Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Anastasia had a headache. A bad one. Such a headache, which she first felt early in the morning, that now felt like half her head would explode any second. It was this realization, along with the intense pain, that revealed this wasn’t just any headache. 

It was a migraine.

Before making this connection, she suspected, at first, it was nothing. Just a tiny little headache, something she could quickly remedy with some medicine. This headache, hovering over her like a small raincloud, she carried into the dark kitchen, then to campus before, eventually, to her first class of the day. However, as each hour went by, as she changed locations, went further on with her day, the headache gradually worsened. 

During a break between classes, she decided, in hopes of relieving the pain a little, and as a tiny treat to herself (because being in pain was always, regardless of her strict dietary needs, a validated excuse for a treat) to find herself a cup of coffee. Maybe, the caffeine would soothe the growing pain. It didn’t, not by much. Instead, from where she couldn’t see, it earned herself a look of distain from two sets of watchful eyes. 

From where she nursed the cup, she knew she was being watched. Expected it. It didn’t stop her from draining the entirety of it though, relishing the bittersweet taste of the coffee. She made the cup as she preferred, just as she did the last time she’d had the forbidden drink — half coffee, half cream loaded with sugar and artificial crap — and savored it. Who knew when she’d get to have another cup?

Wether because she relinquished the coffee’s taste, or hoped more would help, she got another cup. She felt, while making it, those eyes again, watching, sharply focused on her show of disobedience. Ignoring them, she left the dining hall, cup in hand, the raincloud above her following.

She got to her next class early. It was unlocked, the classroom, opened as she knew it always was. She walked in, noticing the room’s lights were dimmed (thank god!), casting the space in a grayish light. She took her seat up front, set her coffee down, then, as not to think of the headache, buried her nose into her notebook. 

The class filled, and shortly, was alive with talking. Her classmates sounded, as they spoke with each other, conversing with their friends, louder than she’d liked, her ears wincing at how loud they were. She tried to ignore them, the pain now noticeably more intense. 

The professor appeared, and upon entering his classroom, switched on the lights. It was sudden, cruelly so. So quick and unexpected, the lights going from low to bright so quickly, too quickly, she startled. The raincloud above her shrieked. 

Lightning struck.

Anastasia clamped a hand to her forehead. She shut her eyes, reeling. Half her head throbbed, ached. It hurt - half her world screeching -  now in pain. Pain so bad she could not conceal her face from contorting, grimacing.

Slowly, when the pain passed, she opened her eyes, half squinting.

The professor was looking at her. 

His eyes were dark, narrow. A flash of concern  and worry had gone through them for a split second, but now, as she looked at him, miserably outing herself, they were deep with displeasure. 

She gave a wary smile, wincing. 

Professor Hiddleston did not return the smile. Instead, he began class. He did the roll, as he always did, calling on her last. Then, he started his lecture, talking about the book they were in the middle of reading, but she, being a bookworm, had already finished. 

She tried listening, to appear like she was listening. She took notes, scribbling snippets of his lecture on post-its to stick inside the book. While listening and noting, the raincloud loomed above her, threatening to strike her again. She squinted, the too-bright class irritating. 

The class soon wrapped. He ended it as he usually did, telling the class to do their assigned reading. Coming up to the front row where she sat, quickly putting her things away, she tried to ignore his presence. She needed to leave as soon as possible.

“Oh,” he said, just as everyone was getting ready to leave. “If anyone had office hours, I won’t be having them. Not today.” He quickly, from the corner of his eye, spotted Anastasia. “Miss Yuliana?”

Oh no.

“Professor Hiddleston?”

“Please, if I may have a moment?”

Anastasia gave a tight smile, humming. The cloud above her rumbled, her head pulsing. She tried not to look like she’d just been caught, too slow to leave before he got her, sniffing out her intentions. She set her book bag down again, reaching for her coffee, and, wincing at the movement, gulped it down in a few quick swallows.

When the last of the students were gone, he turned his attention on her. Anastasia avoided looking at him, bracing herself, her eyes averted. 

“Your head,” he said.

“My head?” 

“It hurts.”

Anastasia chuckled. “No, it doesn’t.” It bloody pounded, felt ready to explode. It didn’t just hurt. 

“I don’t think lying a good thing right now,” he told her, sternly. “I saw what happened when I turned the lights on. And,” he gestured at the empty cup of coffee she gripped. “You wouldn’t be having that if you felt like you didn’t need it. Caffeine is not something we approve of as self-medication, Anastasia.”

Even if you’ve a migraine? 

“You and Ben do it whenever you guys have headaches,” she told him, almost daringly, and, blast her, foolishly, outing herself that, yes, despite what she just said of not having one, she had a headache. A mean one that was now, from the lighting that struck her earlier, a migraine. 

“I also,” Professor Hiddleston frowned, going over to the podium to start gathering his belongings, “don’t suggest getting smart with me.”

How was pointing out a mere observation — one that made them appear very hypocritical — getting smart? It wasn’t. Not to her, at least. But, to them, it was, to him, outrageously so.

“Get your things,” he told her.

“I’m going to the library,” she started, but he stopped her, snapping his fingers once. His signal, she learned overtime, to stop, be quiet, and to do as told. Or, face the unpleasant consequences, which, given her situation, the cloud still over her, felt like she already was. 

She got her things together, checking she had her jacket and everything in her book bag before scooting out of the row. Professor Hiddleston, with his things ready, headed for the door, Anastasia following a few steps behind. 

“The lights,” he directed, holding the door for her, pointing at the switch. She turned them off, cursing him silently for turning them on in the first place. Perhaps, if he hadn’t, she wouldn’t be where she was now, destined for whatever he had in store for her at home. 

They left the building, Professor Hiddleston guiding her to their car. He got her in, making sure she was fastened, and then, getting behind the steering wheel, shot a quick text to Ben. A couple moments later, they were out of the parking lot, homeward bound.

It was a quick drive, a quiet drive, home. In the back, she tried not to think of what would happen once inside the house, already knowing something would. His demeanor would change, shift into something else, and she too, would change.

She’d go from being his student to being someone else. Someone indifferent, someone dependent, someone smaller. Her competence would turn - and always would be in their eyes - to incompetence. She’d become incapable of doing anything, the most simplest of things. Her ability to fend for herself would be taken, shushed away, her pain-ridden state only treatable by their hands. 

At the house, he got her out of the car, and just as she’d expected, knew would happen, his demeanor changed. His stern and serious expression changed to one etched with worry and concern. 

