#missingpiece

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 sleep in Simon's room tonight.

"Johnny can be a bit much. Don't want 'im overwhelmin' ya anymore," he said when he went to retrieve your pajamas.

Of course, he doesn't let you change yourself, but it's each time gets easier as you get used to it. Simon doesn't make a habit of ogling like the others do.

Simon helps you into one side of the bed, guiding your injured ankle under the covers and awkwardly fluffing the pillows, like he thinks that's what he's supposed to do but isn't sure. You rarely see him unsure of himself, but when he does slip, it's always disarming. For a moment, he just seems like a normal guy. Not a terrifying veteran, not your dangerous kidnapper— just a person.

This could be dangerous. You don't want to get too comfortable with them; they could take it as disrespect, or as invitation to initiate something more. Then again, there might be less punishments if you aren't so anxious. You'd have fewer outbursts, things might not grate on your nerves so much, and they'd have less reason to punish you.

Maybe giving in would have it's perks.

You let yourself relax into the bed while Simon changes into his pajamas, feeling surprisingly safe here. Simon has made it clear that you're safe with him, and, despite him being the one to put you in this situation, you believe it.

When Simon lays down on his side of the bed, he pulls you in close, though not tight like Johnny does. He holds you in a gentle embrace, meant to comfort you rather than himself. It's kind of nice. You can scoot away any time you want, and you aren't being roasted alive from body heat.

"Yer a good girl, y'know that?" Simon murmurs, stroking your arm with one hand. "Even when ya misbehave, or have an outburst, we all know yer a good girl at heart."

It's strangely comforting hearing that they think you're good. You tell yourself that it's not because you're essentially receiving their approval, their praise. It's because if they think you're good, that means they'll be less inclined to punish you. Even though you know that isn't particularly true— if you act out, you'll be punished whether they think you're good or not— it's easier on your conscious to believe that.

Turns out, giving in to your kidnappers isn't easy if you still aren't 100% on board with the idea. You're tired of the fighting and tired of the constant vigilance, yet that one part of you that's still convinced that 'good' captives are supposed to fight tooth and nail to escape or die trying, still lingers.

The stroking of Simon's hand starts to slow, and you know he'll fall asleep soon. "'M proud o' ya, doll. Proud o' ya for speakin' up even when ya were afraid."

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "We love ya, doll. Love ya lots."

Something flutters in your belly, something akin to both stomach-churning disgust and nervous butterflies. They don't love you; they lust for you. They're obsessed with you, want to own you like a pet. They don't love you, and you know it.

You can't seem to help the light, effervescent feeling that comes with being told you're loved. It's been a long time since anyone has told you that.

—

When you wake, Simon helps you back to your— now yours and Johnny's — room to get dressed.

Sitting in front of your little drawers of clothes is a small gift back, a soft pink with white tissue paper sticking out the top. Simon reaches down to pick it up and holds it out to you. You shoot him a questioning look.

"Open it, doll," he shrugs, nodding towards the bag in his hand.

Now you eye him suspiciously. "What's in it?"

Simon shrugs again. "Dunno. I didn't put it there."

Johnny, who's still in bed and has been asleep up until this point, stirs. "'S from Price," he grumbles. "Now hush. Still sleepin'."

You freeze, staring at the bag as if it's a bomb.

Simon puts a hand on your lower back, nudging you gently. "It's a gift, doll. It's rude to refuse a gift."

It's too early to argue over a gift, even if it is from John. You take the little bag from Simon, pulling the tissue paper out and reaching inside for the gift.

A shocked gasp escapes you when you see your gift. An expensive bottle of perfume you'd been wanting for a long time, but never had the funds to buy for yourself.

A real gift. From John.

You stare at the bottle of fragrance, unsure of how to react. Unsure of how you're expected to react.

"Tha' was thoughtful, hm?" Simon muses, taking the bag and the tissue paper back from you and setting them down on the end of the bed. "Bet this'll smell nice on ya. I'll spray some on yer neck when ya get dressed."

Shit. John will smell it on you, and you'll have to thank him for the gift.

—

Just as you predicted, John smells the perfume when you sit down for breakfast.

"Oh, darling, you got your gift," he hums, a small smile pulling at his lips. "Do you like it?"

