#dark 141

For the first time in a long time, you slept well. More than well actually, amazing.

Your body was supported at all points, neck raised slightly, head cushioned on a thick feather pillow. And the sheets were actual bedsheets. One matching set of dark grey linen sheets, adorning the king sized mattress.

A luxury compared to how you’ve slept in the last few months. You never could fall into a deep sleep. Knowing that at any point your captors would come back to your room, kicking you from your slumber and starting your torment once more. When you did try to sleep it was on the concrete floor. Curled in a ball, spread like a starfish, lying on your front. All positions that you’d tried and failed to have a restful night of sleep in.

It must have been the light that woke you, you think wistfully to yourself. A ghost of a smile graces your face at the sight. Light streaming in and hitting the bedspread. Particles of dust, dancing carelessly in the rays. Things were turning around.

You roll on to your back. Stretching your neck from side to side and groaning. Your eyes find the ceiling, a plain white rectangle above you. You take a moment or two to enjoy the silence of the morning, letting yourself wake up.

It’s when you turn to your other side to gaze out the other window, that your peace is disturbed. The window itself is fine, the glass is intact, with a thin frosting of snow on each pane. But the figure that leans beside it is not something you wanted to see, in the previously empty cabin.

A mix of a gasp and shout of surprise leaves your sore throat as you jump in place. Your body becoming rigid and tense with stress at the sight of the intruder. Now sitting more upright, you see that the stranger not alone. He stands with three other men, each more imposing than the last.

While the one by the window did frighten you, his boyish dimples and lean figure have nothing on how the Goliath by the dresser makes you feel. He stands tall, taller than the rest. His face covered by a skull painted balaclava. His grey eyes give nothing away as they stare blankly at you on the bed.

Between the two opposites, are another two men. One stood next to the nicest looking of the four, crossing his arms and trying to keep his face stoic. His hair is styled into a Mohawk and the sight reminds you of bad guys from old movies. His blue eyes stand out against his brutish appearance. Softening the fear that his very being brings you.

The only one left is the man who sits on a chair found in the room. His legs naturally spread a little due to the size of his thighs. His arms are crossed over his chest, causing the muscles in his forearms to bulge under his long sleeve shirt.

His face is blank, hiding what his true thoughts are and most likely what he truly feels. His face is adorned with a healthy amount of facial hear. The feature ages him and makes him look rugged. Your eyes draw to the thick line of hair that he harbours above his pink lips.

They say nothing. They just stare. The action unnerving you. Making you feel like some sort of zoo animal.

The sight of the four muscular and good-looking men put you on edge of course. But there’s something else. Urges that you’d never thought of before. Feelings were never part of the mission. You were determined to keep it that way.

“You sleep alright love?” The man sitting asks you. Him deciding to speak first and the fact that he others look towards him leads you to believe that he is the leader of the men. Despite the authority that they all seem to hold.

His voice is low and quiet. The sounds rumbling together at the low volume. The words are clear enough though, that you can make them out a few feet away on the bed.

You don’t respond, you can’t. What is he wanting you to say? Yes thank you, it was the best sleep of my life.

So you strengthen your resolve and stay silent. Slowly shifting your position so you’re sitting up more instead of lying down. You calm your breathing and focus your mind. You let your eyes glance over the men in the room again.

“Enjoy sleeping in a strangers sheets?” Again his voice is quiet, soft even. But his eyes tell a different story. His eyes that are squeezed into a glare, glower at you. When you meet his eyes it’s too intense. You feel as if you’re on trial for your life. Come to think of it you are.

You stand no chance against these men. In any capacity. If they wanted to kill you, they could. If they wanted to hurt you, they could. If they wanted to take you, they could.

The last thought resonates with you deeply. That’s when the a prick of fear starts to grow in the back of your head. You realised how lucky you were that Miasma had no interest in hurting you in any sort of sexual way. Despite there being many opportunities too, the guards found more enjoyment in kicking you around then fucking you.

“Not going to answer love? Fine.” The man stands from his chair. He moves to stand at the bottom of your bed, hands stretching out over the bed frame. His presence getting that much more suffocating. When he stands close you find no refuge from his gaze. You can’t look to the other men as much, only him. Only his cold, piercing eyes that tell you telling this man anything but the truth is a death sentence.

“What are you doing in our house?” His tone is sharper, harder. The softness found in the low rumble of his previous words is lost.

Your mind races through the cover story you had before infiltrating Miasma. The details around it are so fuzzy. It feels like you’ve got the right story but there are undecided parts.

