hot showers are as close as anyone could ever come to heaven on earth. You'd stay in the shower for hours if the hot water wouldn't run out.

When you get out of the shower, you're faced with the dilemma of the bathroom-sauna that comes with the steaming-hot showers.

It's too humid to dry off completely, and putting your clothes on while you're skin is damp, even if it's just slightly, is the hell on earth to complement your heaven.

So, you wrap one towel around your body and wrap your hair in another, collect your pajamas from the counter, and sneak out the door.

You feel like an idiot the moment you exit the bathroom. Simon stands in the hallway, just a few steps away from you, his eyes locked onto your body.

Why didn't you think to check the hallway before leaving?

He just stands there, staring, his eyes tracking stray water droplets you missed in your hurry to get out of the steamy bathroom.

You regret not waiting out the steam, regret not just sucking it up and getting dressed. Here you are, standing out in the cold hallway in nothing but towels, you start to shiver.

Simon's eyes snap to yours when he sees your shiver. "Cold?"

You say nothing, staring like a deer in headlights.

"I'll warm ya up."

You're frozen, stuck in place, as he stalks towards you.

It's naive to assume he's just going to snuggle up to you like he did the other day, but you don't want to think about the other possibilities.

He takes you gently by the arm, as your hands are full. You use one to hold onto your pajamas, and the other grips your towel to keep it from slipping.

He leads you to his room, nudging you inside and shutting the door with a click. He plants one hand on your lower back and pushes you towards his bed, his other hand taking your pajamas from you.

Maybe he's just going to dress you. That's all, he just wants to dress you because he likes taking care of you.

He sits you down on the edge of his bed and sets your pajamas down next to you. He takes the towel out of your hair, combing through it a little with his fingers before kneeling down in front of you. You know it's coming, but you tense and shut your eyes anyway when he reaches for the towel around your body. Simon's seen you in multiple states of undress, and still, you go rigid when it happens. You don't think you'll ever get used to being naked around him, or any of the others.

He unwraps your towel, not bothering to pull it out from under you. That should be your first clue that something is up, but you're too busy pretending you're somewhere else to pay it any mind.

Simon's hands settle on your thighs, squeezing gently before pushing them apart. Your eyes pop open and you snap your thighs shut, but he only pushes them back apart, now holding them in place.

You shiver harder now that your wet hair is down and your skin is fully bare. You hope that maybe Simon will see you shivering and feel bad enough to finally dress you, but hope isn't enough to stop him.

"Look at you," he hums softly, "shiverin' so hard. Need to get your blood pumpin', don't we?"

A blanket will do just fine, actually.

His hands slide up to your hips and he pulls, tugging you down to the edge of the bed. He throws your legs over his shoulders, eliciting a startled shout from you.

"Don't—!" You try scooting away, but he grabs your hips again, holding you still.

"Shh," he shushes you softly. "Let me take care o' ya, pup."

Pup. If you hadn't already been sure he's gonna do more than dress you, that nickname solidifies it.

He plants his hand on your belly, pushing gently, until you lay down.

"That's it," he praises, his voice voice slightly rougher than before. "Just lay down and relax."

You stare up at the ceiling, searching for a spot to focus on, when you feel his tongue on you. You shriek like a banshee, shooting upright and pushing his head away.

Simon grabs your hands, pinning them to your belly and pushing you back down. "Shhh, puppy," he shushes again, holding both your wrists in one hand and using the other to pet the skin of your thigh. "Y're alright."

You don't feel very alright.

You keep squirming, trying to tug your wrists free from his grip. You know fighting is useless, that you'll never win, but something stops you from giving in every time. Even when you tell yourself to just give up, to take the easy route, something in your conscience won't let you.

He stands, letting your legs fall off his shoulders, and pins your wrists above your head. "Settle," he orders gently. "Keep squirmin' like this and I'll tie yer wrists." It's a threat, but the words come out light and almost playful; it's shockingly disarming.

Simon waits for you to listen, to stop squirming, before releasing your wrists and moving back down your body. He settles himself back on the floor, kneeling between your thighs, and lifts your legs back up over his shoulders.

You tense, but you don't squirm for fear of actually being tied up. The threat was playful, but you doubt it was empty.

"Good girl," Simon rumbles before pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "Just relax, hm? Gonna give ya something other than just fingers."

His mouth is on you again before you can protest, licking one long stripe up from your entrance to your clit. He laughs softly against your skin when you tense, your hands moving from above your head to your sides, gripping the towel underneath you.

"You're still shiverin'," he murmurs between your legs. "I'll fix that."

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking so suddenly and so intensely that he forces a choked cry from your lungs. He hums in satisfaction at your reaction and doubles his efforts, trying to earn more.

He alternates between sucking and flicking his tongue against your clit, the sensations driving you crazy. His arms wrap around your thighs, holding your trembling legs still while he torments you with his tongue.

It doesn't take much time for you to start squirming again, trying to get closer and get away at the same time.

Simon's tongue leaves your clit, leaving you with a confusing disappointment and a frustrating ache. Without warning, he starts licking at your pussy, testing the waters before pushing his tongue inside.

It feels so strange, strange enough to freak you out and sit back up, pushing him away a second time.

Simon lets you push him, though he fixes you with a heated, lustful stare. "Alright, pup," he purrs, pulling away and standing up. You want to relax at the fact that it's over, but the ache of arousal keeps you from celebrating.

The sound of Simon's belt whooshing through his belt loops has you snapping back to the present, and panic surges through you.

It's not over; it's worse.

You try jumping up from your spot, but Simon's too fast, pushing you back down onto his bed. He drags you up the mattress, shushing you while you thrash and murmuring promises not to hurt you.

Your thrashing slows when the leather belt, warmed by his body heat, presses against your wrists. He secures them together and wraps the belt around the bed frame, pulling it tight and then fitting two fingers underneath it, making sure it's not cutting off blood flow.

"Since ya can't follow instructions and be still like a good pup, we'll just have to tie ya up."

Oh.

You feel a bit silly now, knowing your thrashing is technically an overreaction. You assumed he was doing one of two things when he took off the belt: spank you, or fuck you. Now, as he settles back between your legs, you realize he wasn't going to do either of those, and your thrashing was for nothing.

After fearing the worst, letting him go down on you doesn't seem so bad.

Terrible logic.

"Now, be still. Don't make me tie these legs down, too."

He wastes no time, pushing his tongue back inside you and curling it up. You have to bite down on your tongue to keep from moaning. It feels so weird— you've never experienced anything that could compare to this feeling. No way to describe it other than just really fucking weird.

He doesn't linger, though, pulling out to return to your clit. Now, in addition to biting your tongue, you have to hold your breath to be silent. You might not be able to stop them from touching, but you can at least try to save your dignity.

Simon doesn't make it easy, though. He's determined to make you feel good, focusing solely and ruthlessly on your clit.

He gets one tiny squeak out of you, choked off and barely audible, and stops.

"Quit holdin' yer breath," he grunts. "You already know what'll happen if ya pass out on me."

He pinches your thigh as a warning, and you suck in a sharp breath, far from eager to give him a reason to punish you.

"Good girl," he purrs, and you curse your stupid brain and your stupid body for the stupid tingles the praise sends over your skin.

His tongue returns to your clit and you yelp like you've been stung, lifting your hips up off the bed to escape him. The bastard has the nerve to laugh as he wraps his arms back around your thighs, pinning you down again.

"Last chance, puppy," he hums. "Stay still, or I'll tie your legs, too."

Your body twitches every time his tongue flicks against you, which he only seems to take as encouragement. He alternates between sucking and licking, kindling a growing warmth that gets harder to ignore with each second. Even through all this, you manage to keep yourself relatively muted. Only a few gasps and heavy breaths escape, though even those little sounds seem to encourage him.

You don't mean to angle your hips upwards, don't mean to seek more, but your body betrays you just like it has every other time. He works you up to the edge and then pushes you over, forcing an orgasm on you and groaning when you finally give him a proper moan. His pace gentles as you come down, though he doesn't stop, pleasure slowly prickling into too much.

"No more," you protest, still breathless and now trying to shift your hips away.

Simon doesn't let you go far before he pushes your hips back in place. "That didn't sound like you enjoyed it very much," he muses. "Barely made any noise f'me at all. I gotta redeem myself, yeah?"

You tug against the belt at your wrists, trying to force your hands free. "No— no, you don't," you protest, anxiety simmering towards a boiling panic. "It's fine, y-you can just untie me."

"Yeah? I should just untie you?" he parrots back, sounding amused, as if he finds your distress to be cute. You nod your head anyway, hoping that maybe some part of him will take you seriously.

"I dunno," he sighs. "You were real quiet— didn't seem very pleased with me at all. I can't leave ya unhappy."

Your choices are now laid out for you: tell him you liked it, or endure more of it. Obviously you should just say what he wants to hear, but thinking about admitting that you liked having his tongue on you puts a pit in your stomach. Even now, after over— how long has it been? Almost two months— of their games, you're still too prideful to say something like that. All you manage is a distressed whine.

He hushes you gently. "Shh, puppy, ya don't 'ave to cry. I'll make it better."

Feeling his tongue back on your clit, now extra sensitive from your orgasm, almost forces the admission from your lips.

"No! No, it felt good, Simon!" you yelp, not bothering to hide your growing panic.

He shushes you again, holding you in place when you try to squirm again. "Not good enough, then."

He buries his face back into your cunt, ignoring your shouting in favor of sucking on your clit. You realize too late that it wouldn't have mattered what you said; he would've kept going whether you admitted to liking it or not. It was just an unfair trick to inflate his own ego.

You can't keep silent this time, not when he's attacking your overstimulated nerves like this. Choked out cries and whimpers are forced from your lungs and he moans like he's the one being eaten, each sound only serving to encourage him.

As a last resort, you try kicking, bringing the heel of your foot down on his upper back. He grunts, but doesn't stop, not even losing his rhythm. You kick again, harder, shrieking when his teeth scrape against your clit. It's all the warning you need to stop.

You don't notice one of Simon's hands leaving your thigh until he's pushing two thick fingers inside you. He crooks them up to rub against your g-spot, the too-intense pleasure pulling a loud, ragged moan from your lips.

He barely even pumps his fingers, just targeting and rubbing against that sweet spot until your back arches up off the mattress and your eyes roll back. Simon doesn't stop, sucking on your clit and rubbing your g-spot until you start squirming again. Only then does he pull away, sitting up to get a better look at your blissed-out face.

"There we go," he purrs. "Much better."

He undoes the belt at your wrists, letting you catch your breath while he frees you from the restraint. When he decides you're breathing evenly enough, he pulls the towel out from under you and retrieves your pajamas from wherever they ended up.

He dresses you just like he always does before standing up, telling you to stay put while he gets you something to drink. You wait a few seconds after he leaves before you slip out of bed, stumbling at first on shaky legs. You hurry to the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and wetting in the sink.

You wipe yourself down quickly, deciding to focus on how nasty human mouths are instead of how good that felt. You're not sure how you should feel about it: one one hand, you should be grateful that they're not trying to hurt you, but on the other hand, it would be easier to hate them if they were.

Deciding you're clean enough now, you slip out of the bathroom and back to Simon's room before you he catches you.

—

You don't really know what to do with yourself. Simon, after making you drink some water, brought you downstairs to sit in his lap to 'keep you warm' while you wait for the others to return. When Kyle and Johnny 'played' with you, you just went to sleep after. Simon doesn't let you sleep, telling you to just rest your eyes so you're awake when the others get home. Every time you start to drift off, he squeezes you, waking you right back up. How he even knows when you're falling asleep is a mystery to you, but you aren't sure you want to ask.

Now that you're forced to stay awake, you realize that sleeping saved you from having to think. You've got nothing to do but mull over what happened, trying to make sense of what you're feeling.

You're trapped in a never ending battle with yourself. Telling yourself that you can't control how your body reacts, then asking why you didn't fight harder. Then you have to remind yourself that if you do fight harder, you'll be punished. Then you feel like a dumbass for wishing they weren't so nice about it. You bend to their will because you're scared of punishment, but then you turn around and hope that they'll be cruel just so it's easier to hate them? But earlier you were pissed at yourself for feeling grateful that they aren't hurting you. You shouldn't be feeling anything for them but contempt. But what about this, what about that.

It's a continuous loop of bullshit, and you're sick of it.

John has to hold you down when you wake and realize that you are not, in fact, in your room. He's rolled on top of you, straddling your hips and holding your wrists on either side of your head.

"Settle down, darling," he tries to soothe you, though he's clearly exasperated. "It's just me."

Just him. That's the fucking problem.

When you don't settle, he sighs almost dramatically. "Darling. Settle."