Of course you like it. You don't know how he even knew you wanted this perfume, and you aren't sure you want to find out. He had to have gotten access to your search history to find out, which means he's seen your private searches.

You nod your head, but John doesn't look away from you. He's waiting for you to say more. Your dry answers won't be enough anymore— at least, not this time.

"It smells really nice," you mumble, taking a bite of your oatmeal. No more fruit for breakfast, at least not til spring.

"It does," John nods. "Glad you like it, darling."

He goes back to his own breakfast, and you relax a little. The conversation ended quickly, and wasn't nearly as painful as you expected.

Almost too easy…

—

After breakfast, Kyle leads you to the couch. You don't really want to do Couch Time right now. If anything, you'd rather go back to sleep. You're feeling extra drowsy today, though you're not sure why. It could be from the mini meltdown yesterday, or it could be the weather getting colder.

When you're settled into your spot, Kyle hands you your book and sits down next to you. You aren't in the mood for reading, but there isn't much else to do, so you open up your book anyway.

It doesn't take long for your eyelids to start drooping. Then, of course, come the shivers. You need a blanket.

"Aw, you're shakin', baby," Kyle coos. "Let's get you a blanket."

You mark your place and set your book down on the coffee table while Kyle gets you a blanket. The one he brings you, you've never seen before. Kyle sits back and maneuvers the both of you until you're laying down on the couch, your back to his chest and your hips between his thighs. He pulls the blanket across the both of you, ignoring your stiffness.

The blanket is extra soft and smells like dryer sheets, so you tug it up all the way to your nose. Your muscles relax, the warmth and softness provided by the blanket melting away the discomfort.

"Nice blanket, isn't it?" Kyle hums, petting your hair. You nod and stifle a yawn. You really shouldn't be so okay with napping with one of your kidnappers, but Johnny's been snuggling up to you since you were kidnapped, and last night you slept in Simon's arms. This really isn't anything new, if you think about it.

"John got it for ya," he mumbles.

"…what?"

"Mhm," Kyle hums. "He got it just for you, after seeing all the small throws you have. He thought you'd like a nice, big blanket for a change."

Oh. Another gift, then.

You don't spend much time thinking about it, though. You were already tired, but now the warmth of the blanket is pulling you under.

—

You aren't sure how long you were asleep for, but you're still tired when you wake.

It's coming.

This is how it always starts. The sun sets earlier, the air gets cooler, and suddenly your sleep schedule morphs into that of an infant. Soon enough you'll have to start vitamin D supplements, but you doubt it'll mitigate any of your sleepiness. What is it about depression and sleep? Is it that too much sleep makes you depressed, or being depressed makes you sleep too much? Is it both?

It's not like it matters. Not anymore, anyway. What's to be done about it? Getting a prescription doesn't seem to be the most feasible course of action at the moment, considering you're not allowed out of the house unless you're on a leash (or unconscious). The best you can do is brace yourself. Knowing what's coming could make it easier, though that's what you tell yourself every year.

You've still got a good bit of fall left, you hope think. What month did you decide it was? September? It's probably closer to October now. Again, you have to wonder if it really matters.

"You awake, baby?" Kyle asks, his voice soft with sleep. "We gotta get you up and movin'. I'll help you with your chores."

He sits up, bringing you with him, and laughs quietly at your heavy sigh. "It's just like having a second Johnny," he remarks. "…if Johnny was cute. And tolerable."

You'll never admit it out loud, or let it show, but that was funny. Maybe you'd get along with them better if they spent more time ripping on Johnny.

—

Kyle takes you to the kitchen, making the executive decision to start with dishes. Johnny and Simon are sat at the table, eating the chocolate chip cookies you baked for your stupid third-week 'anniversary.' If you could, you'd toss them in the fucking trash.

"Fuck me," Johnny groans loudly. "These are the best cookies' I've ever had, bonnie."

You ignore him, rolling your eyes. He said it like he's only just tried them, but you know by the chocolate chip smudged at the corner of his mouth that he's already had some.

Simon pops the last bite of his into his mouth, nodding along in agreement. "I'd buy 'em," he grunts.