What were you here for?

Start simple. If you start simple you can fill in the details later. Give yourself a chance to think.

“I got lost in the woods.” Good start, it’s vague enough. Now change your tone.

“I’d been walking for so long and I,” your voice cracks for good measure and you feel your eyes starting to water. You use the emotions from the last few hours to fuel your tears. You were scared. You were afraid. These were all real feelings, you just had to try and channel them. “I was just so cold and so desperate. This was the first place I’d seen in miles.”

For a moment you see his eyes soften. In a flash they’re back on your again. Hard and cold and unrelenting.

“What we’re you doing in the woods, in the middle of winter?” He asks you. Behind his imposing figure you see the one with the Mohawk shift in his stance, trying to get a better look of you.

Your story doesn’t have to just convince the man I front of you. It has to convince the other three in the room. The thought registers as you run through your cover story as quickly as you can.

“I’m a zoologist. I was out here studying brown bears before they went into hibernation. Then these men-” you pause your story, desperate to have a few tears running down your cheek before telling them the rest. You need to sell this or all you’re done, all you’ve survived, would be worth nothing now.

“Go on love, finish your story.” The soft tone has returned, no doubt that it was due to the sight of your tears running and sniffling nose.

“These men came in trucks,” your eye contact won’t be enough you realise, so you free your hands from your side and use them to talk. “It didn’t seem right so I abandoned my stuff and hid. They came looking round and they, they had guns. I snuck away quietly but they found me. They took me back to some sort of military base. Last night was when I managed to escape.”

It wasn’t far from the truth. At least now you’d have a way to explain the myriad of injuries that had been inflicted on you.

The man hums audibly. You aren’t sure if you’ve done enough to convince him. His face doesn’t give anything away.

“Why do yer have their clothes if yer were a captive?” A voice from behind the man calls out, thick with a Scottish accent.

The clothes by the fire.

The captain watched your reaction for a moment. You hope he doesn’t think the flash of realisation that was on your face a moment ago, is evidence you’re lying.

He moves to the side slightly so that you can look the Scotsman in the eye as you answer him.

“They took my clothes. It was the first thing I grabbed when I escaped.” The four men say nothing for a moment. Eyes dead set on you, on your movements, your body language. Contemplating your words, your tone, your story and your tears.

It feels like hours until the leader speaks up again. Hours of waiting for them to pass judgement on you and your future.

“They hurt you?” He asks, tone quiet once more.

You hesitate, “A little…why?” Why does he care? Why would any of them care?

The man ignores your question, “Do you need a first aid kit?”

The question confuses you. Is this some kind of trick.

Part of you wants to say yes. Knowing you’ve got cuts and bruises a plenty that could use cleaning or stitching in some cases. But your hyper aware of where they’re placed. To get to the cuts on your back you’d have to raise or take off your shirt. Not exactly something your eager to do in the four men’s company.

Your shake your head, eyes now wide and mutter out a no.

It causes the men’s eyes to narrow.

“Don’t lie to him lass. Ye wouldn’t want to see what happens if ye do.” The Scotsman threatens.

You bite your lip, “I can handle it. It’s nothing serious.”

“Serious or not, we need to see what damage has been done.” You don’t miss the we in that sentence. Do they all really need to see how banged up you are?

You still shake your head at the premise. The idea causing a pit to form in your stomach.

“You stay put love, we’ll find a first aid kit and bring you a drink. Don’t move.” He fixes you with a final look before he leaves the room. The rest of the men trailing after him.

When the last of the men leaves the room, he shuts the door. The sight of the dark oak door brings air back into your lungs, it lets the haze that’s filled your mind clear.

You need to run, you need to get out of here.

You need to return to Gunner. You don’t need to be getting involved with these four strangers. Who just so happen to be extremely handsome and muscular.

You don’t trust them. Not one bit. How do you know they aren’t Miasma, here to find out what you know and finish the job?

As quietly as you can you leave the warmth of the linen sheets and step on to the plush carpet. Creeping towards the now shut door as you gently pry it open. You have little time to get out the cabin before it’s too late.

You cringe as the door scrapes against the carpet. The sound is practically deafening in the silence you’ve created in the master bedroom. You pause for a moment, convinced the men from downstairs have heard you.

When you don’t hear the thunder of steps up the stairs, you begin your mission to escape. Moving as silently as you can along the carpeted floor. Hoping to get out before they find the first aid kit.

“What are we doing price?” Ghost finds himself asking in a hushed voice as the entirety of the 141 congregate in the kitchen.