“Alright,” he said, guiding her into the house. “It’s going to be alright, Anya. You know that, little one. Don’t worry about your bag, I’ll bring it in later. Shall we take a seat in the kitchen?”

In the kitchen, she was seated at the breakfast table. He turned the lights on, but kept them on the lowest setting, much to her appreciation. Low enough for her comfort, but bright enough to let him bustle about the space as he got some drinks together. 

“You are right,” he said, rinsing out the kettle they’d used earlier that morning. “Dada and I do drink coffee whenever we have icky headaches. Migraines. We don’t like it, but caffeine, for some, does offer relief. With you, however,” he started filling the kettle with water, “we don’t think it’s very appropriate. I mean, have you ever seen a little one drink coffee before?”

No, she’d never seen a baby drink coffee before. It would be a crazy thing to see. A baby, drinking coffee, from their baba? What a sight it would be! There was no way that could be permissible, not with her, and not with him. 

But, apparently, tea was perfectly fine. 

He poured her a cup, dropping in a tea bag. Anastasia watched him, hoping, maybe, he’d make the tea sweet and add in some sugar for her. He didn’t though, firm in believing sugar was the very last thing his babygirl needed. 

He waited until the cup was cool enough, stirring it. When it was, he brought it over to her, placing it in front of her. “Careful, little one,” he told her, sitting down in the chair next to her, a tea towel in hand in case she spilled.

She drank the tea, tentatively, slowly. It was bitter, very bitter. Chamomile. Not her favorite, but just want she needed to help calm her. Soothe her, settle whatever anxiety she was feeling, and hopefully, make her feel better than she was.

Halfway through the cup, he gave her some aspirin. She took it without question, hoping, unlike the two she had in the morning, they would work. She finished the tea a few sips later, swallowing the last of the bitter taste down. 

“All done?” he asked when the cup was empty. She nodded, and he smiled. Getting up, he took the cup, planted a very light kiss on her head, and then, placed it in the sink. Hanging the tea towel up, he gestured towards the living room.  “Shall we?”

She didn’t want to follow him, but she did, not having much of a choice. She was used to it by now, the feeling of losing control, the anxiety that followed, and then, after all was said and done, lack of care. She was used to walking into that fog, trapped, blinded, controlled.

Up the stairs, she went, him leading the way to the master bedroom. Inside, he directed her towards the bed. To relax, to lay her head on the pillow on his side of the bed. To be good and not make too much trouble as he, very carefully, discarded her big-girl clothes before sliding a shirt — either his or Ben’s —  over her head. He checked her socks, a fuzzy pink, then her undergarments, asking if she needed a change. She didn’t, but maybe, the bathroom, to which, he let her go to without issue. 

Once she was done, she returned to the bed, Tom perched on the edge of it expectedly. He patted his side of the bed, the sheets undone to welcome her in. She laid down, her head pulsing.

“Baby,” he asked her, pulling the covers over her shoulders. “How badly does your head hurt now?”

“Not as much as before,” she mumbled.

“That’s good,” he smiled.

No it wasn’t. Her head still hurt, and the cloud, although a little further away, still threatened to strike her. Everything pulsed, thrummed with an unpleasant intensity. Whenever he spoke, he sounded loud. Too loud, her ears sensitive. And, just thinking of everything, the slightest of thoughts, really hurt. 

“Hopefully, a little nap will make you better,” he said. “Yeah?”

“If you think so,” she said quietly.

Tom grinned. “Close your eyes, baby.”

She didn’t want to, but she did. 

A finger brushed her cheek, pressing gently. Then, it disappeared, replaced by the familiar feeling of his lips — warm and soft — kissing her. He kissed her twice, once on her nose and again on her small temple, whispering he loved her very much.

He’d see her when she woke up, he promised, and maybe, Dada would be home. Don’t worry, baby. Don’t cry. It’s alright. Just think of happy things, pleasant dreams. If you need me, I won’t be far. Just in my office, right down the hall. Give a little cry.

I’ll be there. 

……

A couple hours later, she awoke. Ben, though, was not home. Not yet.

But, Tom was.

He was next to her, propped up in the bed. He’d been next to her for awhile, finished with some work, and he wanted to be close by. Needed to be close by, in case she awoke, and something was wrong. He also hoped his presence would be a comfort to her, that when she did awake, she’d know she was perfectly safe and well. 

When she awoke, she turned to face him. Silent, sleepy still, her head still pounding. It wasn’t as bad as before, the snooze worth-while to offering her some relief. However, realizing Tom next to her, she wished she’d slept a little longer.

“Hello, baby,” he whispered when he saw her awake. “Did you have a nice little nap?”

She nodded, fighting back a yawn and the urge to stretch. 

“I’m happy to hear,” he gave a half grin, brushing his fingers in a soft caress against her forehead. “Your head, little one? Any better?”

“A little.”

“That’s good.”

It was, for him, but for her, not. With her head still aching, he could see to her as he believed necessary. Treat her as he liked, treat her in a manner that wasn’t right, that went against her comfort and biology. Her moment of pain was an opportunity for him to lavish in his dreams and delusions. Reinforce, again, how little she was, how precious she was. That she was too small to care for herself.

She needed him right now. Needed them. Her Daddy and Dada. Only they could care for her, make her better and whole again. Only they could care for their little baby, their little girl, their obsession.

Tom shifted on the bed, rubbing her shoulder. He grinned, his eyes, shadowed because of the darkened room, gazing affectionately down at her. Anastasia tried not to tense, bracing herself, both physically, and, despite the pain it caused, mentally. She tried to shield herself.

“Come here,” he told her, and repositioning her, she was scooted into his waiting lap. He pulled the sheets close, pressing them against her. One of his hands cupped the back of her head, slightly firm as he positioned her so her head was resting on his chest. Then, her legs, were gently curled to let him wrap his arm underneath her, as he cradled her. 

He checked she was covered, swaddling another blanket around her — a dark navy blue baby blanket hand knit by his one and only Ben. He held her, his arms firm, yet loose enough not to squeeze her, softly admiring how adorable she appeared. 

“Daddy is sorry his baby doesn’t feel well,” he cooed. “But, it’s going to be alright. We’ll take good care of you.”

He cuddled her for a long while. Anastasia kept quiet, like she was suppose to, staring up at her Daddy. Cuddle time, or one-on-one time, was something she’d become accustomed to, yet still, struggled to comprehend. It took a lot not to burst out into tears, something she didn’t dare do. Last time she did, which wasn’t too many cuddle sessions ago, it only encouraged him to hold her longer. That he needed to hold her, to comfort her, and ease her tears.

“Don’t cry,” he’d soothed her. “Daddy’s here. I have you.”

She could never tell him he was the reason she was crying. Never. 

The sound of the garage opening a little while later sounded through the hushed room. 

Tom grinned, his eyes brightening. “Baby. You hear what I hear?”

She did. How could she not? She wasn’t deaf. 

“Dada’s home.”

Hooray!

A couple moments later, the door opened, and in walked Ben. She couldn’t see him, not in the way she was being cradled, but didn’t need to. Sound was fine enough. Plenty, to her satisfaction.

“Hello, darling,” Tom greeted him.

Ben broke out into a heartwarming smile at seeing the both of them. It was an adorable sight, Tom leaning against the headboard of their large bed, their sweet princess held to his chest. She was swaddled, in sheets and a familiar blanket, her beautiful features hidden. 

Daddy and baby.

He, placing his bag down, approached the bed. The bed dipped as he sat down, peering down at their babygirl before looking at Tom. 

“Hello, handsome,” he softly said, leaning towards him. He kissed him on the lips, pressing slightly. Tom returned it, humming quietly. Pulling away, Ben peered back at her. “How is she?”

“I got her some aspirin and she had a little nap not too long ago. She said she was feeling a little better,” Tom explained, Ben humming. 

“What do you think cause it?”

You two! Anastasia wanted to say, her lips still closed.

“Don’t know,” Tom replied. “What do you think?”

Ben blinked, thinking. “A smell? School? Her hormones?”

“Her period is soon, so maybe,” Tom nodded. “Her sleep schedule, too. Hasn’t been sleeping too well these last few nights, poor baby.”

“I’m surprised,” Ben looked at Tom, frowning. “Usually, with migraines, or at least, in our experience, we know when an attack is coming. She didn’t show any signs though.”

“Sadly, no,” Tom agreed, his voice dropping slightly with disappointment and disapproval. “Unless, our baby hid such signs from us, which I wouldn’t believe she’d do. She knows better.” He looked down at her again.

Anastasia said nothing. She did know better, but just because she did, didn’t mean she needed to listen to them. Not all the time. She could have her rebellious moments, invisible and undetected. She knew how to hide her yawns — which had been more frequent the last few days — and keep from her increased food cravings. She’d had some stiffness somewhere in her neck, but she’d kept quiet, ignoring it. 

“Well, we’ll just have to be more vigilant in keeping tabs on our baby,” Ben said. “Keep closer watch on you, yeah? Make sure you aren’t doing anything silly.”

Again, she said nothing. 

Ben sat with them a couple minutes, conversing with Tom on how his day had gone. He was home earlier than normal, having also canceled his office hours. His classes had been uneventful, save for when he saw his baby in his class looking like she was in quite a bit of pain, and he was much relieved it was the now the weekend. Tomorrow was Friday, neither had lectures, perfect to let them be with their baby. 

“I hope she doesn’t get worse,” Ben sighed. “I don’t want her hurting more than she already is.”

“Me neither,” Tom said. “But, sometimes, some pain is inevitable, necessary. Pain leads to good things, sometimes.”

Ben kissed Tom lightly on the cheek. “I’m going to get a cuppa.”

“Be a dear, and bring some up for us?”

“Anything for you.”

He left, his footsteps descending down the hallway and stairs.

Tom looked back at Anastasia. He gave her nose a little bop, chuckling. She blinked at the soft tap. 

“Don’t you worry,” he whispered. “We’ll get you better.”

She had no doubts they would, or how they’d do it. They’d keep her close, too close, watch and dictate her every move. This weekend, being under the weather now, would be long, longer than she’d liked. The thought of how this weekend would go made her want to cry.

She didn’t, though.

Above her, as Tom cradled her, the raincloud rumbled, darkening. It threatened to hit her again, but it wouldn’t matter. She’d already been hit by lightning, lost her sense of being and mind. Another lightning bolt would do little. 

She could brace this storm. Their storm. But, when all was said and down, who would be left standing? Broken? Washed-up? Drowned? Burned? 

Not her. 

Chapter Text

Ben shortly returned, three warm cups of tea balanced on a serving tray. Bringing the tea over, he placed it on the bedside table next to Tom. “There you go,” he said as he handed Tom his cup.

“Thank you, babe,” he accepted the cup, making sure to be extra careful not to accidentally spill any on Anastasia. Ben picked up his cup and quickly scooted into the bed next to him.

Tom glanced down at Anastasia, smiling behind his cup as he took a sip. “Don’t worry, you’ll have some as well. Just need to be a little more patient, baby.”

Anastasia didn’t want any tea. Her head was pulsing, and she needed more aspirin. Also, to get away from Tom and his chest, the blankets swaddling her very much annoying. However, she couldn’t do that, so she just laid there, unmoving and quiet, until eventually, she was gently prompted to sit up.

Tom, finished with his tea, readjusted her, letting her sit upright. He got her cup and let her hold it, asking if she wanted him to hold it in case she spilled. She shook her head, taking a couple sips.

Tom kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arms around her. Then, gently, he rested the underside of his chin against the top of her head. Anastasia made a noise, a small one, and he immediately retreated.

“Sorry,” he said. “Silly Daddy. Probably not the best thing to do at the moment.” No, definitely not. She didn’t need anything else pressing down on her, adding to the pain. He kissed her head apologetically.

When she was halfway through with the tea, Ben gave her some more aspirin. She took them appreciatively, downing the rest of her bitter tea with the two small pills. Both praised her for being oh so well behaved, apologizing again about the migraine she had. Again, they both promised they’d take amazing care of her.

Soon, after lounging about in bed for awhile longer, Ben left to get dinner started. While away, Tom did a check of her undergarments, the nappy she wore (something she despised with such hatred it made her world flash red) still completely dry.

“Baby,” he said when he saw. “You’ve not used your nappy yet?”

She shook her head.

“Why?”

“Don’t need to,” she said a little too quickly.

“There’s a difference between want and need,” he told her, knowing just what she, unspokenly, was referring to. “However, given the current circumstances, I won’t make you use it. Bathroom?”

“Yes, please.”

Anastasia, happy he was giving her a pass, however short-lived it would be, went to the bathroom. It would’ve upset her, like every time she did, embarrass the hell out of her if she used it. Such an ordeal was not ideal right now. It would only add more fuel to her migraine, more pain, more irritation, more discomfort.

After she was done, he carried her downstairs and into the kitchen. Ben was just about finished with dinner, the table all set up and nicely arranged. Tom placed her in her chair, kissing her head before going over to see what was on the menu.

“Nothing fancy,” Ben said. “Leftovers.”

“For baby?”

“I thought we’d break from the usual,” he gestured towards a small bowl he’d set aside. “Mac and cheese, mixed in with some Dino nuggets. Give her a little treat.”

“You spoil her,” Tom kissed his check.

“Guilty as charged.”

Anastasia ate the entirety of her bowl, not asking anything about the change in her routine meal. Instead of having a bowl of soft foods — mainly consisting of homemade purées and baby foods (Yuck!) — she was having solids. Mac and cheese, her favorite.

She finished before them.

“Did you enjoy that?” Ben asked when she finished.

“I did,” she replied. “Thank you.”

It was here she, if she didn’t know better, should’ve, and would’ve, asked for seconds. However, in the past, with a similar meal, she’d made the mistake of asking for seconds. Tom and Ben had chuckled at her hopefulness.

“Baby,” Tom had told her. “We’re happy you enjoyed the meal, but this isn’t something you should expect. We can’t make this a habit. You don’t get seconds in big-girl meals.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Ben said. “We broke our expectations for you. What kind of Daddies are we if we let our little one have seconds on food she really shouldn’t have? You’d get sick! We’d let you think it’s okay to get away with something that isn’t.”

And then, after that meal, as if displeased by her asking, they’d had her eat half a container of puréed vegetables. It was her dessert, Tom shushed her while Ben fed her, making fun and playful gestures to entice her to eat. It had upset her greatly, but she’d learned her lesson. Seconds didn’t exist in her world anymore, not unless it was for foods they deemed appropriate and took delight in feeding her.

Anastasia sat quietly, waiting until they’d finished. When they did, Ben cleared the table, and Tom, checking her face, which she’d kept all nice and sparkling clean, lifted her back into his arms. The movement hurt slightly, her head pulsing again. She winced.

Tom frowned. “Does your head still hurt, baby?”

She nodded, quickly spotting the coffee pot that sat empty where it was by the drink station. Tom saw where she was looking, tsking, “Babies don’t drink icky coffee, little one. You know that.”

I’m well aware. What about you? Are you well aware of how I’m not your baby? Need a reality check?

Tom kissed the side of her head, swaying back and forth. Ben stood by the sink, the sound of running water filling the space with a gentle ambience. There was soft clinks and clatters as he washed the dishes, Anastasia watching as he throughly rinsed them. If she weren’t currently being held in his arms, gently swaying, Tom would’ve happily helped, standing at the ready with a towel to dry. However, he had his arms full, needed to make sure their baby was safe and sound.

Ben finished with the dishes, laying them out to dry on a small rack. Tom waited for him, turning off the lights. Ben quickly pecked his lips, mumbling, “Shall we call it an early night?”

“Why not?”

Anastasia had more than a million reasons why not to call it an early night. She also had a million more reasons not to do other things, but she didn’t dare speak her mind. Once upon a time, she’d gotten a little snippy with them, to which they’d not taken kindly to. Her tongue soured in bitter memory of the soap they used, remembering the specific lesson she’d been taught.

They went upstairs and towards the master bedroom. Ben took a detour, stopping at a closed door a little further down the hall. Anastasia frowned, wondering just what he’d fish out from her nursery to bring over. She didn’t need to take any wild guesses.

In their bedroom, Tom plopped her down on their bed. “Alright, missy,” he said. “Ready for bed?”

Anastasia shrugged. “You’re the ones calling the shots, so you tell me.”

Tom arched a brow at her, giving her a look. “Come again?”

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I suppose I’m ready for bed.”

“Much better. Good girl,” he beamed.

Ben returned with a small bundle. Coming over to the bed, he hoisted her up and carried her into the bathroom. He noticed the oversized tee-shirt she wore, his lips twitching into a smile. “You’re wearing one of my shirts.”

“Daddy put it on me,” Anastasia replied.

“Did he now?” Ben opened a drawer beneath the sink counter, plucking up a small thermometer. Anastasia tensed at the sight of it, her head pulsing. Ben saw her expression, quick to reassure and say, “Hey, it’s alright. Just going to check your temperature.”

It wasn’t that - having her temperature taken - that had her stiffen. It was how. Last time she’d had it done, it hadn’t been a very pleasant experience. At all. Oh, how she screamed, yelled, and panicked when she’d gotten it taken. How she left her body when she learned how she’d have it taken, done in such a mortifying way far too inappropriate for her age. How she’d squirmed over Tom’s lap as she’d tried to get away as Ben tried taking her temperature, promising it wouldn’t hurt if she held still and was good for them. Then, after all was said and done, how she cried and cried, damning both men to hell for what’d they’d done to her. What they’d taken twisted, ugly, satisfaction and delight in having her feel, experience, and believe was only right for little girls like her in getting her temperature properly taken.

Anastasia, with her migraine, knew, without a, doubt, she couldn’t handle having her temperature taken like that. Not now, and not ever again. So, in a very soft voice, she said, “Dada? Can you not take my temperature ass-side up?”

Ben broke out into laughter. “You’re too adorable, Anya.”

For a moment, she thought the worst, and that, he was laughing, not because he found her cute, but because he thought it absurd for granting her what she wanted. Her ass gave a scream, her heart sinking straight to her toes. Somewhere above her, the raincloud rumbled above her, ready to hit her. She wished it would, hard enough to knock her out for what she was about to feel and experience, save her from dying from morficaction.

However, Ben surprised her. He showed her mercy, shaking his head. “Not this time, baby. I’m just going to do underneath your arm. That alright?”

That was more than alright. Anastasia quickly nodded. Ben smiled, then instructed, softly, she take his shirt off she wore. She did, giving him access to slip the thermometer underneath her arm. There was a moment of silence, and then, a beep. He took it out, read it, then called out loudly, “No fever, babe. Just a migraine.”

“What’s it read?” Tom called back.

“97.6,” Ben read aloud.

“Good.”

“Babe?”

“Oui?”

“Get me a tee-shirt. One of yours, please.”

A moment later, Tom poked his head in. He handed Ben a shirt and, carefully, he slide it over Anastasia’s head. Adjusting the shirt, he looked back at his husband, asking, “How’s she look?”

“Beyond adorable,” he said.

Anastasia kept from sighing. Of course, she looked adorable. Why wouldn't she? She was wearing one of Daddy’s shirts, and whenever she wore any of his clothings, she was freaking adorable. She was freaking cute. She was freaking perfect.

She was freaking theirs.

And, how she freaking hated it.

Ben tapped her on the leg, getting her attention. “Mh?”

“Can I check your nappy?”

“I didn’t use it.”

“Still, can I check your nappy?”

No way in hell could he check her nappy. However, there was no way on earth she could say no, no way she could refuse him. He’d check it with or without her permission, with or without asking beforehand. And bedsides, babies didn’t get much of say in whether or not they got checked or not. It just happened.

“Knock yourself out,” she grumbled.

“Thank you, baby.”

Oh, you are so very welcome, Dada! You wayward man somehow let loose from whatever insane asylum you and your husband grew up in and, then, stupidly let out to make all your fucking, twisted dreams come true! You are so very welcome!

Ben checked her, embarrassedly so. Like Tom, he gently chided her for not using it, asking why she hadn’t. She shrugged, said again she didn’t need to, hoping he wouldn't push it. He didn’t, simply changing her into a new one. When he did the tabs up, he said, “Anya, you need to use them. It’s not good for your heath to hold it in. Plus, these aren't cheap. You know what we think of wasting them, baby.”

Anastasia didn’t say anything to that, fiddling with the hem of the shirt she wore. Ben sighed before continuing with her night routine. Her teeth, he throughly brushed, her hands and face, he washed with a cool soft cloth. He finished by brushing her hair and then, Tom reappeared. Anastasia hide her look of disgust when he appeared, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers.

Ben let out a growl. “What are you playing at, Daddy?”

“Nothing,” Tom said, lifting her up into his arms. “Just thought to show off my assets.”

“You better watch it,” Ben teased. “Or, we’ll have to put the baby in her crib for tonight.”

“Tempting, darling,” Tom said. “That would be a very nice way to start the weekend.”

No, no it would not! Absolutely not. Them getting down and hot for each other, lost underneath the sheets, would not be a nice way to start the weekend.

Anastasia let out a whine.

Tom chuckled. “Oh, we’ve little ears near. Sorry, baby.” He kissed her nose. “Daddy will watch himself.”

I’d very much appreciate it!

Carrying her from the bathroom, he took her over to the bed. He sat her down and, immediately, she crawled underneath the sheets. She threw the covers over her head. Tom chuckled, gasping playfully, “Oh, where is my little baby? Is she playing peek-a-boo?” The bed dipped with his weight as he got onto his side of the bed. “Peek-a-boo!”

Anastasia didn’t want to play peek-a-boo. What she wanted was to disappear and never reappear. However, the best she’d get was sleep. A few hours away from the world, away from them, away from the pain in her head and her heart. She closed her eyes, drew her knees to her chest, and hoped he’d see and let her be.

Tom did, cooing. Gently, he laid down next to her, tucking the covers back over her head. He kissed her nose. “Sleepy baby.”

There was the sound of carpeted footsteps, and then, another dip in the bed. From beneath her shelter of sheets, she heard Ben gently say, “Anya?”

She peeked at him, pulling the sheets away from her head. She blinked, wondering what he wanted now. He, like Tom, was ready for bed, stripped to only his boxers. She avoided looking at his exposed skin, looking at the sheets instead as he, very kindly, prompted her to have some more aspirin. She did, sipping the tiny pills down with some water, Tom watching fondly and carefully.

“I’m sorry you had a migraine,” Ben told her. “Migraines are nasty buggers, but nothing we can’t handle. Come morning, I promise you’ll feel better.”

Anastasia wished she could believe him. Wished in a way she could take his words to heart like she once did when he was simply her professor. She couldn’t, though, not anymore.

Don't make promises you can't keep. 

Ben pecked her, kissing her on her forehead. The lights went out, and there was the rustling of sheets. Arms reached out in the dark, latching around her tiny waist, tugging her down. Bringing her closer, she was pressed to Tom’s body in a swaddle. Ever so gently, she felt him rest his chin against her head.

His chest vibrated as he said, “Good night, baby. We love you.”

You shouldn’t.

But, they did.

They loved her in such a way she could not escape. Adored her like she was everything to them, and not, once upon a time, their student. They loved her so much they’d go and do anything (and already had) to keep her. To make her what they believed her to be, their absolute baby dear, they’d do anything.

They loved her.

She, too, had, once. But, that love was different. It had been admiration and appreciation for them, a student dedicated to her studies. That love was mutual, and small, and there was nothing amiss about it. She appreciated them, her two professors she would now never admit had been her favorites. She’d let them know, a mistake. She’d thanked them, and that was permission enough for them to whisk her away and change her world forever.

Now, she hated them.

She was trapped.

Theirs.

Anastasia closed her eyes. Come morning, she thought, nothing would be better. But, while she slept, she could disappear for a few hours. She did not need to exist and be someone else completely. Somewhere else completely.

Awake, during the day, she was a prisoner to them, her two professors, but at night, she was free to be whoever and whatever.

In her dreams, she could fly free.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Anastasia awoke early. And, like they’d both promised, head-ache free. 

Anastasia was use to waking up early. Before the crack of dawn early. Once, months ago, she’d loved waking up early, beating the sun up. She cherished waking early, made it her daily routine to watch the sunrise. It was a beautiful thing, had been, to watch the sunrise. It always prepared her, grounded her for the day ahead. 

Not anymore though.

It was still dark when she awoke. Next to her, she heard the familiar sounds of breathing, soft snoring emitting from the two men laying next to her. Around her, Tom’s arms held her, but were loose and slack. Slack enough for her to slip free. But, she stayed put, letting him hold her as he slumbered. If she moved, he’d immediately wake. Greet her, kiss her, ask her what she was doing. Where she was going, why she was leaving his arms. He’d bring her back, squeeze her, tell her she was right where she belonged. She didn’t want to deal with that, not this morning, upset and irritate herself into another headache. 

For the next several minutes, she laid there, listening to them. She counted their snores, debating if she should close her eyes and drift back to sleep. She gazed at the ceiling above her, the raincloud from yesterday gone. She surpressed several yawns, kept quiet, not yet ready to wake the two men sleeping.

When they did wake, it was Ben that rose first. He saw her awake, breaking out into a sleepy smile. His voice was husky as he asked, “Hello, you. You’re up early. Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” she said, half-truthfully. 

“Dream any sweet dreams?”

“If I did, I don’t remember.” Anastasia yawned, and he chuckled. He gently poked the tip of her nose, chuckling again when she scrunched it up. 

“Cutie,” he told her.

Creep.