Kyle has you hand him dishes while he loads the washer. There really isn't much for you to do here. There's nothing that needs to be hand washed, and there's nothing to be taken out of the washer and put away. Even if there was, you wouldn't be able to do that easily, hobbling on your ankle.

Completing your quartet of tormentors, John comes inside from wherever he was before— probably hell— and joins everyone in the kitchen.

"Oh, I forgot about the cookies," he says, probably to himself. He plucks one from the container and takes a bite, nodding to you. "These are wonderful, darling. Do you like baking? Would you like to bake more often?"

You pause, actually considering his idea. Would you like baking more often? It might give you something to do during the cold months, something to keep your mind occupied. It'd give you an excuse to get away from them— you'll need them to stay out of your way or you'll mess up the recipe. Plus, something sweet might make you feel better, at least in the short term. Especially if you're baking for yourself, and not for twisted anniversaries.

"…maybe."

Can't commit to anything just yet.

He smiles at you, the warm smile that shows no teeth and makes him seem much friendlier than he behaves. "Alright, then."

John grabs another cookie and leaves the kitchen. His footsteps fall heavy enough up the stairs that you hear them from the kitchen. You listen closely, trying to commit them to memory— it'll be useful to tell their footsteps apart.

—

After dishes, Kyle takes you to do laundry. He has you sit down and sort clothes while he moves loads from the machines and folds the clean laundry. He also puts it all away, just like the dishes.

You must've slept a while during your nap, because by the time you finish with laundry, it's already time to start making dinner.

You and Kyle do a lot of the inside chores, and it makes you wonder how many of the chores he did before they took you. Why was he left to do all the cleaning and cooking? Did he volunteer? Is he better at it than the other three? Who gives a shit?

You and Kyle are the only ones in the house. Simon and Johnny left together, presumably for a walk, and you aren't sure where John went. Maybe he went back to his weird shed. You still don't know what he does in there, and it freaks you out to even think about it.

The leather collar and harness… did he make those himself, in that shed?

You pray that it's just for wood working.

"Do you like to cook?" Kyle asks from the counter. You're having an easy dinner today, he said. Just lasagna, with a salad that you've been assigned to prepare.

You shrug, chopping up a head of lettuce. This would be a lot easier if they just bought bagged salad.

"You don't know?" he asks, pausing his lasagna-layering to turn towards you.

You fight a sigh, not particularly in the mood for conversation. At least it's just Kyle you have to talk to. He at least tries to keep the conversations normal, and not about your latest wet dreams or 'anniversary' fucking.

"I've never really cooked before. If I didn't have an instant meal, I just ate whatever I had laying around."

He hums, nodding his head. "Well, we'll keep ya full, luv. You'll have all the home cooked meals you could ever wish for."

Probably because he'll be making you help prepare them.

You settle into a comfortable silence, chopping up vegetables for the salad while he layers noodles, sauce, and cheese.

When the lasagna is in the oven and the salad is chopped up, Kyle helps you to the table to sit for a bit.

He sits next to you and lifts your legs into his lap. "How's your ankle feeling?" His hands settle on your shins, his warmth bleeding through your pant legs.

"It's sore. Stiff. But the medicine Simon brought helps."

He smiles at you, rubbing circles on your one shin with his thumb. "That's good. We'll get some ice on it after dinner, see if that helps a bit."

He stares at your brace for a bit before taking it off. "Doc said this should stay on for at least four weeks. After tomorrow, I think we should try walking. If you can't walk on it by then, we'll have to get it checked again."

You should be able to walk around on it soon.

You hope you won't have to go back to the doctor. They'll certainly take you to their shady doctor, and Simon'll make you drink whatever he did before, the stuff that knocked you out.

Kyle lifts your ankle gently, examining it himself. "It doesn't look too swollen. We'll have to do some exercises with you, make sure your ankle doesn't stay stiff."

It's highly doubtful you'll get to see an actual physical therapist, like Johnny does. You wouldn't be surprised if they decide to watch a few videos online and wing it.

"We'll get ya better, lovey," he hums.

You settle back into that comfortable silence, waiting for the lasagna to finish in the oven and for the rest of the men to get back.

—

With dinner and the dishes cleaned up, all of the daily chores are done. So of course, you're sat in between Johnny and Kyle on the couch, Simon and John in their recliners.