“Looking for a first Aid kit lieutenant.” Price answers and returns to searching the cupboards.

Simon wants to scream at his captain. He wants to complain to his team. He wants to know why they’re entertaining this girl. No matter how pretty she may be, she’s lying about something. Simon hasn’t got this far in his career without being an expert in body language.

Price busies himself with rifling through the cupboards. Thankful that Laswell keeps all safe houses fully stocked.

His hands brush past plates and cans and glasses before coming to the last cupboard. Finally his hands grasp the large green box, packed with medical supplies.

When his gaze moves from the first aid kid, he sees his men staring out him. Looking confused at the sight.

“I’ve got Laswell doing background on the insignia on the jacket. I want to see she’s lying. Looking at those so called injuries will do that.” Price tells the team as he checks the first aid box before taking it upstairs.

It seems the rest of the team h av e a permanent frown on their face.

“I just don’t think any of this is right.” Ghost mutters. “It all just feels wrong.”

“Aye, she looks so frail and small. How can a lass like that escape a group of armed men?” Soap questions.

“She’s either insanely lucky or has some sort of special training.” Gaz voices to the others.

The thought permeates within their heads. Are you some sort of secret agent? Able to escape from armed men at hidden facilities?

Gaz was always an expert on knots. 

Fancy little ribbons and bows – not so much. He prides himself on being suspiciously quick to adapt to the changing environment, yes, but learning how to tie bows when your little captive is acting just a tad bit dismissive towards the whole idea is…hard. Not as hard as hanging down the rope on a moving helicopter, but…

— Come, luv. Stop strugglin’ 

He smiles, all teeth and no lies, when you – his favorite medic, the best thing ever happening to this bloody team – started meowling something about the circulation and cutting off the bloodstream and how you don’t exactly like not only being held in the basement of the base but also being tied up…he looks at you and just knows he can’t resist booping you on the nose, kissing your perfect fuckin cheeks while Soap already has his hands in your hair, gently brushing it to put even more ribbons and bows. Red, just like on a Christmax gift. 

You’re a bloody gift. 

— I ken ye don’t like sittin’ like this, but Lt needs pick me up, aye? 

Soap smiles when you struggle just a bit more, your tied hands brushing against his stomach as you slowly buck your hips back. Trying to get just a tiny bit of stimulation, sneaky little lass – this is why he loves you, so smart and so adorably dumb at the same time. The best thing that ever happened to them is that you still act like you don’t enjoy being their shared chewing toy. They can agree it’s just a bit of a stretch from your previous working environment but hell, at least you’re not being shot at. Johnny’s hand gently moves from your head to your neck, adjusting the little red bow he made from the ribbons. They tried so hard to find the softest ever ribbons without a sharp edge and material that could cut off the circulation – even though Kyle was still doing his favorite knots that rendered you absolutely defenseless. You lick your lips and try to rock from side to side, making the ribbons a bit more loose – it doesn’t work, of course. Not like your team ever wanted you to have a say in their perverse desires, right? 

You fell into the Stockholm syndrome quite easily, especially since they were so stuck on always respecting your wishes(except for letting you out, of course) and never forcing anything too harsh…up until now, apparently. Making sure you’re on your best behavior because it’s Christmas, they have a small table set up – beer, whiskey, some snacks that you naively put on because you’re still not allowed to cook, and they don’t really care for home-cooked meals – and your shaking form, twisted in a somewhat sexy pose all because they needed a little Christmas present for their CO’s. 

Gaz brushes his hand on your tummy, gently pushing it down – you were prepared, of course, so much lube was out in your glossy folds, with Soap’s mouth buried deep between your legs, until you felt you’re going to pass out from the sheer amount of orgasm he was edging out of you. There is a reason why Johnny isn’t allowed to eat you out when Ghost isn’t around – his self-control is non-existent when push comes to your cunt and the tongue he can shove in. 

You feel like you’re going to burst when you finally hear the door opening. When you finally hear Captain – his tired, gruff voice, the way Ghost’s jacket silently hits the ground as they start to undress. Usually, you’re made to greet them with kisses and your soft lips on their cocks if they feel particularly tired. Usually, you’re made to wait for them in the bedroom, with their sergeants gently playing with you because, of course, you’re the property of all four of them, no matter the power dynamic. 

Nothing is usual now – you’re laying under a Christmas tree, naked and aroused, your pussy is all puffy and swollen from Soap’s tongue, your body is tied up with red ribbons Gaz was using. You want to be good for them, and so you lay here, hoping your obedience will be enough for a few more climaxes. Ghost is the first to put his hands on you. 