His stern tone has you whipped back into obedience, though you're actually a bit proud of yourself that he had to tell you twice before you listened. Maybe it was just a lapse of judgment in your just-woken-up state, but maybe you've still got some fight left. It's a little victory that cheers you up, even if you know you're losing the war with them.

It's four to one. You're slowly accepting that you never stood a chance.

After a brief pause, probably John making sure you're actually done struggling, he releases your wrists. "There. You're alright."

By the grin he wears, you can tell you're not doing a very good job of tempering your expression.

"Do you like your new pajamas?" he asks, still hovering over you.

Your expression sours even more, but you stop trying to school it now. Yes, the pajamas are lovely, but he fucking tricked you. He changed you last night, dressed you up like a little dolly when you were too tired to object.

A wave of discomfort washes over you when you remember that you hadn't even bothered to open your eyes. You didn't feel the need to, because you thought it was Simon changing you, and that it was Johnny crawling in bed with you. You were comfortable with them doing so.

"Don't sulk at me," John admonishes you softly. "Do you like your pajamas?"

You huff at him, but nod your head. "Yes. I do."

He smiles, again not showing teeth. He must've been made fun of for it at some point. Maybe he had crooked teeth as a kid, or maybe he just looks bad when he shows his pearly whites.

"I'm glad. I put a lot of thought into your gifts. Only the best for you," he tells you before finally rolling off you. "Are you hungry, darling?"

Oh, great. Now he's playing caretaker. You should've known he'd start eventually.

You've gotta weigh your options. You aren't really hungry, not yet, but if you say no he'll likely make you stay in bed with him. Breakfast it is.

"A bit," you answer, trying to avoid a gesture of a breakfast big enough for you to get sick on trying to finish.

He stands from the bed, grunting— whether in acknowledgment or from the effort of getting up, you don't know— and walks to your side of the bed, bending down to scoop you up.

"Wait- Kyle said I should be walking today," you protest, trying to sit yourself up before he can get you.

John scoffs dismissively. "I'm not letting ya start on the stairs. I'm carryin' ya, and you can try walking when we're downstairs."

You manage to hold in your annoyed huff this time as he lifts you up and out of the bed. Effortlessly, just like all of them, he carries you like you're weightless, out of the room and down the stairs.

True to his word, he sets you down when you reach the bottom of the stairs, though he grabs hold of your arm, making sure you use him for support.

Putting weight on your injured ankle isn't that bad, and at first, neither is walking. It's not until you reach the kitchen that you start to hobble a bit, and John tightens his hold on you, not letting go until you're sat comfortable in your seat at the table.

Kyle is there already, finishing up a bowl of cereal. He gives you a small smile when John leaves your side.

"You okay with toast, darling?" John asks, and you nod, feeling irritation start to creep in. Too many questions too soon after waking.

"Alright. I'll make a trip to the store and get some more yogurt and some muffins."

That actually doesn't sound too bad. Muffins are always good. The mini ones are easy to choke down when your appetite is poor. Not to mention you don't have to prepare yogurt or a store bought muffin.

While John pops bread in the toaster, Kyle eyes you from across the table.

"How's the ankle? Are you walking okay?"

So many questions. Why do they have so many questions?

"I can walk for a bit," you sigh. It takes a concerning amount of effort to speak loud enough for Kyle to hear. "Only for a little bit, though. Then it starts hurting again."

Kyle dips his head in a single nod. "Good progress, then. Y'can probably stop wearing that brace to bed, too. Oh, and we'll start those mobility exercises today."

You simply nod back at him when he finally shuts up, relieved for the conversation to be over.

You get a few precious moments of silence, Kyle focused on his cereal and John buttering your toast.

John brings your toast to you, setting it down on the table along with a glass of juice. "Here you go, darling. If ya want anythin' else, just ask."

John moves back to the fridge, grabbing his own breakfast before joining you and Kyle at the table.

You try to eat your toast fast, wanting to go back to bed— your own bed. Not John's bed.

Technically it isn't your bed, either, but it's the bed you've grown the most familiar with and it's the bed with all your blankets from home.

The sky is gray this morning, covering the sun and leaving everything feeling particularly gloomy. It's already hard enough to stay awake when the weather is like this, and the cold doesn't make it any easier. You just want to be under your blankets, warm and cozy and asleep, where you don't have to worry about a thing.

Of course, you don't get to go back to sleep. Kyle drags you over to the couch and pulls your ankle up into his lap, taking your brace off.

At first he just moves your ankle around himself, stretching it and testing your range of motion for you.

He asks you what you'd guess the standard questions are— does this hurt, can you move it this way and that way, when does it start hurting— and then he has you move your ankle around yourself.

It's actually a bit harder than you thought it would be. It's only been a few days since you sprained it, only a few days without moving it too much, and yet you still struggle just to to rotate it. Your ankle is stiff, and you've gotta move it slowly, or else it hurts.

He makes you do three reps of each little exercise before you get a break, and then you have to start them again. It's fucking boring, but you remind yourself it's this or hobbling around and relying on them to carry you.

—

Days pass before you can move on from just stretching to walking around. You can get around the house easier now, put weight on your bad ankle longer without pain, and you can take the stairs as long as you go one at a time.

Kyle makes sure you do your exercises, acting as a physical therapist. Johnny watches, sometimes, whining about how much the mobility exercises suck, how annoying they are and how he thinks that, at this point, there should be some miracle pill that will heal everything instantly.

His bitching is annoying, but it's a distraction from any discomfort, and it is somewhat nice to know that even this burly, ex-special forces soldier is bothered by physical therapy.

You've stopped wearing the brace at night, like Kyle said, and you don't need the pain killers as often.

Your mental health isn't getting any better, though. You grow more and more fatigued with each day, but you aren't even doing anything other than chores. Everything grates on your nerves, and some mornings you have to try and discreetly cover your ears because the sounds of their voices are just too much for you.

You feel like you're sinking and yet trapped in the same place, and you can't tell what's worse. Nothing is enjoyable anymore; you don't even care to read. Something is different this year, something has changed— well, other than the obvious of you were fucking kidnapped. The clocks haven't even been turned back, yet, and you already feel like the sun has been stolen from you.

Is it the kidnapping that's making it worse? Obviously you won't be peachy, but it's been a full month by now. Shouldn't this feeling have set in sooner if it was due to the kidnapping? Or is can it really make your existing problems that much worse?

What kind of fucking question is that? Obviously it can.

But this is different. You know it— you can feel it in your bones.

—

It makes sense when you're woken up, Johnny at your back, by a warm wetness.

Did you just wet the bed?

You get your answer when your brain registers the pain, and then the coppery smell hits your nose.

Fuck.

You're a walking stereotype.

It's cruel and unfair that the stress of being kidnapped would make your mind forget about your period, but not your body. How does this not count as a big enough stressor to stop your period? So unfair.

Johnny doesn't fucking budge when you try to push his arms off you, try to sit up. You have to slap at him, and when he does finally wake up, he just squeezes you tighter.

"'S still dark out," he grunts. "Go back ta sleep."

You slap at him again, and he lets go, turning over with a groan and putting his back to you. Useless.

You can't see in the darkness of the room, but you can feel that these sheets have been ruined. You hope they're expensive. It's minuscule, but it's still a little satisfactory. A microscopic revenge, even if it was unexpected and unintended.

You hurry to the bathroom, trying not to fall over when the dizziness from standing up too quickly hits you. You make it to the bathroom and flick on the lights, squinting until they adjust to the sudden brightness, and dig through the cabinets. Naturally, you find nothing.

Nothing at all.

No pads, no tampons, no nothing. Seems you aren't the only one who forgot about the whole menstruation thing.

With no other option, you stuff your underwear with toilet paper and make your way back to your room.

You know there's nothing in the duffel bags from Simon and John's trip back to your apartment: you were fresh out, then, and had it on your to-do list to buy more. You were intercepted before you got the chance.

You should go to Simon, but your toilet paper diaper isn't very reliable. It won't stay in place if you move around, and you should probably get Johnny out of your bloody bed and get the sheets changed before they really can't be salvaged.

Turning on the lights doesn't wake him like you hoped, so you have to shake Johnny awake again. This time thankfully takes less effort from having already woken him once.

"What, bonnie?" he groans, rubbing his eyes when he does finally open them.

"You need to get up," you huff at him, pissed that he's got the nerve to have an attitude with you right now. "I bled on the sheets."

"Y-you what?" he sighs, apparently not comprehending a word you're saying.

"I said I bled on the sheets," you repeat, growing more and more irritated with every second. "Get up."

He pulls his hands from his eyes long enough to look at you. For a moment, he just stares dumbly, seeing but not processing. Then his eyes widen, and he's shooting up from the bed and fucking taking off.

You stick your head out the doorway, watching him run to Simon's room. He pounds on the door before throwing it open, not waiting for an answer. A moment later, with lots of shouting that you can't really decipher, Simon's rushing out of his room, Johnny following and turning to John's room.

Simon rushes to you, seeing the blood coating your lower half and freaking out. He drops to his knees, grabbing you by the waist. "What happened, doll?" he asks, frantic. He's yanking up your shirt, checking your abdomen. Why the fuck is he checking your abdomen?

"What are you— nothing fucking happened!" You shout, slapping his hands off you. "What's the matter with you?"

He blinks at you, dumbfounded. "Johnny said ya were hurt, and yer bleeding like you've been stabbed!" he exclaims.

You don't even say anything. You level him with a look, and realization punches him in the face just in time for a panicked John, and then Kyle and Johnny (again), to appear in the doorway.

What a bunch of fucking idiots.

Simon stands back up and turns to the other three. When he speaks, he sounds both disappointed and as if he just lost a few years of his life.

"Just her monthly," he groans.

The panic melts off their faces, John and Kyle looking like death warmed over and Johnny looking sheepish.

"…It isnae my fault," he mutters. "I just woke up, what else was I s'posed ta think?"

They ignore Johnny in favor of trudging back to their rooms, but you grab Simon's shirt before he can get too far away. "Simon," you whisper, as if they all don't already know you're on the rag. "I don't have anything."

He turns to you, looking just as back-from-the-dead as John and Kyle. "What?" he sighs.

"I don't have anything," you hiss, your frustration growing.

"…okay? Go back to bed, doll," he mutters.

Why are they all so fucking clueless?

"I don't have any fucking pads, Simon!" You shout at him, giving up on trying to be discreet.

For the second time in the span of a single hour, realization smacks him upside the head. "Oh," he grunts dumbly.

Kyle and John both return to the hallway, having heard your shout. John looks even more disgruntled. "Which one of you muppets forgot to buy the pads?" he grunts.

They all stand there, looking quite stupid. They glance at each other, silently placing the blame.

"Oh, for fucks sake," John groans, exasperated. "Gaz, y're comin' with me to the shops. You two," he points to Simon and Johnny, "you're staying here. Take care o' her, and for the love of god, start acting like you've been alive for more than a day."

John and Kyle disappear back into their rooms, and Simon and Johnny turn to you.

"I don't need your help," you say, making sure to speak before they get the chance to say something infuriating. "I just need the pads."

A headache is blooming already. You need to get something clean and dry on, and strip the bed. You turn to go do so, but Simon grabs your arm and stops you.

"I have stuff to do," you snap, trying to yank your arm out of his grip. "Let go."

"No, doll. How many times do I 'ave to tell you? I don't care if ya don't need help; I'm gonna do it anyway."

He drags you down the hallway and to the bathroom. "Ya need a shower."

He beckons Johnny to follow, and he does so happily, like he doesn't mind having his sleep interrupted if it means you're taking a shower, and he's allowed to be there.

"Johnny," Simon grunts when you're all gathered in the bathroom. It feels quite cramped now, and you itch to shout at them and make them leave. Simon turns on the tap to warm the water before turning to Johnny."Help her with the shower. I'm going to clean up whatever mess is waitin' in yer bed."

Johnny grins like an idiot. "Ya heard 'im, bonnie. C'mon, let's get those bloody clothes off ye."

You step back. "Don't touch me."

"Och, dinna be mean. Y'know we're only tryin' ta help."

He reaches for your shirt, grabbing at the hem, and you swat at him. Your cramps had been dull enough to ignore, but now they feel akin to someone scraping at your insides with a butter knife.

You blame the four of them for being so useless, so clueless.

"Stop fightin' me," Johnny scoffs. "Ye need my help. I ken how you lassies like yer showers— scalding. And I ken, with yer poor ankle and the blood loss, ye willna be upright for long."

"I'm not an invalid, I can take a fucking shower by myself—"

Johnny grabs you, yanking you over to him and wrestling your pajama top off. You try to fight, but, just like any other time you've ever put up resistance, it's futile. This attempt feels especially pathetic, though.

