Chapter Text
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:
Johnny's grown a beard.