Kneading your breasts, gently forcing his rough fingers on your exposed nipples, you’re so sweet for him, so perfect, laid out like a beautiful gift – he can only groan in arousal as he slowly pushes the ribbons from your chest, taking in the view of your hardened buds and bite marks – evidence of Kyle taking his mark while he was tying you up. You might have been apprehensive about the whole idea, but you’re playing the role of a gift perfectly – just like you should. 

— Bloody hell, love. So pretty for us. 

— She was such a good girl for us, Lt. Didnae even resisted much. ~ — Is that right, sweetheart? 

You can only nod, your mouth stuffed with a pretty gag – you’re drooling all around it, looking fucking adorable as you try and look as harmless as possible. No reason to provoke them now when they already made it clear just how many orgasms they are going to take from you tonight. 

Ghost smiles under his mask, his hands moving to play with your lower tummy, squeezing the soft flesh and teasing your folds – you’re soft and pliable for them, spread out like a perfect toy. The most desirable thing they could ever find under a Christmas tree.

Price caresses your face with a softness you didn’t know a man of his position could have. He kisses you, and his whiskers tickle your soft skin – you aren’t sure if you can even handle him being so damn gentle about everything. He laughs as you try to wiggle out of Ghost’s grasp, their hands laying on your body – bruises and marks are scattered across your skin, making you the perfect canvas. Gosh, you’re beautiful – John doesn’t even know what they did to deserve such a little treat. — Such a pretty display for us, eh? 

— Sergeants outdid themselves this time. 

— You bet they did. Are you goin’ to behave for us, love? 

Price

Doesn't care for pretense, tells you he is putting cameras up in every corner of your apartment and tells you that he will be watching you when he is away, doesn't give you much of an explanation either but you don't complain when you watch him install each one... Forearms flexing and shirt riding up just a little...yum

Soap

Cares for pretense. Goes on and on and on about how it is for your protection and he would just feel so much safer with it as a precaution... doesn't tell you about the amount of times he has beaten himself silly over you just dancing about in the kitchen or getting ready for work...but he is still a sweetheart also and still loves to check in bc it makes his chest warm and fuzzy

Ghost

Lies. You have no idea he has the cameras up, completely hidden. He has his reasons so he doesn't feel guilty...much...

Gaz

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White whisps danced and swirled in the air before you, your breath given substance in the chill of the night.

You shuffled from foot to foot, cold air and anxiety swirling in a discomforting soup that sunk down to your bones  A glance up and down the street confirmed that yes, your taxi still hadn't arrived. You unlocked your phone once more, foolish in the hope that staring at the screen would make the car appear sooner. The little black icon on the app mocked you. Your driver is 2.6km away!

A sudden cheer split the silence, flooding from the frosted windows of The White Hart. You and your friends had agreed to leave by 8 p.m., hoping to avoid the jeering and jostling of impassioned football fans. A quiet drink after work was one thing; you hadn't, however, planned on lingering to catch up with the Premier League. The noise of rowdy punters and drunk men spilled once more into the street behind you, making your heart race a little. They were just watching a match, just in their cups…

But standing solitary as you were in the dimly lit street it reminded you that you were alone.

A single streetlight buzzed and flickered its dim companionship.

You could see your breath puffing out in front of you, white on black as the night stretched on. Perhaps you should've agreed to the lift that your friends' offered, cursing your politeness. Don't want to inconvenience you! I'm headed in the opposite direction - let me just call a cab. Dark nights weren't often kind to lone women. Winter, too. It left you shivering, trussed up in fleecy fabrics as the wind bit at your numb nose and made your eyes stream. You looked like some soft, gentle thing huddled in a doorstep, hoping to pass the night safely. You panted a little, unease quickening your breath. The misty vapor furled upwards; you imagined it carrying off your hopes. Your desperation. Please, let this car arrive. Let me get home.

A nondescript black car slowed along the curbside, wheels slick and splashing in the stagnant water gathered by the gutters. You caught the tail end of the license plates, mud splattered yes, but you could see some numbers and letters shining through. Finally. You puffed out your relief, tucking your phone away as you reached for the door. Prayer answered, it seemed.

A wave of warm air kissed your cheeks as you slid in, dry and comfortable.

'Hi, how's it going? 2350, right?' You sent a half-glance at the driver, pulling your seatbelt on as you waited for confirmation.

The gears of the belt buckle clicked in the silence. Heavy, noticeable silence.

Turning back towards the front seat, your polite smile wavered slightly. The driver was a big man. Strange that you hadn’t noticed it before, but he was hulking in the seat, shoulders stretching beyond the limits of the side panels. You swallowed slightly as you noticed the headrest barely brushing the nape of his neck.

Two unwavering, dark eyes met yours in the rear-view mirror.

'Uh…' you faltered slightly, perched like bird in the backseat eager to take off, feathers ruffling and twitching. 'This is- you're the car I called? Confirmation number 2350?'

You could feel your face heating -from the chill outside, the AC inside, the mounting embarrassment - skin feeling itchy and tight. Still, you were reluctant to break his gaze. Your instincts sparked, flared to life illuminating only the thought to keep him in your sights. You felt altogether too cramped in the car, his presence spilling across the back seats.

'Yeah, 2350,' his voice rumbled over the hum of the engine. 'Tha's right.'

He made no move, didn't even blink as he stared you down. You could just about make out the arch of blond eyebrows, the craggy lines of a well-worn face but a black barrier mask halted any further consideration. You cracked first, glancing down to his thick, gloved hand resting on the gearstick. The entire dash was dark, no blue light or luminosity from his phone. No digital dials or screens anywhere.

'Aren't you gonna type it in the app? Confirm it from your end?' You hoped he didn’t notice the shake in your voice, unease plucking at your vocal chords weaving nerves into noise.

'Waitin' on yer rideshare, aren't I?'

'I didn't book a rideshare, this is just-' You cut yourself off as your numb, clumsy fingers groped for your phone. 'Let me check, I should've just booked a solo journey-'

'No need, 's'a busy night. Friday. Match on, lots of punters.' His voice was deep, tumbling like gravel from his chest. It was disjointing, actually, with his mouth covered and the lights off. His voice seemed to echo around, filling all the dark curves and corners of the car's interior. Coming from nowhere but this beast of a man with no mouth.

You shook off the thought like waterdrops from your hair. He was just a working man. Big, yes, gruff, but no need to tar him with the sticky, resinous pitch of your paranoia.

'Yer lucky to get a ride,' he continued. 'Car pool's better than standin' out in the street by y'rself. S'not safe.'

You relaxed a little into the seat, tension trickling away. Slightly. It lingered still at the base of your spine, on the back of your neck.

'Right,' you puffed out a breath as you slid your hand from your pocket. 'Do you know how long they'll be? It's just that I've been out since work this morning and I'm looking to get home sharpish.'

He snorted at that, loud and curt, "'e'll be out when he's out. Someone waitin' for ya to get home, or wot?'

'No,' you hesitated, awkwardness cutting you short, 'sorry. Just tired.'

He hummed at that, flicking his eyes around the silent street outside. Murky, orange light cut through the condensation of the pub windows, casting a faint haze on the shutters and bars of the nearby shops. All closed for the night. All empty.

'Wot you doin' out by y'rself anyway?'

Odd. He didn't seem the type for small talk.

'I wasn't out by myself,' you cringed at how pandering it seemed. How you felt you had to justify yourself. 'Was out for drinks with some colleagues and friends.'

He huffed at that, muttering something too low for you to hear. It made you prickle, for sure that it was at your expense. Maybe you should stick in your earphones, stop talking and just treat this like the transaction that it was. You drummed your fingers against the door panel, breath fogging up the window as you stared out aimlessly.

A few beats passed like that, quiet settling uncomfortably in the car like an itchy blanket. You could feel it, wanted to shift away or throw it off or something, but a glance outside at the damp, litter-strewn street kept you still. Better just to endure the discomfort if it got you home.

The snick of the locks disengaging made you jolt, drowsiness dispersing at the sudden shock of cool air from in front.

A man, almost as tall and broad as your driver, settled into the front passenger seat. His eyes, flinty under his stern brow, mapped the length and breadth of your bundled form. His lips twitched under his mustache, amusement or disbelief carved into the burgeoning smile.

'What's this, then? Picked up a stray?'

You bristled a little, scintilla of apprehension raising the hairs on your arms. They shared a look, something warm and familiar passing between them as the idling engine hummed back to life. They sat in front, black-clad and broad shoulder to broad shoulder nearly blocking your entire view of the dash.

'It's your rideshare, in't it?' the driver grunted as he pulled away from the curb.

'Booked a cab, did you sweetheart?' the stranger turned to you, strong face in profile. You could make out fragments - high nose bridge, dark hair, mutton chops obscuring most of his face. The darkness veiled the details, like staring at a painting through gauze. He was the image, the impression of a man, yes, but distant. Unsettling.

'Clearly,' tiredness and nerves made you sharp. Brittle. You sunk further into the seat, clutching your bag on your lap. As if it could act as a barrier. A shield.

A string of tension hummed, taut and quavering. You tried to ignore, watching streetlamps blur together outside, it but it whirred high and distracting. They noticed it too, you thought, shoulders squaring up as muscles tensed and flexed. The stranger huffed through his nose, proud and steady as an ox. You swore that you heard the driver chuckle under his breath, a low hehehe as he indicated right and turned off from the M60.

'Testy one, I see,' he hummed, disapproving. 'Gonna have to fix that attitude.'

The string snapped, you snapped, 'Look, Sir, I'm not trying to be rude, but I don't fancy a chat. I'm just trying to get home.'

You fumbled in your bag for your earphones, hoping to drown out any awkward silences or terse comments.

'Alright, that's enough of that. Simon, pull over.'

You looked up, half in alarm and half at the authoritative tone of his voice. The driver, Simon apparently, swerved into the hard shoulder with a 'roger that'.

The tattoo beat of your heart drowned out your thoughts, heavy thumps rushing past your ears and thrumming down to your fingertips. You scrambled for the doorhandle, scratching clumsily like a mouse.

'What are you doing? Is this some kind of Chuckle Brothers double act because if so, it's not funny,' your words fell like fragile little shards, hoping to cut but shattering in the air. Your pitch rose, 'You want the bag, my things? I'll report you, you shouldn't be fucking working this job.'

Your phone felt heavy in your hand, shaking fingers missing the keypad as you tried to type the password.

The stranger sighed heavily, patronising. Like you were inconveniencing him in some way. You licked you lips and glanced up, ready to run your mouth again as the app loaded.

A steely glint by the central console strangled the words in your throat.

'Didn't want to have to do this sweetheart,' the stranger's lips quirked up in a sad, half-smile. You scanned his face, seeing no note of hesitation. Just cool, steady eyes and that stupid, fake smile. 'Hand that over, nice and easy.'

Neurons fired, trying to make connections or plans. Trying to assess. Here you were, alone in a car with two strange men. You shouldn't hand your phone to them, you could barely feel your fingers anymore, never mind unfurl them from the edges of the case. If you handed over your phone - your lifeline- then what?

If you didn't hand it over, you had the answer to that question from the barrel of the gun pointed your way.

You stared at it, dull silver in the dark. Like a cynosure, it pulled your gaze towards it. A sick facsimile of the North Star, leading you away from safety and further into the den of the wolves ahead.

Your animal instincts screamed, struggled, but lost as you passed your phone into his large, calloused grasp.

'Good girl,' he smiled fully then, round cheeks and bright eyes masking the coldness beneath. 'Don't get fussy now - Simon, the locks - just sit tight and you'll be home in no time.'

You tugged futilely at the handle, useless now that Simon had engaged the child-safety lock.

'I don't live down this way, I- this is not the right way,' you licked your lips again, mouth dry and bitter with the taste of rising bile. You could see, now, that you wouldn't be going home that night. Your next words tasted acrid, tinged with defeat.  'Why are you doing this?'

'Thought ya wanted to come wiv us,' Simon's gravelly voice cut in, amusement warming the pitch into something mocking. 'Why else jump into a strange car?'

'You said you were my taxi, you confirmed-'

'Did I?' you saw his eyebrow quirk, dead predator eyes meeting yours once more through the rear-view mirror. 'Not very good at lookin' after y'rself, are ya?'

Your quick little breaths fogged up the window beside you. It was hard to see, hard to think. But clearly, not thinking had brought you this far. You didn’t think to accept your friends' offer, didn’t think to properly check the license plates, didn't think open the app and check the journey status.

There must have been something of surrender in the tremble of your lips. In the flickering of your wide, glossy eyes. It scented the air, whetting the appetite of the beasts in front of you, swirling around their chops.

'S'alright, love. We'll get ya home. Get ya taken care of.'

Lacrima painted your lash line, salty and hot as it brimmed over and down your cheeks.

You heard a rustle, felt a rough thumb brushing at your tears. The stranger had reached back, large hand nudging your face back up to look at him.

'No more tears, now, c'mon,' he dug his into the corner of your mouth, tugging your lips into a coy, marionette simper. 'Smile, sweetheart. The rest of the boys are dying to meet you.'

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