"There we go," Johnny hums, tugging your shorts down next. Naturally, he takes your underwear along with them, and you lose your stupid fucking toilet paper diaper. It was holding up better than you expected, too.

"Wot the fuck?"

You nearly snort. 'Wot.'

He releases you and, shockingly, he picks it up and throws it away. He picked it up. Your expression reflects your horror, and he has the nerve to grin at you. "Ya think I'm afraid of a wee bit o' blood?"

Huh. Makes sense.

"Waste of toilet paper, though."

You bite back a snappy comment, lacking the energy to argue with him right now. He checks the water, adjusts the temperature, and pulls the shower valve.

"Alright, bonnie. Let's clean ya up."

He turns to you again, only to pause when he sees your face. Concern flashes in his eyes. "Yer all peely wally," he says, sounding almost sad. "I'll go fast so we can get ya back in bed quick."

Johnny strips himself of his clothes, and you turn your head away so fast you swear you've given yourself whiplash.

"Och, dinna act shy now," he scoffs, grabbing your arm and tugging you over to him. "C'mere, bonnie. In ya go."

He holds onto your arm while you step in, then follows after. You hate to prove his stupid stereotype true, but the first thing you do is turn the temperature up. You deserve it— the heat will feel good on your traitorous muscles.

"Steamin' Jesus," Johnny curses when the spray of hot water splashes him. Then he laughs at his own accidental joke. "Simon'll like that one," he mutters to himself.

You're standing in the front, facing the spray of the shower. As much as you'd like to stop drowning yourself, turning around would mean facing Johnny while you're both bare-ass naked. Not very appealing, either.

Johnny reaches out around you, grabbing your bottle of shower gel and your washcloth.

You sigh a bit dramatically; of course he can't let you wash yourself. What is with these fucking men and their desire to bathe you? And you know you can't say no, can't fight him on it, or he'd rat you out to Simon and you'd likely be punished.

Though, even if you could fight him with no consequences, you aren't sure you would. You're so fucking tired, and your entire abdomen aches. You simply don't have the energy to fight right now.

You suppose it's not the end of the world, though. It's happened before, and will likely happen again. Probably every fucking month, knowing them.

Johnny's quick, like he said he'd be, washing where you're not bloodied first so the water can take care of most of the mess. You're a bit surprised he thought to do that, rather than ruining a washcloth going head first into the mess, but you remember again that he used to be a soldier. He's probably had many bloody showers before this.

Of course, his efficiency lessens when he gets to your ass. Rather than scrubbing and moving on, he decides now he needs to take his sweet time. You suck it up, dealing with the lingering touches, until he squeezes. That's when you swat at him, and, of course, he laughs.

They don't take you seriously. Why don't they take you seriously? It really does feel like they see you as a pet, incapable of making your own decisions. A clueless puppy who doesn't know what's good for her, and needs them to tell her how to think. Like your feelings lack merit, your choices driven by baser needs.

Now you're crying.

Fuck all of this.

"Aw, baby," Johnny coos. "Wha's wrong, hm? Is it yer belly?"

His hands move to your lower abdomen, pressing down like his touch alone can magically soothe the pain.

Then, he's stepping forwards, pressing himself against your back. You stiffen, because of fucking course, he's hard.

"Dinna fash," he says to you, his voice just above a whisper. "I'm no' pervin' on ya right now."

He steps back, bringing you with him so you're not stuck under the spray anymore. Finally. That was getting really uncomfortable.

Johnny's hands press into your abdomen, massaging, and, because apparently you can't have anything, it only makes your cramps worse.

One pained hiss is all it takes for him to back off, his hands going back to simply pressing instead of massaging.

"Ah Was gonna wash yer hair, too, but we can do that t'morrow if you wanna get out now," he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder.

If you don't wash your hair, it will only feel horrifically greasy when it dries. Couple that with everything else you'll be feeling tomorrow, day two, and you won't make it through the day.

"Wash it," you mumble. "Just be fast. I'm tired."

You expect him to make you ask nicely, demand you tack on a 'please' at the end of your request like the others do, but all he does is hum in acknowledgement and reach for your shampoo.

He massages the soap into your scalp, his fingers scratching just right. You can't help leaning back into it. It feels so nice, and everything else feels so shitty. You can allow yourself this one thing.

"Turn around f'me." Johnny's voice is soft and relaxed, lulling you just a bit. "Gotta rinse."

You turn, keeping your eyes shut as you tilt your head back and bring your own hands to your scalp. When you deem your hair sufficiently rinsed, you turn back and shut the tap off, too tired for conditioner.

"Hey!" Johnny huffs. "I'm nae done. Yer all clean, but if I get out, I'll smell like wet dog."

Nothing new.

You bite back your comment and flip the tap back on, and Johnny yells for Simon to come get you. An 'I don't need help' dies on your tongue when Simon enters promptly, so quick you realize he's been waiting outside the bathroom for you.

He's got a wad of pajamas in his hands, which he tosses onto the bathroom counter before grabbing two towels. One he poorly wraps your hair in, and the other you expect him to wrap around your body, but he instead towels you off. You really do start to feel like a dog at the groomers, now.

Once your skin is dry enough for him, he retrieves a pajama shirt from the counter and tugs it over your head. You glance at the pile, only to realize that it wasn't a pile— it was just a balled up shirt.

What the fuck? Are you supposed to just Winnie the Pooh it?

"C'mon, doll," he murmurs, turning to leave. You snatch one of the towels off the wall and wrap it around your waist, like a makeshift skirt, before following Simon out. You're expecting to be taken back to your room, but Simon leads you to the stairs. He turns around, presumably to check if you're still following, and sighs when he sees your towel skirt.

"Ya don't need that," he grunts.

The glare you shoot him must be fierce, because he only sighs and doesn't argue any further. Either that or he's also too tired for arguing.

"C'mon."

He starts down the stairs, checking over his shoulder every few steps to check on you. You scoff internally. What does he think will happen just going down the stairs?"

He leads you to the living room, and you freeze at the sight of the couch. No fucking way.

There are at least three towels laid out on the couch, all of them looking old and worn out. "Are you fucking kidding?" You blurt before you can stop yourself.

He really wants you to sit on those towels like an animal?

"Don't have many options, doll," he sighs heavily. "'S the best I could come up with. Go on, sit down."

Now you get why he didn't bring you any bottoms. Your plan was to free bleed over the toilet as long as you comfortably could, and then switch to toilet paper diapers until John and Kyle came home with your pads.

"I could just—" you don't get to tell him your plan before he's interrupting you.

"Ya could just be good and go sit down on the comfortable couch."

You scowl at him again, but this time he doesn't budge. "Sit down, doll," he sighs.

So, you relent, begrudgingly trudging over to the couch and plopping down on the towels. You take the one around your waist and slide it out from under you, draping it over your body like a blanket to keep yourself covered.

That asshole was gonna make you sit on the couch without anything to cover up. The fucking nerve of these men.

Simon settles down into his recliner, grunting like sitting down is an effortful task. You wish you had something to throw at him.

He grabs the remote and clicks the TV on, flipping through channels while you quietly seethe. For a while, you two just sit in silence, Simon searching for something to watch and you waiting impatiently for John and Kyle to get back. You never thought you'd be eager to see any of your kidnappers return home, let alone John, but here you are.

Your cramps start up again, vacillating between dull and stabbing, and you don't bother trying to hide your discomfort. Your face twists up in a pained grimace, and you slouch back against the couch.

Simon glances over at you. "Y'okay?" He sounds unsure of himself.

"Do you have a heat pad? Or some paracetamol?" You pause. "Preferably both."

He gives you a pitying look. "No heat pad, doll. But I can order one, and get ya some pills for now."

He leaves to get the paracetamol, and you let yourself truly sag into the couch cushions, trying to get comfortable. You can't do much to adjust, sitting on towels with no fucking pants on, so you can't even lay down and try to find that awkward, curled up ball position that magically makes the pain better. And no heat pad… you could start crying all over again over just that. The paracetamol usually helps enough, but a heat pad is always nice while you wait for it to kick in, or take care of whatever ache lingers.

Simon returns with a glass of water and a couple pills in his palm, which he hands to you to take yourself. You're almost surprised he didn't feed you the pills from his hand, since they apparently think you can't do anything yourself.

Just as your mood starts to sour even worse, Johnny comes padding down the stairs, his mohawk damp and his chest bare. He looks awfully relaxed… You make a mental note to rinse out the tub next time you shower, just in case.

"There ye are," he mutters, sounding a bit exasperated. "Thought ye were back in bed, and when ya weren't there, Ah had ta check Si's room." He pauses, only now noticing you're sat on towels and currently using one as a blanket.

"He couldna even give ya a proper blanket?" Johnny scoffs, marching over to the blanket basket on the ground (you can only guess that Kyle is the one who bought it— he's the only one who tries to keep things tidy), snatches one up, and flops down next to you.

"Here." He snatches your towel off you, uncovering you so casually it makes you want to gouge his eyes out. You shriek at him to give the towel back, but he quickly throws the blanket in it's place.

"There now. All cozy." He smiles at you, beaming like he's proud of himself.

"Leaver 'er be, Johnny," Simon rumbles from his recliner. "She's hurtin', and the last thing she needs is you buggin' her."

Johnny gives Simon a look, one akin to a pout, before turning back to you. "Hurtin' still? I'll help."

You don't get to protest before he's slipping his hand under your blanket, pressing it on your lower belly.

You're about to shove him away when the warmth of his palm sinks into your skin. It's no heat pad, but it's helping a little. You relax again, melting back into the couch. His hand is dangerously close to your pubic mound, but he behaved in the shower. Well, until you got out, if his relaxed look is anything to go by. He probably won't try anything when he knows you're hurting.

"There we go," he hums. "Ye just close yer eyes and try ta get a wee nap until the others are back, aye?"

Sleep sounds heavenly, and Johnny's warmth is staving off at least the worst of your cramps, so falling asleep should be easier. You let your head loll back against the couch cushions and close your eyes, letting the sound of the TV lull you to sleep.

—

"We weren't sure what to get, so we just got— well, a lot."

Kyle's voice stirs you from your sleep, and you grimace, feeling disoriented and still too tired. You close your eyes again, not caring to hear whatever he has to say.

Someone give you a gentle shake, and when you open your eyes to fix whoever is disrupting you with the iciest glare you can muster, you're met with John, knelt in front of you holding out two packages of pads.

"Don't worry about Gaz," he murmurs so only you can hear him. "I got everything ya needed."

You sit up, groaning and rubbing your eyes, before finally taking a moment to actually look at what he's holding out to you. One package has thicker pads than the other, but both packs are winged.

Huh. He really did know.

You grab the thicker package and stand, remembering too late that you're bare from the waist down and have been free bleeding for the past hour or so.

You snatch the towel off the floor, the one that had been your skirt, and quickly wrap it around your waist. Your face feels like it's on fire, flushing bright from the embarrassment.

The only one who seems to have noticed is John, and, to your relief, he actually looked away. You didn't know he knew how to do that— respect your privacy.

"Alright, sweetheart," he hums, standing back up. "We got ya some other things, too— comfort food, really. You can have a look tomorrow, when you're not half asleep."

He smiles warmly at you and leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He's quite smart for saving his affections when you're too tired to fight him on it.

You start on your journey to the steps, stumbling a bit on tired legs, and Johnny appears at your side. "I'll help ya, hen," he hums, holding you upright.

Johnny helps you to your room, grabbing some underwear and pajama pants for you, and then helps you back to the bathroom. "I'll go back tae the room, give ye some privacy," he says, patting your towel-clad flank before retreating down the hallway.

You get yourself cleaned up a bit, then dressed, and walk back to your room, your feet dragging against the floor.

Finally, finally, you can go back to sleep.

The paracetamol has you practically pain free now, and Johnny tugs you in close, spooning you like he always does, and presses his hand back to your belly. When you're this tired, everything feels perfect— your pillow cradles your head just right, your blankets are wonderfully soft, and you're so comfortably warm.

You don't even realize that you've snuggled in closer to Johnny.

—

In the morning, you get to see what Kyle meant when he said they bought "a lot."

The sanitary products were handled by John, which put Kyle in charge of the snacks, and he went overboard.

You're not complaining, though.

He got two different cartons of ice cream, along with several small pints.

"I didn't know what you'd be craving, so I just grabbed anything that said chocolate on it," he explains, looking a bit embarrassed. "Oh, and I got you some sorbet, too, in case you wanted something fruity."

Along with your ice cream is a bag of mini chocolate bars, the packaging decorated for Halloween.

They really push that chocolate craving thing, don't they?

He also got you some salty snacks, again somehow knowing your favorites without you even hinting at it. John and Simon probably raided your pantry while they were getting your things and made note of it then.