Do Johnny and Kyle ever wish they could have their own recliners? Do they get sick of having to take the couch? …Who gives a shit?

An old, probably 80s, horror movie plays on the TV. It must be October, then, if they're playing shitty Halloween movies on cable now. Good to know.

A pang of sorrow hits you at the realization. This year, you'll miss out on the festivities. There will be no decorating or seeing others decorate, there will be no parties, there will be no movie nights with friends, no pumpkin carving, no dressing up, no trick or treating. You can't even go out to smell the air without a fucking leash, and even if they did allow you to pass out candy, their house is so secluded that nobody would even know to come.

Your last stretch of almost-warm weather, last bit of fall, and Halloween, have all been taken from you.

Tears threaten to spill, burning your eyes, and you have to blink them away. You hope your face isn't as red as it feels, hope it won't give you away if one of the men were to glance your way.

Just like the first time a horror movie was on, Johnny keeps himself close to you, one arm wrapped around your shoulders and the large blanket John got for you spread over the both of you. Kyle doesn't seem to mind being left out, content to simply rest his hand on your thigh.

Sometimes he murmurs things into your ear, mumbling about how all you have to do is give his arm a squeeze if you get scared and he'll hold you, or warning you about an upcoming jump scare and again, offering to hold you through your fright.

Moron.

Though you're not as irritated by him as you used to be. You don't want to shove him off you, and the comments are only mildly annoying rather than sharply grating. You're simply getting used to it, you tell yourself.

That's all.

—

You must've fallen asleep some time during the movie. You're on the couch watching the movie, you blink, and now you're in someone's arms, being carried up the steps.

"Simon?" You ask, too tired to open your eyes and check for yourself

Whoever is holding you stiffens. "…Not quite, darling."

Oh fuck. It's John.

You stiffen as well, trying to squirm and get him to put you down. He, of course, does not, instead holding you tighter to him. "Settle down," he grunts. "We're on the stairs. Y'could fall if I put ya down here. Just settle down and let me take ya to bed."

It's easiest to listen. You don't particularly like being in John's arms, but you're so tired. You'll be in your bed soon enough, Johnny blankets keeping you warm.

"There's a good girl," John hums, relaxing. He carries you up the last few steps, and down the hallway.

It takes a bit longer to reach your room than you're used to. Either John is walking really slow, or you're just that tired. You're lingering in that in-between sleep, where you're not quite asleep but you're far from awake.

He lays you down in your bed, and— it feels different. Johnny must've kicked your blankets off the bed. Hopefully him, or maybe John, will have the sense to pick them up.

Hands are on you, tugging your shirt up over your head. Must be Simon changing you, though his hands feel different. Not as rough, not as big. You really are tired.

Next comes your bra, and then your pants. Simon must be tired, too, because this isn't how he usually does it. He's always so considerate towards you, making sure you don't stay vulnerable for too long. It's okay, for now. It's not like he hasn't seen any of this before.

Only, instead of dressing you next, he takes your underwear next. This does have you squirming, drawing your knees up to hide yourself. "No…" it's a soft whine, barely audible.

Simon says nothing, only shushing you softly, before sliding a luxuriously soft pair of pajama bottoms up your legs. Even in your tired stupor, you recognize that you've never owned a pair of pajamas that feel like this.

Next comes the shirt. Simon has to lift you just a bit to make it slide over your back, but once it does, you can't deny it feels wonderful. The pajamas drape over your body, smooth and exquisite. This must be what silk feels like. Maybe it is silk? You always expected silk to feel stifling, but whatever is on your body now feels remarkable.

You're being moved now, shifted until you're under the covers. Must be Johnny.

Neither of them considered picking your blankets up from the floor, it seems. At this point, though, it doesn't matter. You're far too tired, and your new pajamas make up for it.

Johnny, like he does every night, presses himself up against your back and wraps his arms around your middle.

So warm.

Johnny feels a bit different, though. Like his legs are longer. You'd better fall into a deeper sleep soon, if you're imagining Johnny's anatomy changing.

You're drifting off, finally, when just like every night, Johnny presses his face into your neck, his warm breath fanning over your skin with a relaxed exhale.

The funniest thought crosses your mind just before you lose yourself to sleep: