“Seriously, I’m so bored and so horny I’d gladly give one of you a blowjob if it meant getting off,” Ben said.
He was polishing the components of his nine-millimetre again, having already cleaned every other weapon in the room.
They were all fucking losing it, Summers thought. Six months trapped in this room would have driven anyone insane, but he had the added burden of dealing with these three fucking disasters.
Kyle spun one of his knives elaborately before flicking it into a makeshift target.
“I’d give all three of you head if it meant getting a proper kitchen and some decent avocados.”
Summers was sick of hearing Kyle complain about the lack of a kitchen.
Though, honestly, he was beginning to wonder what Kyle could cook. Summers was equally sick of takeaway meals and convenience-store food. Gods, he wanted a home-cooked meal.
Hart remained glued to the monitor feeds, steadily working his way through his third packet of chocolate-covered peanuts that day.
“What do you think being fucked feels like?”
Summers groaned internally.
Why? Why did he have to be trapped with three hot-as-fuck, terminally horny disasters?
He could hardly wait for the early hours of the morning, when he could make his daily escape to the hotel gym, burn off some of his pent-up energy, then wank out a day’s worth of frustrated, horny rage.
Gods damn it. He had done so well ignoring his well-established attraction to men, but this job, this imprisonment, was testing limits he had never even known he possessed.
“Well, it’s got to be good, right?” Ben said. “Why else would gay guys do it? Seriously, being stuck staring at your ugly faces for almost six months is starting to bend me.”
“Same,” Kyle said. “I’ve forgotten what pussy even looks like.”
“There’s one right here,” Hart said around another crunching mouthful, gesturing towards Ben.
Ben looked genuinely offended.
Kyle grinned at him and waggled his eyebrows.
“I’ll even cook you a home-cooked porterhouse, baby.”
Ben groaned as he clicked the final piece of his nine-millimetre into place.
“I’m so horny that almost sounded tempting.”
Gods damn it.
Summers tried desperately to ignore the renewed tightness in his pants. These fucking assholes were truly, truly testing his patience.
An alarm beeped.
The playful atmosphere vanished.
All four of them surged into motion, clearing away the mess and taking their positions with practised efficiency. Within seconds, they looked professional again, disciplined, alert and prepared.
Summers rose and instinctively placed himself between the emerging monster and his fucking disasters.
He sighed inwardly.
Fuck. He was doomed.
He was attached to them. All three of them.
Gods, if they survived this, he was running far, far away before they had the chance to shatter his heart.
Again.
But as their boss, the monster, emerged, a refined scholarly man with far too many teeth, some primitive part of Summers already knew the truth.
They were not going to survive this job. This boss.
Good, he thought.
At least he would die beside the disasters who had come to mean more to him than he would ever willingly admit.
🥜🥜🥜
As soon as their boss left to do whatever the fuck it was he did every night, they all released a collective breath.
Ben and Kyle immediately headed to the gym, desperate simply to do something. Summers remained beside Hart at the surveillance station. Half of Hart’s feeds were fixed on the two men who had left, tracking their every movement while he steadily worked his way through another packet of peanuts.
Hart did not look away until Ben and Kyle stopped at the convenience store and returned safely.
Only then did he leave the screens.
They ate together, Kyle spending the entire meal boasting about all the food he would make once they had a proper kitchen: the best fucking cookies they had ever tasted, richly spiced slow-cooked casseroles and every hearty trimming imaginable.
Summers wanted him to shut the fuck up so he would stop picturing it.
When they had finished eating and disposed of everything, Summers placed a hand on Hart’s shoulder.
Hart sighed but rose obediently, following him to the bed in the far corner of the room.
He curled close against Summers’s chest. Summers slowed his breathing, making each breath long and steady. Gradually, Hart began to match him. The tension slowly drained from his body until, finally, he relaxed enough to sleep.
Summers held him close, grateful that he could provide at least some small measure of comfort.
The routine had established itself after their first month together.
Summers had seen PTSD before, but Hart had one of the most severe cases he had ever encountered. It showed itself in the cracks: hypervigilance, night terrors, chronic sleep deprivation. No appetite. A refusal to trust them or engage with them unless absolutely necessary.
Hart had spent night after night glued to the surveillance feeds until Summers had finally dragged him to bed and forced him to just fucking breathe.
And it had worked.
Eventually.
Hart slept, at least a little.
Then they discovered the peanuts helped with the stress. Slowly, Hart opened up enough to trust that none of them intended to hurt him. He even put on enough weight to look somewhat healthy.
Now the precious, broken boy could sleep for hours without waking, provided Summers was there to hold him.
Summers woke shortly before dawn with Hart clinging tightly to him.
And fuck, he was so fucking hard.
In the darkness, he allowed himself to press a kiss to the top of Hart’s head.
As Summers began to stir, Ben appeared, already prepared to take his place. He slipped beneath the blankets and settled beside Hart while Summers carefully extracted himself.
Summers gently patted Ben on the head in silent thanks.
By the time he had dressed, Kyle was waiting with fresh boiled eggs and watered-down juice.
Summers accepted both, then picked up his gym bag. Everything he needed would already be packed inside, prepared and waiting for him.
Then he left to work off his rage, his desire and the crushing helplessness of being unable to get them out of there.
Fuck.
He hated that he cared for them.