He's also grabbed a few boxes of pastries, and some raspberry leaf tea that looks out of place among the table full of snack foods.

"I read online it helps with cramps," he mumbles.

He went online? That's almost endearing.

If the tea itself doesn't work, at least you'll have something warm to drink.

And finally, at the end of the display of Kyle's panic shopping, are muffins. John must've grabbed those. You'll have to check the fridge later for more yogurt, too.

You snatch a muffin from the container, needing some food before you take more pain killer. Today, you don't want to do anything more than eat and sleep, and you highly doubt any of the four will try to stop you.

—

Neither of them tried to stop you, but Johnny of course decided he had to join you.

You distinctly remember him being banned from naps, but that doesn't stop him from crawling under the covers with you and tugging you against his chest. Last night, you welcomed tolerated it. Today, though, you need him to back the fuck off. He doesn't, though, and you end up tossing and turning and shoving at him, until he finally gives up and rolls away from you.

By that point, though, the others must've noticed his absence, because Kyle barges in to retrieve him. They argue for a bit, Johnny grumbling and Kyle sighing so heavily you'd think he was tasked with waking the dead, until Johnny finally gets up after Kyle threatens to go get Simon.

You're annoyed, but you really can't blame Johnny. If you could, you'd sleep all day.

Kyle doesn't leave you alone either, though, which is just cruel and unusual. He says you just need to get up long enough to eat something— one muffin isn't enough, blah blah blah, need nutrients, blah blah blah— and then, he's dragging you up.

"I know, lovey," he sighs, "but this is important. You can go back to sleep after."

He tries to guide you out the door, but you yank away from him and storm out by yourself. You don't care that it's petulant, and you don't care that you're throwing a tantrum. Their behavior last night tells you that this is week will be your get out of jail free card, where you can have as much attitude as you want with little repercussions.

You choke down whatever you can find that Kyle might count as nutrients— a cup of yogurt, a handful of carrot sticks, and a single piece of bread. You drink a small cup of water, too, just to be safe, and refill it to keep on your bedside table.

Kyle finds you in the kitchen just as you down your water, and you rattle off what you just ate to him before walking right past him. You don't bother to think about what took him so long.

He says nothing about your fine dining, so you assume that means it's enough for now, but he does follow you.

You ignore him, hoping that he'll just go away. Only, when you turn to go into your room, he stops you.

"I moved some of your things to my room," he says. "Just your pillows and blankets. I think you should nap in my room, so Johnny doesn't have any reasons to get back in bed."

You want to be angry at him for making this decision for you, but you're starting to feel overstimulated. All you want is to sleep, and everyone seems determined to stop you.

"Fine," you snap, letting Kyle take you to his room.

You've never been to his room before, but you don't stop to look around. You go straight for his bed, wasting no time setting down your water and crawling into the side he laid your stuff on.

You stiffen when the bed dips. "Don't touch me," you demand. "I can't take it today."

You aren't sure if that would work or not, but, to your relief, it does.

"Whatever you say, luv," Kyle says softly. He still gets into bed with you, but he keeps to his own side.

Finally where you wanted to be, you fall back asleep easily, no longer feeling suffocated by someone else.

—

Horrid pain yanks you from your peaceful sleep. It feels as if your insides are being twisted around in your body, and a wave of nausea rolls over you.

Holy fucking shit.

The only thing you can think to do is tuck your body into a defensive ball, clutching your hands to your belly and ducking your head. It just barely helps, almost not worth it. You should get up, should run for the medicine cabinet, but you know if you stand right now, your evil uterus will knock you right back on your ass.

"Lovey?" Kyle's voice is soft, though a bit coarse from sleep. "Are you okay?"

You don't lift your head up to look at him, only groaning at him.

He says nothing, but you hear him sit up, and then you hear a drawer slide open. Then he's up, and soon facing you.

"Here, sweetheart," he says gently, like you're an injured animal he's about to peel of the side of the road. "Sit up for me. I've got some more pills for ya, okay?"

You force yourself to uncurl, ignoring the harsh stab of pain that comes with moving anything at all on day two of the period (technically could still be day one, since you started last night. Oh joy). Kyle helps you sit up, setting the pills down beside your cup of water and lifting you up by your armpits until you're upright.

"Here, lovey," he hands you the pills and tips the cup to your lips, letting you keep your hands pressed to your abdomen. You gulp down the pills, cursing pharmacies for not inventing fast-acting pain pills that aren't addictive.

Sensations other than pain slowly return to you, and you realize you really, really need the bathroom. Worst fucking week of the month.

You croak out one word, "bathroom," and Kyle helps you up, letting you lean on him as you stumble down the hall. You worry he's going to wait outside for you, but they seem to know enough about shark week to steer clear. You're free to suffer through the horrors of menstruation without worrying about anyone hearing.

The brunt of the suffering ends, and you eye the shower. You feel sweaty and gross again, and a hot shower is the best you can do without a heating pad. Shower it is.

—

By the time you're out of the shower and dried off, the medicine and hot water have done their jobs of soothing your cramps. Only a mild aching remains, which you can handle. You hope Simon ordered your heat pad with next-day shipping.

The paracetamol can take care of the cramps, but the fatigue and overall exhaustion can't be fixed with a pill— at least, not a pill they've got in their medicine cabinet. So, you trudge back to Kyle's room, ready for another nap. You're starting to get hungry again, but you can't think of anything to eat that doesn't make you sick to your stomach.

To your surprise, Kyle's in the room, in bed with a book. He must've been waiting all this time for you to come back this whole time. It really is shocking to see him in bed when he's the one who's always trying to get you and Johnny up, the one who's always busy with something around or outside the house.

You're met with more conflicting feelings. Should you be touched that he's forgoing his day just for you?

This isn't the week for hard thoughts.

You get back into bed, sinking back into the comfortable mattress. You probably should worry about being able to fall asleep at night. Spending the whole day sleeping will fuck up your circadian rhythm for sure, but you're too tired to care.

"You feelin' any better?" Kyle finally speaks up. "Cramps gone?"

"Yeah," you mumble, face half pressed into the pillow. "And no. I need that heating pad," you tack on with a groan.

Kyle moves then, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his hands to your abdomen. "Tav told me he did this, and it helped," he explains, settling in behind you just like Johnny does.

It does help, so you let the touching slide. You're in a slightly better mood now, so touching is now tolerable.

You start to drift off when Kyle's hand slides lower, and you stiffen, grabbing his wrist. "What are you doing?" You demand more than ask.

"Shh," he shushes you, using his free hand to push yours away. "Tea wasn't the only thing I read that soothes cramps."

Fuck.

"Kyle, stop it—"

He cuts you off with another shush, his hands sliding into your underwear. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

"No!" you whine this time, frantic.

"Why not?" he asks, his hand still fucking moving lower.

"It's gross! I'm bleeding—"

"Hush," he shushes you again, this time almost harshly. "Who told you it's gross, hm? We're not afraid of some blood, lovey. Just let me take care of you."

Not afraid of blood. Johnny said the same thing last night.

Just let me take care of you. Last time you tried to fight him on that, he ratted you out to Simon, and you almost got your ass beat. Again. If you fought him on this, would you get in trouble? Does this even count as 'helping' you?

"Oh fuck—!"

You don't mean to cuss; you don't even mean to make a sound at all, but Kyle slid two thick fingers into you, curling them against that magic spot inside you. He grinds the heel of his hand against your clit, and another involuntary sound slips from you.

You hadn't realized how much more sensitive you are on your period. It's to the point that you try to squirm away, but Kyle only follows you. "You're not goin' anywhere, baby," he murmurs, his voice heavy with lust.

It feels impossible to stay still. He targets every nerve-dense spot he can find, his fingers pressing against your g-spot and the heel of his hand pressed firmly against your clit.

He keeps the pace slow, like he's trying to be gentle, but the way he's fucking attacking your most sensitive spots contradicts his attempt at softness. He's got you mewling and gasping embarrassingly fast, and you really don't know how. Before them, you couldn't get yourself off this easy if you tried, especially if you weren't already in the mood.

Do humans have pheromones? You don't think so, but you tell yourself that yes, they do, because that's the only plausible explanation. They just smell good, compatible with your animal brain, and that's how they get you worked up so easily. That has to be it.

Every attempt at squirming away is thwarted. He either holds you tighter with his free hand, or you end up pushed back against the wall of his chest.

"Stay still, baby. Don't fight me."

It's fucking impossible to stay still. Heat builds and builds, deep in your belly, and your nerves are alight, every touch forcing you to either grind back against him or pull away. Soon, he's got you at your tipping point, and you crave him and the unbearable intensity of his touch.

"That's a good girl," he hums, kissing at your neck. When your body starts to shudder, he tilts your head towards him and presses his lips to yours, swallowing your cry when your pleasure crests.

Your body squeezes around his fingers, and god, it feels nice for your inner muscles to finally have something to squeeze rather than cramping around nothing.

Finally, he slows to a stop, warming your body down to make the come-down easier. He pulls away from your mouth, letting you take a full breath. "There we go," he praises, his voice full of affection.

He slides his fingers from you, and you grimace, closing your eyes so you don't have to see the mess.

With one last kiss to your temple, he slides out of bed and out of the room to the door, presumably to wash his hands.

He pauses at the doorframe, looking back at you over his shoulder.

"If that didn't help, then I'll make you some of that tea."

With that, he leaves, and you roll onto your back with a sigh, waiting for that inevitable twinge in your belly.

And damn him, it doesn't come. He was right; it fucking worked.

You shut your eyes and send out a little prayer to whatever force might hear:

You wake sticky with sweat. You feel grimy, nasty, the grease in your hair a reminder that your last shower was the night before your escape attempt.

Johnny, like always, is still asleep, keeping you trapped in his embrace. You don't know how he can manage to hold you so close; he runs hot like a furnace. Does he not feel it, or does he just not care? You wish he cared.

For the first time since they kidnapped you, you wake up hungry. Your stomach growls at you, aching like it's going to start digesting itself. You haven't had much of an appetite for the last two days, hardly eating at all. Now your stomach is upset with you as well.

You lay tangled in Johnny's limbs, deciding if you want to wait for someone to come get you or if you want to wake Johnny yourself. Another pang of hunger hits, your empty stomach making the decision for you.

You pull an arm free from under his, and shove none too gently at his shoulder. Johnny groans almost immediately, throwing his usual post-waking fit.

"Why are ye so mean to me?" he whines, releasing you and rolling onto his back. "It'd be nice ta be woken up wi' a kiss, y'ken…"

You ignore him, deciding that he's getting the cold shoulder treatment now, too. You skip getting dressed, knowing you'll coming back up for a shower after breakfast, and limp to the door. Kyle had said earlier that they got you crutches and some other mobility devices, but you've yet to actually see them.

"Where are ya goin?" Johnny asks, sounding a bit more awake now.

"Go back to sleep," you grumble, nearly hopping on your one leg just to keep from standing on your bad one.

He grumbles, and the bed shifts. "What the— bonnie!"

You look over your shoulder at Johnny, who's now storming over to you.

"What the hell do ye think yer doin'?"

He lifts you off the ground, scooping you up in a bridal carry. Even now, it pisses you off how easily they all can pick you up. You're a grown woman, you've got meat on your bones, yet they all lift you like you weigh nothing. You realize that, while your situation is awful, you're actually quite lucky that your captors aren't violent.

"Ye cannae be walkin' around on yer bad foot, ya wee dafty."

"Put me down!" you grunt, pushing at his chest. "I'm just going to the kitchen, Johnny, put me down."

"Yer awfully mouthy today, bonnie," Johnny mumbles, carrying you out of the bedroom. "Maybe I really will get tae put ye over my knee."

You stop yelling, but you scowl at him. His threats don't scare you like Simon and John's do.

"Tha's what I thought." Johnny's grin is smug, and you fantasize about smacking it off his face.

He carries you down the stairs and to the kitchen, where Simon, Kyle, and John are already sat.

"Up early today," John muses, smiling warmly at you and Johnny. You ignore him. You know better than to glare at John like you did Johnny. That would end well for nobody.

Johnny sets you down and helps you into your assigned spot at the table and moves to the fridge. Kyle's sat across from you and John is to your left at the end of the table, Simon at the opposite end. You push down your unease, still very unhappy with John. You don't want to be anywhere near him.

"You'd think she'd be sleepin' longer after the night we had," Johnny boasts. You whip your head towards hi, eyes wide. Everyone seems to go still, their eyes trained on you.

"Oh, aye," Johnny grins, talking over his shoulder from the fridge. "Our wee angel isn't as innocent as she looks. She's got an appetite."

Your cheeks heat, flushing a bright pink. You curse whatever stupid evolutionary purpose embarrassed-blushing serves, and you curse your body for giving Johnny the reaction he's looking for. You curse him for even seeking a reaction in the first place.

"Shoulda seen 'er. She was wrigglin' all over the bed, makin' all the prettiest noises just for me."

"I was not!" You shout. Embarrassment has you hot all over, and you hope desperately that your flush isn't deepening.

"Dinna be shy," Johnny taunts. He shuts the refrigerator, holding two containers of yogurt. "We're all adults here, are we no'?"

"Johnny," Simon grunts. "Quit lyin'."

"I'm nae lyin'," Johnny huffs, grabbing two spoons from the silverware drawer.

"Then stop exaggerating. It's too early for this."

Johnny huffs again. "Fine."

Johnny carries the yogurts and spoons back to the table, taking his seat next to you and sliding your breakfast over to you. You're still hungry, but you aren't sure if you could stomach anything now.

Johnny tears the lid off his yogurt and licks it clean. You curse him a second time, just for good measure.

You get a good minute of quiet before Johnny starts up again.

"Never gonna wash this hand again," he mutters, grinning to himself like he thinks he's the funniest person to grace the earth.

"Hand?" Kyle asks. When you glance at him, he's got an eyebrow raised.

Why must they torture you like this? It's not like you can just tell them to shut up and be done. What can you do? It's been made abundantly clear that your privacy isn't a priority, and apparently, they aren't too concerned about avoiding embarrassing you.

"Aye, hand. It started off just a standard night, y'ken? Until this one started rubbin' her arse up against my cock."

You sputter, outraged. "That— that is not what happened!"

"Then tell us what did happen, luv?" John chimes in. You freeze, suddenly not too interested in clearing your name.

You stare at your yogurt container, hellbent on not looking at John. You aren't so lucky, however.

"Well? Look at me, darling, and tell us what he did."

You look up at John, though you focus on the bridge of his nose instead of his eyes. Small, unnoticeable defiance.

"He started grinding into me. When I tried to make him stop, he rolled on top of me."

John hums. "So our Johnny's been naughty?"

Johnny is quick to shift the blame. "She didna tell ya she scratched me!" he blurts, lifting his arms to show off the raised lines of raw skin you left.

"So we're both bein' naughty," Kyle grins. You shoot him a nasty look, though his grin only widens.

"What happened next, darling?" John asks, drawing your attention back to him. You wish they'd all just mind their own damn business for once.

"It doesn't matter," you grumble, looking back to your unopened yogurt.

Simon speaks up now. "Would ya rather 'ave Johnny tell us?"

That gives you some incentive to talk. Johnny's made it clear he has no problem with blowing things out of proportion, even with you sitting right there with him.

"Fine."

For a moment, you consider exaggerating, too. Johnny mentioned how John is always the one to punish you, and said if he were to punish you he'd be much nicer about it. You could lie; you could twist his words around, make him out to be jealous and derisive.

But you don't know how they'd handle your lying. You already know they don't seem to mind Johnny's lying— they must attribute it to his personality, that he's simply just dramatic. But you? How would they react to you lying?

And what if it was seen as an attempt to butter up to John? What if he thinks you're ratting on Johnny to get on his good side? No, you can't have that. You just have to tell the truth.

"He smacked me," you mutter, still staring at your yogurt.

"On the bum," Johnny interjects, exasperated.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes and continue.

"Then he started talking," you huff.

"About what?"

You learn very quickly that they won't let you omit any details.

"…about what he'd do if he ever punished me."

That earns you some soft laughter, and while you know they're laughing at Johnny and not you, the laughter still makes you feel worse.

"Yeah? And how would he punish you?" Kyle asks.

Tears prickle at your eyes. You try to fight it, but it doesn't matter; they all see your tears.

"Oh, baby," Kyle coos, standing up and walking around to your chair. "It's okay. The details don't matter, hm?"

You turn your head away from him, feeling nothing but pathetic. Kyle gently pulls your chair out from the table and lifts you up, grabbing your yogurt and spoon, too. You try not to cry harder when, again, you're lifted so effortlessly.

"We're sorry," he hums, pressing a kiss to your temple before carrying you back to the stairs.

He takes you up to your room, sitting you on the bed and handing you your untouched breakfast.

"Here. Eat somethin', and if you're full, I'll run you a bath."

Relaxing just a bit, you open your container of yogurt. Finally, this is your chance for privacy. You're not really in the mood for eating anymore, but your stomach is still empty, and the sooner you finish your yogurt the sooner you can have a good soak, alone.

—

You couldn't have been more wrong.

When you finish your yogurt, Kyle does as he promised and goes to start a bath, taking your empty container to throw away. All is well.

You hear water running in the bathroom down the hall. All is well.

Kyle comes to fetch you, carrying you to the bathroom. You wish he'd just give you the crutches already, but still, all is well.

Kyle sets you down and grabs some fresh towels for you. All is well.

"Alright, sweetheart. Let's getcha into your bath."

What?

"Uh… I don't need help, really, I can do it myself."

Kyle sighs. "I don't want you falling and getting yourself hurt worse."

All is not well.

"I won't fall. I promise, I'll be careful."

Kyle gives you a patronizing look. "You don't know that, sweetheart. It's safer if you just let me help you."

All is not well.

You shake your head. "I can do it myself— I won't even be standing the whole time, it really isn't even that dangerous-"

"Don't be difficult," Kyle huffs, cutting you off. "Just let me help you."

All is not well.

You take a breath, steadying yourself, and look him in the eye.

"No."

His eyebrows raise in response, and for a moment, he says nothing. Your heart is racing and you can feel your palms start to sweat.

"I'm not going to bathe with you in here. Leave, or I won't take a bath at all."

Kyle keeps staring, studying you. He looks equal parts insulted, impressed, and annoyed.

All is not well.

All is not well.

All is not we—

"Fine."

Now your eyebrows shoot up, you yourself surprised that he gave in.

Kyle gives you one last look before leaving the bathroom.

All is well.

Sitting down on the edge of the tub, you let yourself deflate. You need a moment to calm down, that small confrontation enough to get your nervous system firing up. You realize that your knees have started to shake, just a bit, and let out a small, slightly delirious laugh.

You can't believe that worked.

Taking one last deep breath, you ready yourself to stand and shut the door to undress.

Then you hear footsteps on the stairs— two sets.

Your heart rate spikes again and your body does that horrid all-over shiver, like you've gone cold for just a split second.

Calm down, you tell yourself, it's fine. They're not coming for you. It's something else.

The footsteps grow louder as they approach the bathroom door, still open. You stand up, preparing for another confrontation, as if you can even do anything. You have to lean against the wall just to keep steady.

In walks Kyle, and following close behind, is Simon.

All is not well.

"Be glad I didn't bring John," Kyle remarks. Then he scoffs. "I'm still helpin' you, even after you kick up a fuss like an ungrateful brat."

He shakes his head in disbelief before near stomping out of the bathroom, shutting the door and leaving you with a none-too pleased looking Simon.

You don't look at him. If you had a tail, it'd be tucked between your legs.

"He's got a point, y'know," Simon grunts. "Ya could be a bit more cooperative for 'im, after all 'e's done."

You say nothing, eyes fixed on the floor.

Simon sighs.

He moves, and you flinch, though he moves too fast for you to make a real attempt to get away.

He sits down on the edge of the tub and drags you down by your arm, pulling you across his thighs.

Oh god, no, not again.

He yanks your pajama pants down, then your panties. Desperate pleas and apologies slip from your lips, but he doesn't acknowledge them.

"Still got a few bruises," he grunts, pressing down on one. You bite back a whimper.

"Not even fully healed from yer last punishment, 'nd yer already actin' like ya need another."

Your breathing picks up, getting closer and closer to hyperventilating with each passing second. Tears well in your eyes again.

Simon presses his palm down on one cheek. He doesn't move, or squeeze; he just sets it there.

"Do ya need another?"

You shake your head no immediately, a few tears slipping past your waterline and dripping onto the floor.

"Then stop fuckin' actin' like it," he snaps. He slaps your ass twice, once on each cheek, before standing you up. You wobble a bit, but he presses your hands to his shoulders to steady you.

He yanks your bottoms the rest of the way down your legs and lifts your feet from them when you don't do it yourself, and then moves to your pajama shirt and that same bra he put on you yesterday.

He moves so quickly and so roughly that you can't protest, needing all your focus to stay balanced.

Finally, he takes the brace off your ankle, his touch turning gentle as he pulls it off your foot.

He stands, then, taking hold of your arm and nudging at your good foot with his own. He holds you steady while you step into the tub, sniffling pathetically.

He guides you to sit in the tub, saying nothing when you draw your knees to your chest. Hiding yourself.

"Ya really are lucky Gaz didn't grab Price." He turns to dig through some cupboards before producing a large rinse-cup. If you weren't so humiliated, you'd be a bit amused at the thought of four 'tough-guy's having a bath cup.

Simon turns back to you, fills the cup with water, and tilts your head back to wet your hair.

"When yer done in the bath, yer gonna apologize to 'im— properly. If y'think yer gonna be smart about it, or fight me on this, then I'll use his bath brush to paddle ya."

You stiffen at the threat, hugging your knees tighter and staring down at the bottom of the tub.

"Kyle doesn't like punishin' ya," he grumbles, grabbing your shampoo. "He doesn't like watchin' it, either— doesn't like seein' ya cry."

He squeezes a blob onto your head, working it into your scalp with surprising gentleness.

"But ya pushed him far enough, wore his patience too thin, an' made him come get me. 'e's too mad ta even bathe ya himself, and if there's anythin' he loves, it's takin' care o' people. You push him like that again, and Price'll have you sittin' on ice for weeks."

Simon tips your head back again, rinsing the suds from your scalp.

"So, I'm gonna help ya out. Again."

Simon grips your chin and tugs your face to his, forcing you to look at him.

"If we're insistin' on somethin' ya don't like, for yer own safety, then ya suck it up. 'S okay if ya need to cry— nobody'll punish ya for tears— but cooperate anyway. Don't argue if we're just tryin' ta keep ya from hurtin' y'self."

He releases your chin, and you go back to staring at the tub floor.

He just told you not to argue with them because they know what's good for you better than you do. They get to make decisions for you, and you just have to deal with it. No arguing.

Simon puts his hand on your knee and starts to push it away from your chest, and, without thinking, you move.

You grab onto his hand and sink your nails into his skin. So much for no arguing.

He pulls his hands away and grabs both your wrist. "What did I just say, hm?"

You can't bring yourself to look at his face, and it's then you realize he's soaped up a washcloth.

"Doll," Simon warns, releasing your wrist and grabbing your chin again. "Look at me. What did I just fuckin' say?"

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. Your throat tightens up and you feel more tears at the backs of your eyes.

"Hm. I know yer cryin' cuz you're scared, but f'your sake, I'll pretend it's 'cos yer sorry."

Simon releases your chin, and his voice gentles.

"I promise, doll, I'm not creepin' on ya right now. I just wanna get ya cleaned up. Stop arguin', stop scratchin', and stop fightin'. I'll get this done as fast as I can."

You don't like angry Simon. He's terrifying, and you usually end up crying when he's angry with you. Even still, you can't make yourself move. Simon has to do it for you, and you're grateful he can read you well enough to realize you're not being defiant on purpose anymore.

He pushes your knees down, straightening your legs out to uncover your chest and abdomen. A tiny, pathetic whimper sounds from your throat, one you tried to hold back but ended up escaping anyway. Simon shushes you gently and brings the soapy cloth to your collar bone, starting with the 'safe' skin.

Simon is gentle and efficient, just like he said he'd be. He washes your arms, then has you turn you turn so he can wash your back. He scrubs away all the oil and sweat that had built up on your skin, rinses away the evidence of your escape attempt.

You're at war again, a never-ending battle between you and yourself. It feels nice to have someone taking care of you— but that someone just so fucking happens to be your kidnapper. You're being pampered, but you can't even enjoy it. If you let yourself relax and enjoy it you'd suffocate under the weight of guilt and shame.

But what else can you do?

As badly as you want to hold onto the idea that you can leave here, that you'll be rescued, you're starting to give up hope.

You've tried (and failed) to escape twice now, and you're going on one month without any sign of rescue. You don't exactly have access to the news to check, but the fact that nobody's come to bust their door down yet is enough.

It's all so complicated. You should hate them, should be plotting your escape every second of every day, but you're just so… tired.

Constantly being in fight-or-flight is exhausting. Constantly worrying is exhausting. Jumping off roofs is exhausting. Spraining your ankle is exhausting. Getting your ass beat by John is exhausting.

You were traded work and school burnout for this. What would you even call this? Escape burnout? Captive burnout? Is this the beginning of Stockholm syndrome?

That metaphorical light of hope is fading, and you've got nothing but a sprained ankle, a sore body, and a tired mind to rely on. Would it really be such a horrible thing to just give in?

"Doll," Simon murmurs, nudging you gently from your thoughts. You're being pulled from your head a lot. Maybe this is a sign; why should you be expected to fight or escape if you can barely stay out of your own head?

"I need t'wash yer face. Close those eyes f'me."

You do as you're told, letting him scrub and rinse the oil off your face, too.

"Last part and then we're done, doll," Simon mumbles. He sounds pitying.

He dips the cloth down beneath the surface of the water, and it finally clicks why he sounded sympathetic.

You draw your knees quickly back to your chest, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the tub.

Simon sighs, though he doesn't sound particularly annoyed or exasperated.

"Don't make this harder than it needs t'be," he says softly.

"I can do it myself." One last try, even if you sound like a broken record.

"Sweet'eart," Simon sighs again. "I know y'can. But I want to. Ya need to learn t'listen when it's hard."

"This isn't necessary," you nearly wail, your volume raising suddenly and tears springing back to your eyes.

Simon shushes you almost harshly, and you find yourself shrinking back to that sulky, pathetic little captive they're turning you into.

"Don't shout at me, or I'll hafta wash your mouth out with soap."

You say nothing, again staring back down at the water.

"…I bet he'd like that," Simon laughs softly.

What???

Your eyes snap to his, now wide with shock.

"I'm just teasin'," Simon laughs again, a bit harder this time.

You curl up tighter, but Simon's laughter dies and he puts a hand on your knee to stop you. "No, doll. Just… close your eyes and I'll be done soon."

He keeps saying that, but you're still sitting in this damn tub. The water's getting cold.

"I can call John in here to do it for you, if you'd rather him."

That gets you moving.

You shut your eyes and, with a breath, you slowly slide your feet down the length of the tub, lowering your knees away from your chest.

"Good girl," Simon hums, and while you despise being spoke to like a pet, that sick, attention starved part of you preens at the praise.

You hear Simon dunk the cloth back under the water, and you tense when it settles at the apex of your thighs.

Simon washes you gently, but, of course, thoroughly. You aren't sure which feels more degrading: this, or being spanked. At least this doesn't hurt.

The cloth is soft, and your breath hitches when he brushes a bit too firmly. He freezes, and you can feel his stare burning into you. You refuse to open your eyes.

When he's decided you're thoroughly clean, the washcloth slides further down, and you bring your fist to your hand to bite down on. You hate this, hate it hate it hate it.

He's quick, though your stomach has already soured when he tells you bath time is finally over.

He helps you stand, murmuring that you can open your eyes now. You don't want to, but you're too worried about falling to keep them shut.

Simon wraps you in a nice, soft towel, one of the ones you suspect they had bought just for you.

He lifts you up into yet another bridal carry and takes you back to your room. Johnny's in there already, and he perks up like a dog that just heard the cheese drawer open.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Simon barks at him to stay quiet before he can get a word out.

Simon sets you down at the foot of the bed, and Johnny crawls down to sit next to you. You're waiting patiently for Simon to turn around, see Johnny, and send him on his way.

Simon turns around with a pile of fresh clothes for you, but when he sees Johnny, he says nothing.

You glance nervously between the two men, waiting for him to say something.

Johnny leans a bit closer to you and opens his mouth again. Simon barks again.

"Keep yer mouth shut and behave yourself, then you can stay."

The words come out before you can stop them.

"No he can't!"

Johnny wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side. "Dinna be like that, bonnie," he teases. "Nothin' I havenae already touched."

You try to shove away from him, but your movement is too awkward, too sloppy, and you somehow end up banging your ankle off the bedframe.

"Fuck-!" You yelp, moving to clutch your now throbbing ankle.

Simon is on damage control immediately, searching for your brace while Johnny tries to hold you still. Your towel is starting to fall loose, but Johnny's got your arms crushed to your sides, leaving you unable to fix it.

Your towel comes undone and slips, the top of it falling underneath your breasts and pooling at your hips. You try hard to slip your arms out from under Johnny's, but he doesn't let you.

"Hold still," he grunts. "Canna have ya hurtin' yerself."

Simon promptly slips the brace back around your ankle. "Don't want ya makin' this ankle any worse," he grumbles. "Miss my walks." They're all ignoring the fact that your tits are just hanging out, and it freaks you out a bit. It's a nice change, though, you suppose.

When Simon moves away from the brace and reaches for your clothes, Johnny's hand moves to your chest. There it is.

"Don't touch me," you hiss, but Johnny only laughs.

"Quit yer growlin'," he muses, now using both hands to cup your chest. "Ah'm only touchin'."

You expect Simon to intervene immediately, but for a moment, he just kneels at your feet, watching. You use your weight to try and push Johnny away, but he doesn't budge. The only acknowledgment you get for your efforts is a disapproving click of Johnny's tongue.

Johnny squeezes tight enough to make you wince, and that's when Simon finally stops him.

"Told ya to behave, didn't I, Johnny? Can still kick ya out, y'know."

With a dramatic sigh, Johnny pulls his hands back to himself, though he doesn't scoot away. He stays right up in your bubble of personal space. You aren't surprised though. This behavior is expected from him at this point.

Having Simon dress you is less awkward now; after the bath, being dressed doesn't seem as bad. It's still uncomfortable, especially with Johnny as your audience, but it's less uncomfortable.

You're not sure if you should be grateful that the experience is less difficult, or horrified that it's no longer so unpleasant.

—

Simon carries you downstairs and sets you down on the couch, grabbing Johnny's arm and dragging him away. You hear the door open and close, and you wonder if maybe Simon has been taking Johnny on walks with him in your absence. He did say he misses them, and to be truthful, you miss them a bit too. You could do without the harness and the leash, but otherwise, it was nice to move your legs and get some fresh air.

With a sad little sigh, you settle into the couch, enjoying your brief moment of respite. It's just you in the sitting room, no evil men to harass you.

Of course, though, it's just too good to be true.

Kyle walks into the room, and when you see him, you stiffen.

You're supposed to apologize. Apologize for wanting to bathe yourself.

He walks over to the couch and sits down next to you, sinking into the cushion without a word. You think he's cold shouldering you, until he wraps one arm around your middle and one underneath your legs, pulling you up into his lap.

You're a mix of startled and confused. This is typical behavior for Johnny, and you expected him to still be angry with you.

Kyle sighs, and you remember what Simon told you.

Apologize or he'll spank you with a bath brush.

So, you work your brain to try and find the words to an apology that will seem sincere.

Sorry for wanting some privacy and sorry for not wanting to be seen naked don't seem exactly what Simon was hoping for.

"…um," you start, awkwardness heating your face. "I'm sorry for being… difficult," you manage, though you feel you should say more. This might be too vague, not enough to save you from the bath brush.

"I'm, uh, not used to being taken care of," you mumble. "…or being naked in front of other people."

You regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth, but Kyle laughs softly at that. Silver lining; you're so embarrassed you can physically feel it, but at least Kyle doesn't seem mad.

"'S okay, sweetheart," Kyle hums, giving you a little squeeze. "I understand we can be a bit overbearing."

You relax, trusting Simon will be appeased when Kyle inevitably reports back to him.

You don't get to relax for long, though. Kyle reaches into his pocket and produces a pair of nail clippers.

"We have to do somethin' about those claws," he murmurs into your ear, sounding all to amused. "Saw how you scratched up Johnny. Can't have you maiming us."

He could be serious about simply needing to cut your nails less sharp, or this is a test to see if you're actually sorry and will behave yourself when they try to take care of you. Nail clipping is vastly different than a bath, but you won't look a gift horse in the mouth. You're lucky that, if this is a test, you're getting off easy with a simple manicure.

"Hm… let's take you to the kitchen, yeah? I don't wanna cut too far down 'cos I can't see."

For a moment, he doesn't move, and you realize he's waiting for a response.

"…okay."

—

Kyle helps you to the kitchen (still no crutches- where the fuck are the crutches you were promised?) and you realize he had a second reason to take you here and not the couch.

There are a few bottles of nail polish laid out on the table, all of them new. You're glad they didn't just grab the bottles from your apartment, knowing that your personal nail polish stash is old and too thick to use anymore.

Kyle trims and files your nails nice and neat, the two of you sitting in a surprisingly comfortable silence. Your mind stirs again, thoughts of what this means swirling around, begging for your attention even as you try to ignore them.

Are you comfortable because you're not being accosted? Or are you starting to enjoy his presence?

"There," Kyle hums. He wipes the nail dust off your fingers and grabs what you first think is a moist towelette, but realize is actually an alcohol wipe when he tears it open and the sharp smell hits your nose.

He wipes down your fingers, and then looks to you. "Pick a color, sweetheart."

You glance at the bottles of polish he'd laid out and grab a rich burgundy. The leaves are turning, and burgundy is a good fall color. You think it's October now? You didn't even know the date when you were taken, and you haven't been bothered to check for a calendar or ask for the date. You just have to judge off the weather, and judging by the lack of hot days, you can assume it's either late September or early October.

Kyle takes the bottle from you and lays your hands down flat on the table. He opens the bottle and the distinct smell of nail polish hits you. You hope he'll paint quickly so you don't have to smell it long enough to get a headache.

—

An hour passes since Kyle finishes your nails, now a shiny burgundy, but you're still afraid to touch anything. You've been moved to the couch, but you don't get comfortable, sitting with your hands flat on your thighs. You don't want to smudge the nice paint job being careless, and even though it looks dry and it should be dry by now, you know nail polish is deceiving.

Simon and Johnny return from their walk, and Johnny, of course, beelines for you. You flash him your nails, hoping he'll get the hint that they're wet, but it goes right over his head.

"Aw, they look bonnie," he says, sitting down and tugging you onto his lap. You squawk at him not to jostle you, but it's too late, and your nails slide against his shirt. You yank away, immediately checking, and— thank the universe— there's no smudge. You sigh audibly with relief, Johnny still oblivious to your conflict.

He grabs your legs and hoists them onto his lap, turning you sideways. A startled shout slips from you, which earns you an apologetic look when Johnny remembers your sprained ankle. Once he's got your legs settled on his lap, he takes hold of your uninjured foot.

"Gonna need a matching paint job on yer toes," he muses, staring at your feet like he's analyzing.

"Let go of my feet, you weirdo," you grumble, trying to pull them away. Johnny holds your legs securely, tutting at you to sit still. "Yer gonna hurt yer ankle again if ye keep wigglin' around like tha'."

Johnny calls for Kyle to bring him the nail polish, and you sigh, knowing you won't get out of this. You remind yourself again that getting your nails painted is better than the other things he could be doing to you right now.

Kyle brings Johnny the nail polish, rolling his eyes. "You should move. If you get paint on the couch, Cap'll have your arse."

Johnny scoffs. "Bonnie's comfy. Ah dinna want ta make her move. I willna get any paint on the couch, I'm no' daft."

Kyle spares you a glance and a smile before turning and leaving to whatever he was tending to before. Probably chores. Kyle likes the house to be clean, and ever since you sprained your ankle, you haven't been able to take care of the share assigned to you. You probably could, if they'd just give you those crutches already.

Johnny, of course, can't just get to painting your nails. He has to rub your foot first, has to test your threshold and see when his touch becomes ticklish.

"Stop playing with my feet, you freak," you huff. "If you want to paint my nails, then paint them. I don't want to be subjected to your fetish."

Johnny barks out a laugh and picks the nail polish back up. "Alright, bonnie. But Ah don't have a fetish. Ye just have dainty feet, tha's all."

Whatever. Definitely a fetish.

—

You sit at the dinner table with freshly painted, matching nails, and a full plate of dinner. You're still ignoring John just enough so that you can't get in trouble for not answering, but it's clear that you have no interest in talking to him.

"Pretty nails, darling. Did you paint them?"

"No."

There's a pause, John waiting for you to elaborate, and then a small sigh when you don't.

"Who painted them, then?"

"Kyle."

He hums and nods his head, taking a bite from his plate. "That was sweet, hm? Do you like them?"

You just nod your head.

The atmosphere is thick with tension, the other three sitting in silent discomfort from the awkward conversation.

Eventually, John gives up trying to talk to you for the rest of dinner.

—

After dinner, John is the one to claim you as his 'seat buddy.' You really, really don't want to sit with him, but Simon already told you what happens when you argue.

You're still too angry with John to try and ignore your discomfort. He spanked you with his belt in front of everyone, and made you count out loud. It was easier to get over the first punishment because it wasn't as humiliating, but the humiliation from this one isn't wearing off.

"Stop squirmin', darling," John grunts, grabbing your hips to hold you still. "You're fidgeting too much. Settle down."

God, you hate this, hate him, but you can't even speak up. You can't tell him to let you go, you can't tell him to stop touching you, you can't even ask to sit somewhere else because he's already decided for you.

But then you remember— you can't argue, but tears are allowed.

So, you give yourself a few moments to swallow your pride, and you let your defenses down. You think back to the night you escaped, the details of the events you've tried hard not to think about, and focus on the fear, the humiliation, and the pain. Soon enough, tears well in your eyes and spill out over your waterline, slipping down your cheeks.

It isn't that hard to pretend you're fighting the tears, because even though the tears are your escape, you still hate being vulnerable around the men. A small sob slips from you, and all four of your captors turn all of their attention on you.

"Oh, sweetheart, what's wrong?" Kyle asks, looking ready to stand up from his spot on the couch.

"Dinna cry," Johnny coos, sounding almost pained to see you upset.

"No tears, doll, you're okay," Simon adds.

"Tell us what's wrong, darling," from John, who wraps his arms around you in a hug.

Don't mess this up. Don't mess this up.

"…I- I want Simon," you whimper, trying to keep the stuttering to a minimum.

You feel John stiffen, and by the looks on the others' faces, you can assume they did as well.

There's a long pause, no responses from any of the men. They all sit stone-still, glancing between you and each other.

Finally, John breaks the silence. "…okay, darling. You can go to Simon."

Simon stands, and the rest of the work is done for you. He scoops you up from John's lap and carries you towards the stairs.

You wipe your eyes, embarrassed by your tears even now after your plan worked. That's something you should've looked into before you were kidnapped— why you're so ashamed of crying.

You settle down enough to stop the occasional hiccups in your breathing when Simon reaches your door, but to your surprise, he walks past it. He takes you to the next door over, on the other side of the hall, and you stiffen when he opens the door.

He's taking you to his room.

The walls are empty, the bed is plain, and to nobody's surprise, his sheets are navy blue. He carries you to his bed, where he sets you down at the foot and kneels in front of you. He takes your hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over yours.

"Why the tears, doll?" he prompts gently.

You don't have to worry about trying to trick him, your reason for this upset honest.

"…I'm still afraid," you mumble.

"Afraid of what?" Simon asks, still gentle and caring. The contrast of the mammoth of a man kneeling at your feet and talking so sweetly to you could make you dizzy if you weren't so focused on not crying again.

"Of John," you whisper. "I don't-… I'm still upset…" you stammer, trying and failing to find the right words.

Simon cups your face and shushes you. "I know, baby. It's hard to get over somethin' like that, yeah? But ya don't hafta be scared."

More tears come. You didn't realize that letting a few tears fall meant you wouldn't be able to stop the rest from coming.

"Oh, doll," Simon, coos, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against his chest. "It'll be alright. Jus' let us take care o' ya, let us take care o' everythin'."

You let him hold you, let him rub your back and rock you gently. You've felt so alone since you were kidnapped, but now, even in the arms of the perpetrator, you find the comfort you you've been yearning for.

The day after John had taken you over his knee, you wanted to avoid all four men like the plague. Johnny’s forced cuddle session had made you feel a bit safer, but it had done nothing for your embarrassment. No, you didn’t worry that they were going to murder you and dump your body anymore. Yes, you were still mortified they had all seen your bare ass and, with the way John had you laid across his thighs, your cunt, too. They all knew you had been spanked like a bratty child. How were you supposed to face them? 

The thought was a bit amusing, though. You were kidnapped and your biggest worry right now is what your kidnappers will think of you after their fucking ringleader spanked you. It was ridiculous, but in the back of your mind you knew to be grateful that was all you had to worry about. 

Plan A was to wait them out all day; stay in Johnny’s room, which was now yours? Kind of? Until they had all gone to bed, and then sneak into the kitchen to raid the cupboards and bring food back to your room. You’d just live in that room until the embarrassment wore off. 

—

Plan A was foiled after you had spent all morning in there. Kyle and Johnny broke in (opened the door— the men had removed the lock on the door after moving you in) and when you stuck yourself between the wall and the bed again, they simply pulled you out, just like Johnny had yesterday after your punishment. 

Johnny held you in his lap, your back to his chest, while Kyle spoon fed you. You hadn’t even been given the opportunity to feed yourself— they just sat you down and started feeding you like you were incapable of doing it yourself. 

You felt like their pet. Something for them to entertain themselves with since they were too fucking weird to make friends.

“You need to eat, pretty girl,” Kyle hummed while pushing another bite of pancake into your mouth. Johnny grunted in agreement, his chest vibrating against your back. 

You said nothing. Plan B, which you came up with on the spot since these men were determined to humiliate you, was to give them the cold shoulder. For how long, you didn’t know. All you knew was you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction of a response.  

They didn’t seem to realize, and if they did, they didn’t mind. Kyle just kept feeding you bites of breakfast while Johnny unashamedly sniffed your hair. Fucking creep. 

With your 1:00 in the afternoon breakfast finished, you expected to be left to your own devices. You already had enough of their presence and they were only there for about 30 minutes. 

However, when Kyle stood up and Johnny let you slide off his lap, Kyle reached for your hand. There was a pause, a short moment where you looked at him and he looked at you. 

He was expecting you to come with, and you were expecting him to fuck off. 

Kyle sighed at you. “C’mon, sweetheart. Need to get you out of this stuffy room.” 

You looked away. 

Kyle frowned, and Johnny leaned down in front of your face. “I don’t think Cap’ will like hearin’ that ye arenae behavin’ yerself.”

Your brows furrowed with confusion. “Who’s Cap?”

Johnny grinned, forgetting you didn’t know their military history. “Price— John.”

Your cheeks flushed red and you swore that the reminder of John’s discipline had your backside aching again. 

The flood of embarrassment had tears brimming in your eyes, and a startled Johnny was shoved out of the way. 

“Oh, don’t cry, sweetheart,” Kyle hummed, crouching down in front of you to push your hair behind your ears.

“It’s okay, we aren’t gonna tell Cap. You’re not being bad, just nervous, it’s okay.” 

You wanted them away from you, needed them to get the fuck out of this room and leave you alone like you had planned since you woke up. 

Before you could snap, though, you were pulled by your arm up and out of the bed. Kyle was guiding you over to the little wardrobe they had set up for you— those cube shaped collapsible drawers lined with fabric, filled with some of your old clothes and some new clothes they had picked out for you. There wasn’t much in them; just the outfit you were wearing when Simon kidnapped you and a few outfits ordered online after you were ‘settled in.’ 

“I think you need a shower,” Kyle hummed. “It’ll help clear your thoughts.” 

 think you need to be put downI, you thought to yourself. 

Johnny managed to sneak up on you, getting right behind you where you knelt with Kyle in front of the bins. “Need help pickin’ somethin’?” 

He was in your space, trying to press himself against your back. His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, and the proximity made you cringe. 

You didn’t get a chance to answer. Johnny was already reaching around you, digging through your clothes and making a mess of the neatly sorted bins. 

The mess must’ve ruffled Kyle’s feathers, because he swatted Johnny upside the head and threw one of the discarded shirts right in his face. It was just enough of a distraction for you to slip away from Johnny, getting some of your personal space back. 

Kyle had Johnny refold the clothes he had strewn over the floor, paying no attention to you. It was an opportunity for you to observe them for once; get a better read on your captors than the bits and pieces you had been allowed to see over the last four days. 

You know that John is the leader of them all, but you need to get to know the pecking order, the dynamics between the four. You need to learn how they interact one on one, too, to be safe. 

With Johnny and Kyle, there doesn’t seem to be a clear ‘boss.’ They argued about the clothes until Kyle won, and Johnny gave in and admitted defeat. They’re kinda just… friends. 

It’s weird to say that— to attribute your kidnappers’ interrelationships as anything normal. It’s almost confusing; it was easy to hate them when you pictured them as inhuman beings just following orders from one another. Now they’re presenting real, personal relationships. It isn’t as simple as a  boss— a Captain— picking out a toy to share with his subordinates. They mean something to each other. 

They’re human, with human feelings and human relationships. How can you separate yourself from them, knowing this? 

You never kidnapped anyone. You still have that to hold against them. 

—

One shower later, dressed in one of Johnny’s old t-shirts and a pair of your own sweatpants (a compromise— Johnny originally picked out a skirt for you to wear, but fuck that, no easy access for any of them), you’re sat on the couch, again wedged between Johnny and Kyle. 

You tried to stay in your room like you wanted, but of course they wouldn’t just leave you alone. Kyle herded you out and into the sitting room. 

You haven’t seen or heard John or Simon yet, and you wonder if they’re even here. 

At least you don’t have to face John of all people. 

Johnny picked out a movie to watch— The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, probably in hopes that you’d spook and snuggle up to them for comfort— but all it really got out of you were a few cringes at the gory scenes. 

You get the impression that Johnny gets to do what he wants. They’re lenient with him— at least Kyle is, based on what you’ve seen. Kyle doesn’t seem all that interested in the movie himself, but he let Johnny put it on anyway. 

Maybe it has something to do with that scar on the side of his head. He hasn’t told you what it’s from, but it looks pretty gnarly. Could it have killed him? Maybe the others are so lenient with Johnny because they almost lost him. 

You file this information away for later. 

—

Johnny’s movie ended and his plan had failed. 

While Kyle put on his movie of choice, Johnny wrapped his arm around your shoulder and forced you to cuddle up to him. He settled with a contented sigh, ignoring your rigidness. 

Kyle is very clearly unamused when he turns back around to see Johnny’s got you tucked into his side. He says nothing, though, further proving your theory that Johnny’s leash is longer than everyone else’s. 

Kyle sits himself back down in his spot, but this time he rests a hand on your thigh. He feels how stiff you are, tense and guarded, and gives you a squeeze before letting go. 

A small mercy, leaving you to deal with just Johnny. 

—

You manage to slip out of Johnny’s grip, using the excuse of needing to pee to get your freedom. 

You use the bathroom quickly (your excuse wasn’t entirely a lie), but instead of rejoining Johnny and Kyle on the couch, you sneak back to your room. 

Johnny’s horror already sapped the last bit of tolerance from you. You can’t sit through another movie. Kyle didn’t even pick an inherently bad movie. He picked Gremlins, for some reason, but you’d already seen it before and you didn’t care to watch it again when you could be doing something else. 

Your ‘something else’ proved to be nothing, all of your entertainment stuff still back at your apartment, but at least you could be alone for a bit. 

As expected, Johnny is the one to come sniffing around for you. He finds you curled up in his bed and grins wide at the sight. 

“Too sleepy fer another movie?” 

You ignore him, not even bothering to look at him in hopes that he’ll leave. You should’ve known better. 

With no warning, Johnny just appears right next to you in the bed. How he moves so quietly, you don’t know. How any of them move quietly is a mystery to you. It’s freaky. They should have bells sewn onto all their clothes so they can’t sneak up on you.

Johnny wraps his arms around you and pulls you towards him, moving you easily. If you ever did get into a serious altercation with any of the four men, you’d be royally fucked. 

“Stop wrigglin’,” Johnny grumbles when you squirm, though he’s clearly amused. “I’m jus’ keeping ya warm.” 

“I’m not cold,” you grumble back at him, though you don’t return his mirth. “Better safe than sorry, aye?” He hums, pressing his face into your neck.

Johnny’s got you tangled up in his limbs. His arms are wrapped around your waist and he’s thrown one leg over both of yours, keeping them trapped between his. 

It isn’t much longer after Johnny gets settled that Kyle decides to see where you and Johnny disappeared to. 

“Johnny, you’re gonna suffocate her,” he huffs, making his way over to the bed. You think maybe he’ll chase Johnny off and leave you alone— Kyle seems to advocate the most for your space— but he doesn’t. Instead, he squeezes in on the other side of you, making space for himself. 

“You don’t get to hog all the lovin’, mate,” Kyle sighs, pressing as close to you as he can. He swats at Johnny’s arms until he lets go of you, granting him more access. “Fine,” Johnny pouts. 

Where Johnny doesn’t acknowledge your rigidity, preferring to wait until you inevitably relax, Kyle tries to soothe you himself. He murmurs soft sentiments into your hair and rubs circles into your arm with his thumb. 

If anything it made the tension worse. You grit your teeth— Kyle makes a mental note that you might need a bite guard for that if you make a habit of it— and shut your eyes. 

You can’t turn away without getting yourself face to face with Johnny, which seems like too bad of an idea. He’s very touchy-feely. 

You think back to last night when he laid on top of you, squishing you underneath his bulked up body and keeping you trapped there until you fell asleep. You still aren’t sure how to feel about that. 

You could feel guilty, pathetic, even disgusted for succumbing to your weak mind and taking comfort from your kidnapper. What kind of person lets their kidnapper, someone they’re supposed to despise, lull them to sleep with fucking cuddling? 

You could give yourself some grace. Safety is a human need— it’s the second tier of the hierarchy of needs. After that is love. That night was a bad night. You felt humiliated, scared, and alone after the punishment. Johnny offered you the safety you needed and the love you craved. Was it so terrible to accept it, even if it was from one of your captors? Why look a gift horse in the mouth? 

Then there comes the question, ‘should I be fighting?’ raised by the victim-blaming instilled into you by society. This thinking portrays your fragile state as weakness, as failure. You should be fighting back, looking for more ways to escape even if they’re impulsive and doomed to fail. It would be like a big ‘fuck you’ to all of them, especially John— the old bastard that spanked you like a child. Where did he get the audacity? Who told him it was okay to touch you like that? Who told any of these fuckers that they could just take you?

Then there’s the realistic side you’ve adopted; the part that wants you to survive. Keep your head down, behave, do as you’re told to keep from getting hurt. It stings your pride, but it’s better than stinging skin. If you just behave, you won’t get hurt and you might even be able to earn their trust enough to actually get away. It’ll be a long road, but at least this road has an end. 

And finally, the intrusive thoughts that slip into your head like leachate seeps into clean water. They tell you to just give in. They’re cruel and hopeless, whispering that there isn’t any point in even thinking about escape. You’re one against four; what can you do other than surrender?

“What’re you thinkin’ about, sweetheart?”

Kyle’s rumbling question jerks you out of your head. His deep brown eyes bore into yours like he can read your thoughts in the color of your iris, and for a moment you worry he can. 

“Nothing,” you finally mumble, tearing your gaze away from his. In the very depths of your mind where you hide your most unsavory thoughts, you recognize that this would be a lot easier if your captors weren’t so pretty. 

Kyle tilts your chin up so you have to look at him again, but before he can ask another question, Johnny groans behind you. 

“Can ye stop talkin’ so much, Garrick?” He huffs. “Ah’m tryin’ tae sleep.” 

Kyle snorts at him, not quite derisive but nearing it. “You know Simon’ll have your arse if he comes home and you’re asleep. You got banned from naps a long time ago.”

Johnny only grumbles and scoots in closer, wrapping his arms around you again. “He can make an exception. Bonnie ‘ere is sleepy.”

Kyle— Garrick? —shoves Johnny’s arm. “I’m not gonna get my arse kicked for lettin’ you nap, either. Get up.”

Johnny groans dramatically once more and buries his face into the crook of your neck, again ignoring the way you stiffen. “But she smells so nice. Ah’m in heaven. Ye cannae pull a man from heaven.” 

With a frustrated scoff, Kyle rolls out of bed and stands up. “She doesn’t look very comfortable, mate. Get up.”

Johnny refuses. “An’ she’s warm. Simon willnae mind. Just leave us be.”

“Simon will belt your arse like he always does,” Kyle huffs, “an’ Price won’t be too happy with you either. Might take ‘yer bonnie’ away from you.” 

Johnny startles you with a growl— a literal growl— before reluctantly releasing you and rolling out of bed. 

“Fine. I’m up.” 

So Johnny doesn’t get away with everything, then. He’s even been spanked. He told you yesterday that he ‘knew it was embarrassing’ after John spanked you, but you didn’t think he meant he literally knew. 

Kyle nudges your arm. “Your turn, pretty girl. Gotta get up.” 

You don’t bother arguing, rolling out of the bed and onto your feet. Why risk another punishment? You still don’t know what counts as a punishable offense, but for Johnny, napping is apparently bad enough to get belted. 

Kyle pulls you to his side before Johnny can, earning a dirty glare from the latter. “Not fair. Make me get up an’ then steal all the attention,” he grumbles as if he hasn’t been glued to you since you were brought here. 

Kyle leads you both to the kitchen, sitting you down on the counter and calling Johnny over to help cook dinner. 

“Cap is gonna be back soon with Ghost. They’re gonna be hungry.” 

‘Cap’ is John, so Simon must be ‘Ghost.’ How fitting for the scary fucker that snuck up on you in your own tiny apartment just four days ago. 

You’re still in the dark as to where they even went, but you’re happy as long as they aren’t here. 

—

You, Johnny, and Kyle are all sat at the table with plates of spaghetti in front of you. The table is square, with two chairs on each long side and one chair on the short sides. Johnny claimed a seat next to you while Kyle sat across from you. 

You picked at your spaghetti, uninterested in eating. Kyle and Johnny just let you push it around in your dish, focused on each other instead. Their discussions are mundane— the doctor’s appointment Johnny has coming up, whose turn it is to wash dishes tonight, and when they need to go to the shops next.

You tune them out, entertaining yourself by playing with your food. It seems childish, but with no appetite and nothing else to do, pushing your food with your fork is at least a little enjoyable. 

The sound of gravel crunching under tires grabs your attention, and you stiffen when headlights shine through the window. 

John and Simon are back. 

You hear them clamber into the house, their boots thudding heavy against the wood floors. 

They don’t come to the kitchen immediately. You hear rustling, some cursing, and running water. It takes around ten minutes for them to finally come sit down to eat. 

John sits at one end of the table and Simon takes the chair at the other end, nearest to Johnny. 

You’re a bit taken aback when Johnny leans over and pecks Simon on the cheek. You hadn’t seen him do that before. You look over to Kyle and John, who are exchanging their own affections. 

You shift your eyes back to your plate. It’s safer not to stare. 

The conversation starts flowing again and you go back to pushing your food around. You catch bits and pieces of conversation. John and Simon were out hunting but didn’t see anything worth shooting, and that’s why it took so long for them to sit down because they were cleaning the dirt off.

You sink back into your head after a few minutes, bored again by the talk. You’re snapped right back out of it when a warm hand covers yours. 

You startle, nearly jumping out of your seat at the contact. John smiles at you warmly, giving your smaller hand a gentle squeeze. 

“You’re supposed to eat the food, love. Not push it around.” 

Now they’re all looking at you. Eight eyes staring right at you and your barely-touched dinner. Johnny and Kyle are nearly finished with their plates. 

You freeze, staring at John like a deer in headlights. You’re startled out of your fear induced stare by a sharp, ticklish poke to your side, just under your ribs. Fucking Johnny snorts out a laugh and Simon whacks him upside the head as a reprimand for jabbing his finger into your side. 

“Oi!” He huffs, rubbing the back of his head. “Ah was just teasin’.” 

John pulls your attention back to him, using one thick finger to turn your chin. Why do they all have such big hands? Scratch that— why are they all so big? 

“Eat your dinner.” John’s voice was soft and rumbling, nothing but gentle, but he made you nervous anyway. He can pretend to be gentle all he wants, but you know the truth. 

You twirl the pasta around on your fork until you collect a reasonable sized bite. John hums in approval when you push the spaghetti past your lips, and the men go back to their normal conversations. 

You eat quickly. The sooner you can retreat to your room, the better. 

—

They don’t let you stay in your room. Kyle hunts you down and drags you back to the sitting room, pulling you from your solitude again. You expect to sit back on the couch with him and Johnny like before, but of course they can’t let anything be easy for you.

Kyle gives you a little nudge in John’s direction, who was seated in a big leather recliner. He pats your butt before taking his seat on the couch, leaving you all by yourself. It was stupid to hope that Kyle would walk you to over to John, but you couldn’t help it. Out of the four, you fear John the most. Even Simon is less scary than John— he may look like the literal grim reaper, but he’s been gentle so far. 

When you’re within reach, John grabs ahold of your hips and pulls you into his lap. He settles you on his thick, muscular thighs, your back to his chest. One hairy arm wraps around your middle like a seatbelt, keeping you snug against him. 

“There we are,” he sighs contentedly. He picks up a short glass of something dark and drinks, ice clinking against the sides. It smells like alcohol, but you don’t know what kind. 

John catches you staring and smirks. “Would you like some, darling?” He tilts the glass towards you, but you shrink away. Your face warms, heat spreading over your cheeks from the embarrassment of being caught. You give a small shake of your head, turning down the offer. Straight booze was never your favorite— it tastes bad and burns like acid in your stomach. Mild, mixed drinks sit easier and they taste better. Taste aside, drinking anything that could cloud your judgment would be one of the worst things you could do. 

John smiles at you. He looks goofy— it’s a wide smile but without teeth, so his lips are stretched thin; his mustache almost completely covers his top lip and his eyes are crinkled. He looks like Papa Smurf. 

“You’re allowed to have a sip,” he hums. “It would do you some good. You need to relax.”

“…no,” you mumble, shaking your head no again. He shrugs as if to say “your loss,” takes another drink, and then sets the glass down. 

Glancing away from John and his drink, you realize that the other three are all staring again. Johnny and Kyle are both grinning, clearly entertained, and Simon’s got a faint hint of a smile in his eyes but not on his lips. You feel your face get hotter and you look away, down to the ground. 

You feel meek and pathetic. It’s so much easier to deal with just Johnny and Kyle; they leave you on edge, but at least you don’t feel like you’re walking a tightrope. John— and Simon, though he’s good at leaving you alone— have a quiet intensity that leave you keyed up. 

Fortunately for you, Simon turns on the TV, pulling everyone’s attention off you. You feel like you can breathe again, but you still don’t get to fully relax while you’re in John’s lap. Morbidly, you wonder what will happen first: your escape, or your getting used to their touch. 

John continues nursing his drink, and you notice Simon has one, too. You glance and Kyle and Johnny, who each have a beer. This has a 50/50 shot of being good or bad for you; you don’t know how they act when they’re drinking, and you don’t know how much they plan on drinking tonight. 

John rustles a bit and you take it as an opportunity to try and get up, but he holds you in place with the arm banded around your middle. He produces a cigar and you wrinkle your nose at the thought of him smoking inside. 

You turn your head away as he lights the cigar, expecting the noxious smell of cigarette smoke. The smoke hits your nose, but it’s surprisingly pleasant. It’s almost like burning incense. 

John offers you a puff, grinning again when you decline. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs. “No drinking, no smoking… we’ve got ourselves a little angel.” 

You cringe. Thankfully, John was quiet enough that only you could hear. The others keep their attention on the TV, so at least you aren’t being stared at. 

You can already tell this will be a long night. 

—

You sit in John’s lap for hours while the TV plays episodes of some war documentary. You’re bored out of your mind and you have to pee, but you’re too nervous to ask and you don’t want to draw any attention to yourself. You’d rather sit with a full bladder.

The discomfort grows and grows, and you start shifting your relieve some pressure. You hope that they’ll decide to go to bed soon so you can use the bathroom, but of course, the universe has different plans for you.

Warm breath hits your neck first, and then you feel his beard against your skin. It’s surprisingly soft. John presses his lips to your neck, planting a soft kiss there. You freeze, your brain short-circuiting and leaving you unable to react. You stay still, as if not moving will trick him into thinking you aren’t there— until you feel his wet tongue press to your neck in an open mouthed kiss. 

You jerk away. If it weren’t for John’s arm around your waist, you would’ve jumped right out of the chair. John looks a mix of startled and mirthful, a grin spreading across his lips. 

“I- I have to pee,” you stammer, pushing at the arm around your waist. John laughs softly, and you hear laughs from the other three as you try to escape. 

“You have to pee?” John asks patronizingly. “Alright. I’ll let you up”

You push at his arm some more, waiting for him to let you go. He doesn’t even loosen his grip. 

“Uh-uh, sweetheart,” he hums. “You have to give me a kiss, first.” 

You freeze again. If you weren’t panicked, you’d be able to realize just how fucking lame he’s being. ‘You have to give me a kiss first.’ Such a juvenile request.

You are panicked, though. It doesn’t seem juvenile now— it almost seems dangerous, threatening. You don’t want to kiss him. You just want up. 

With the need to pee growing worse by the second, though, you don’t see any other choice. You try your hardest to ignore the feeling of eyes, to ignore the fact that Simon, Johnny, and Kyle are watching you yet again, and turn to face John. 

You lean forwards and close your eyes— if you don’t have to look, it might be easier— and press a quick kiss to John’s cheek. You pull away as quickly as you leaned in and try again to push his arm away. He doesn’t budge. 

“Really, sweetheart? Is that the best you can do?” 

John takes matters into his own hands this time, cupping your face and pulling your lips to his. He kisses you, not seeming to mind that you don’t kiss back. Thank fuck. 

Just when you fear you won’t be able to hold it, John lets go of you. You beeline for the bathroom, relief flooding your entire being when you’re finally safe behind the locked door.