Ben, as not to disturb his sleeping husband, got up from the bed quietly, gently hoisting Anastasia out. He swung her onto his hip before carrying her into the bathroom. “Nappy?” He asked, patting her bum. 

Anastasia cringed inside. “No,” she said quietly.

Ben frowned. “No?”

Again, she shook her head.

He sighed, worried. “That’s not good, baby.”

Anastasia didn't say anything, her mouth sealed. 

“You need to use it.” 

No, I don’t. 

He set her down, looking down at her. Anastasia peered at the toilet, and he saw, sighing heavily. 

“May I, please?” She asked.

“Go on,” he said. 

Anastasia quickly relived herself, ignoring how Ben observed her as she did. When she was done, flushing, he helped wash her hands. Drying her hands, he said, “You know, we’ll have to have a conversation later about you and your nappy, yes?” 

She did know. Whenever she didn’t use it, both he and Tom would have a discussion with her on why she wasn't using it. They’d prob around for the root cause of her reluctance, try and figure out what she was up to. Babies were suppose to use nappies, and she wasn’t, which was a serious cause of concern. And, a great no-no, a serious offense. A sign of disobedience, of her not being good. Of her trying to gain control, control she couldn't have. 

Ben dropped the subject, getting a new nappy for her. He helped her into it, securing it. Then, he told her to turn the sink back on and look away as he quickly relieved himself. She did, fixating on the wall, her hands itching to cover her ears to muffle the sounds. When he was done, he washed his hands, saying, “Baby, get Dada’s robe, sil vous plait.” 

She did, walking out of the bathroom to fetch his bathrobe hung over the backside of his armchair set before the bed in the center of the room. Ben thanked her, told her she was an absolute doll before carrying her out and downstairs. 

He brought her to the kitchen. “Alright,” he said, setting her down on the edge of the counter. “What should Dada get his baby for her morning cuppa?” He looked at her expectedly, and she said, “Baba?”

“Baby wants her baba?”

Anastasia swung her legs. “Pwease?”

“Anything for you.”

Ben got going on her cuppa, her stupid baba. Usually, she’d have asked for her usual cup of tea, but today was Friday. She didn’t drink tea on Fridays, the start of the weekends. No, that wasn’t how to start the weekend off right — the start of the next three days little and small and as their good little girl. 

Anastasia watched Ben go about the kitchen. Silently, she saw him pull out a carton of milk (almond milk) from the fridge and shake it. Then, from the cabinet with her special supplies, get the formula power down. He fetched a small tumbler cup, one with a fun aqua undersea design, and filled it with some water. Anastasia counted the number of scoops of powder he sprinkled in, three scoops. He poured in the almond milk, filling the cup almost to the top. Twisting the lid back on, he carefully shook the cup. 

“There you go,” he said as he handed it to her, plopping a blue straw in through the lid. “Drink up.”

Anastasia didn’t want to drink up. Not with this vile drink, this baba made just for her. Glancing at her baba, she should've felt very relieved it wasn’t an actual baby bottle he’d prepared. Later, she told herself, as she took a very small sip, though, that would come. 

Anastasia drank her baba, slowly and painfully. It took everything for her not to gag as she swallowed the formula down. The almond milk Ben added did little to take from the flavor of the horrid liquid, dusty and oh so wrong. She tried, and failed, not to think of how much worse this taste would be later when she’d have her first bottle of the day. How much stronger, how much more disgusting, how much more she’d struggle to consume this milk. This cuppa, this baba, was a teaser, a cleanser to prep her palate. 

She went on sipping. Ben got his own drink his usual black coffee, and for the next several minutes, they fell into silence. Anastasia drank, he watched and savored his own cuppa, and upstairs, Tom slept, sound asleep. 

When she was done, her stomach roiling, Ben took her cup away. He praised her and lifted her up into his arms. He began walking about the kitchen, swaying slightly back and forth. Anastasia tried not to squirm when he began rubbing her back, pressing firmly. She made a noise of protest, pleading quietly for him to stop when a bubble tickled her throat. Ben shushed her, told her it was alright, and to relax. Dada has you. I won’t drop you. 

He went on rocking, patting, and then, a little burp! escaped her. Her cheeks heated, and then, there was another little burp! Two more little burps left her (unwillingly and embarrassedly) before Ben stopped patting. He kissed her forehead, asking “All done?”

Anastasia nodded, silent. 

“Well done,” he said. “Let Dada finish his coffee, alright? Then, I’ll see what magic I can cook up for breakfast.”

Ben finished his coffee, still holding Anastasia in his arms. When he was done, he got going on breakfast, setting her back on the counter. She watched him get everything out, spotting the usual ingredients he used whenever making her morning meal. It was nothing magical he made, quite the opposite, oatmeal and a banana he mushed up. He was in the middle of dishing her bowl up when Tom appeared. 

“Good morning, handsome,” Tom greeted as he waltzed into the kitchen, clad in a dark green robe. He kissed Ben on the cheek, slipping his arms around him to hug. He nuzzled his shoulder, inhaling his lover’s scent. 

“Hello, my love,” Ben said, grinning. “Sleep well?”

“I did. “ Tom pulled away, looking over at Anastasia. “Good morning, baby.”

Anastasia waved at him. “Morning, Daddy.”

Screw you.

Tom left Ben, walking over to her and lifting her off the counter. He spun her around, placing her on his hip. “Sleep well? How’s your head?”

“Gone.”

Tom beamed. “Gone? No more headache?”

Anastasia nodded. 

“She hasn’t used her nappy yet.” Ben said.

Tom’s smile faltered. “Oh?”

You just had to say something, didn’t you?

Ben placed Anastasia’s bowl on the table. “Woke up completely dry. I’m worried.”

“That true?” Tom looked at her. She shrugged, blinking. “Anastasia?”

“I guess.”

“It’s a yes or no question,” Tom sat down, adjusting her over his lap and scooting her bowl closer. With a spoon, he scooped some oatmeal up. “Yes?” He aligned the spoon, tapping it against her closed mouth in signal to open. She did and he fed her the bite. “No?”

“Yes,” she said quickly.

Tom sighed. “Anya.”

He wasn't happy. He fed her another bite, then another. She accepted each one, bracing herself for whatever he’d say next. The lecture he’d give her, the scolding. The interrogation, and then, if they saw fit, the appropriate punishment. The thought of punishment had her mumbling out, after another bite, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t speak,” he said. “Eat, baby.”

She did, keeping silent. He went on feeding her, and Ben got his morning cup ready, bringing it over to him. He thanked him sweetly, and Anastasia felt like going poof! It had been a mistake to apologize — he wasn’t fond of apologies. Apologies didn’t correct poor behavior. Didn’t teach lessons. Didn’t show the errors of your ways, explain yourself. Apologies were signs of guilt. 

Ben sat down at the table, exchanging, when her bowl was clean, it with another one. It had the bananas in it, mushed and mashed. Tom fed them to her, Ben starting up a conversation on what to do for the day. Several things, but first and foremost, they had to take care of Anastasia, their top priority of the day. They needed to fix her bathroom habits, make sure she was healthy and good again. Without a doubt, she knew it would be a rather unpleasant experience. 

“Alright,” Tom said when the bowl was finished. “I think it’s time for this baby’s morning bottle? Yeah?”

No. 

Ben smiled. “One bottle, coming right up!”

“Thank you,” Tom rose from the table. “We’ll be in the living room.”

In the living room, he took a seat on the couch. Grabbing a blanket, he wrapped it around Anastasia, securing it around her. As he swaddled her, he went over, in a tone that warned she not try anything, what was going happen. “You will drink your entire bottle, Anastasia. Every last drop. You will behave and be good.” He leaned into the couch, positioning her over him. “You will not cry.”

Yes, yes I will. You know I will. I do every time. How will this be any different? 

Ben reappeared, sat down next to Tom and gave him the bottle. Tom thanked him, then, brought the bottle to her mouth. The nipple of it pressed against her sealed lips. Anastasia closed her eyes, gathering her strength. Something pinched her, right over a spot of skin on her exposed legs where the blanket wasn't’t covering her, Ben’s fingers biting. She gave a start, a cry of pain leaving her mouth. 

“Ow—!”

Her cry was silenced as Tom shoved the bottle into her mouth. 

Milk flooded her mouth and she gagged. 

Her mouth spasmed, her lips stretched around the nipple. Her teeth bite into the nipple, a reflex she couldn't control. She inhaled, the air gone. Silently, she tried not to choke as tears sprang to her eyes. 

“There, there,” she heard Tom say. “You know the drill.”

She did know the drill. She closed her eyes, and made  (forced) herself to relax. She couldn’t fight this, no matter how much she tried. It was best if she just gave in, let the milk in — despite it’s disgusting taste — and let him do as he pleased, nursing her like a true little babe. 

She drank the milk, sucking. Halfway through, she, like she always did, broke into a fit of crying. It stopped her from feeding for a moment, and all she could focus on was her overwhelming urge to just sob. It was the only way she could express herself, the only way they let her express herself. Babies cried. She was their baby, her tears were no surprise. 

She continued sobbing, Tom shushing her. He told her it was alright, Daddy has you, and to please, stop crying. He didn’t like her crying, he said, an outright lie. If he didn’t like her crying, why was she here? Why was she in his arms, trapped? Why did he like subjecting her to this? Nursing her in such a way? Hurting her and playing cruel mind games on her? Why was he here? Why was Ben here? Why was she here?

Her why’s weren't important, though. There was only the here and now. Here, she was, and here, they promised, she’d always be. Now, she was crying, now she was drowning. But, they’d bring her back to the surface — like always — tell her she was being silly. Break her down to pieces for them to rebuild. 

Anastasia, as she laid there, crying, was drowning. Drowning, trapped, controlled. But, to them, she was drowning in their love. 

Always. 

Chapter Text

A few hours later, Anastasia was in hell. 

Well, not yet, but getting very close to being in hell. If not now, then sometime within the next thirty minutes, most definitely, she’d be there. 

After fed her morning bottle, she was given a sippy cup of water, both Tom and Ben adamant on making sure she stayed hydrated. She tried rejecting the cup, well aware they weren’t giving it to her to keep hydrated. It had been a losing battle, and she downed it completely, knowing and hating what would shortly follow. They praised her, burped her, and then, Tom declared she needed a little nap. 

With the situation she was in, she knew nothing good would come from this little nap. Especially for her poor bladder….

They took her upstairs, carrying her to her room to lay her down. Anastasia whined, not wanting to be put in her bed, a bed that was anything but a bed. A cage, a white large crib she hated with her entire being and, upon entering her room, had her wiggling to escape Tom’s hold. She pleaded not to be put down, that she didn’t need her crib. 

Her cries fell on deaf ears, and now, here she was, in agony. In her crib and tied down, her arms and legs restrained by cuffs. She was laid out flat on her back, her arms and legs held down in a star-fish stance. A thin blanket was draped over her, covering her lower half. Completely immobile, her stomach perfectly exposed, the nappy she wore underneath the blanket on cute display.  

Anastasia pulled against the restraints as a cramp went through her. Her bladder ached, hissing. There was a pressure inside she needed to release, a pressure she recognized and made her want to die. Again, she pulled against the restraints, hissing as pain pinched at the movement. Closing her eyes, she told herself to breathe, to think of something else, anything at all. She thought — a mistake — what she’d done wrong to end up here. 

Minutes went by, the pressure increasing. Hell crept closer. She told herself, again and again, to breathe, breathe, breathe. She fought for control, whimpering. Tried to keep the dam inside from breaking. 

But, eventually, the pressure became too much. The pain, too. 

She turned, crying, the movement stabbing. Her bladder spasmed, then relaxed, painfully. Warmth spread beneath her bonded legs. She tried to stop it, but too late. Relief got the best of her, and she sank into the crib’s mattress. She let out a stuttering cry, but from from relief or shame, she didn’t want to know. It didn’t matter, not really. 

All that did was the broken dam inside her…..

The door to the room opened and two faces appeared above her. 

“Ah baby,” Tom cooed. “Why are you crying?” He reached in, gently brushing one of her cheeks with a finger. “You know we don’t like seeing you cry. How it breaks our hearts, little one. Hm?”

You fucking hypocrites! 

Anastasia pulled at her restraints, sniffing. 

“Baby, what’s the matter?” Ben asked softly, his voice rumbling. “You tell us what’s wrong? Tell Daddy and Dada what’s wrong, yeah?”

Anastasia didn’t need to tell them what was wrong. They knew what was wrong, had set her in this crib, this prison, these restraints, for a very specific reason. A lesson, Tom told her once when she first experienced this, found herself in a similar position when she disobeyed them, tried to gain control again. A readjustment, Ben thought better, a reminder of their expectations of her. 

Hell, though, was all she could call this.

Humiliating, dehumanizing, degrading. So much, this was, this hell she was in. How she descended, she didn’t know. Well, perhaps, a little, her not using her stupid nappy a big reason why, but generally speaking, she didn’t know. She must’ve done something wrong (save for disobeying her Daddies) in a past life, maybe. Or, she just caught the wrong eye, auditioned, without knowing, for the wrong role. 

She must’ve done something to be here.

Or, maybe, not. 

But, did that matter now?

Not in the present moment.

Later, she could think, mourn. Imagine she was elsewhere, pray for that thunderstorm to come back and really take her out of her misery, this hell, strike her good and gone. 

For now, she was stuck. 

Crying. 

“Baby,” Tom said, frowning. “You need to tell us what’s wrong. We can’t help you if you don’t. We want to help you, love.”

Anastasia didn’t want to respond, listen to him. But, already, she’d ignored them enough, and ignoring them further would do little to ease her grief right now. So, with a shuddering breath, her body shaking, she hiccuped out, “B-B-Blanket. T-The blanket.”

“Blanket? It’s your blanket?”

Anastasia nodded, sobbing. “Yes.”

Ben reached for the blanket covering her. “What’s the matter with it?” 

He touched the blanket, grabbing it between two fingers. Immediately, he felt it was damp, and, both men, caught a whiff of the now soiled material. Neither said anything, Tom again, asking what she was so upset about with her blanket. 

“You need to be specific, Anastasia,” he said.

“W-W-Wet.”

“Wet?”

“It’s w-w-wet.”

“It is wet.”

Damn you.

Anastasia croaked out, “I’m s-s-orry.”

“What happened, little one?” Ben asked. 

How dare he call her that! How dare he! How could he? Use a nickname he, they, believed soothing and comforting, nurturing, with what was happening? The name was horrible, ill. Wrong. Debilitating. 

Deliberate. 

This was all because of them. And, no accident. They wanted this to happen, planned it perfectly. They knew what they were doing, their intentions meticulous, fine-point. Stabbing, like a well-sharpened knife, sharp and ready to draw blood. They knew exactly where to press, align this knife, how much to draw to make her comply. Make her compliant, quiet, squirm. They knew how to make her flee, make her do what she didn’t want to, but, now, could not longer control. Her body, her mind, they were cutting to ribbons. 

“What happened?” Tom asked, gentle, coaxing. 

You know! she wanted to wail. Scream. 

But, all she could do, trembling, was say, in a broken voice, “I had an accident.”

“Oh. That’s awful,” he sighed. “You poor thing.”

“No wonder you’re crying,” Ben said, his voice soft. “Accidents are no fun.”

No, they bloody fucking weren’t.

Tom stroked a finger against her check. “We’re sorry,” — no, he wasn’t — “you had one. Dada’s right. Accidents are no fun. But, there’s no need to cry about it, darling. Accident’s are accidents. You didn’t mean for it to happen, baby. It’s alright, though. You did nothing wrong. No need to cry over spilled milk.”

Anastasia closed her eyes, wishing she was deaf. She hated whenever he spoke like that, especially after such a thing as this, his demeanor anew and different. Earlier, as he laid her down in her crib, locked the restraints around her, he’d been cool. Hard. Disappointed. His expression stormy, his voice laced with threat as he, before leaving the room, told her, his eyes dark, “We’ll be back. Enjoy your nap, little one.” 

He didn’t need to say it, what he expected to see when they returned, the warning clear. And, if she didn’t do it, so were the consequences. But, she didn’t need to worry about that now,  disappointing and disobeying him again. His manner now, soft and gentle, sympathetic even, was more than clue enough to how happy he was she listened. That her lesson, his little lecture, had worked effortlessly. 

Well, no. Not yet. 

Her lesson was halfway through. 

Anastasia wept, Tom cooing at her. He tried to soothe her, hush her, and Ben, taking the soiled blanket away to wash later, disappeared momentarily. If she weren’t so busy crying, perhaps she would (and in times past had) have heard Ben go about staging the next part of her lesson. See, too, as he prepped what was needed, but, burrowed deep in humiliation, didn’t, her eyes closed to block everything out. She braced herself, imagined herself, like she always did, elsewhere. 

“Alright,” Ben said, her stomaching tightening. “Let’s get you all sorted, lovebug. Get you into a fresh nappy.”

Something loosened around her, the restraints, pulled off by Tom. Anastasia stayed down, letting him work, somewhat relived, in an awful way, that her chains were free. More clicking, and then, the bars to her crib were down, Tom scooping her up into his arms. She was lifted upwards, off the mattress, her ears cringing as the disposable pad she’d been on crinkled loudly. 

“We’ll probably need to change her bedding,” Tom told Ben. 

“The pad didn’t work?”

“It did,” he carried Anastasia across the room. “A change of sheets won’t hurt, will it?”

“Nah,” Ben shook his head. “We can put on those butterfly ones.”

“I love those ones,” Tom exclaimed. 

“They’re adorable.”

“Perfect for our little butterfly,” Tom agreed, beaming down at her. 

Shut up and change me already! 

Tom laid her down, slow and careful. Something squishy touched her back. She sank into it, the material familiar, crinkly and foamy soft. A mat, perfectly designed for her size, padded just so for comfort. It wasn’t as soft as her crib’s mattress, but it, for intended purposes, worked. Gave her something to rest on that wouldn’t hurt, make her changes uncomfortable, and keep any hard surfaces bruising her bony figure. 

Tom lifted her head, cupping it gently as he placed a pillow underneath her. “Do we need the restraints?”

“No,” Ben replied. “I think we’ll be alright. Here,” he handed him a cloth, a tissue. “Can you clean her face?”

“Yeah,” he accepted the tissue, and grinning back at her said, “Can Daddy clean your face?”

Anastasia didn’t want him touching her. 

Anywhere. 

But, it didn’t matter what she wanted. 

She nodded, wishing she wasn’t here. 

“Thank you, baby.” 

He dapped the tissue against her face. His touch was light, gentle, yet firm enough for her to feel. He did a thorough job, wiping underneath her eyes, pressing here and there. He finished by cleaning her nose, wiping any snot away, which, unfortunately, embarrassed, there was some. She flushed when he blew a kiss over her nose, his breath ticklish, his lips too close for comfort. 

“Be good for us,” he whispered. 

She didn’t want to be anything for them. She wanted out, away. She wanted to sprout wings, take flight. Leave her body, this hell behind. Maybe, she could kick her legs, make a little scene, but then, she’d be pinned down. Chided. Taught another lesson. She wanted to disappear, pretend she wasn’t real, that this was just a horrible dream. 

This wasn’t a dream, though. 

She was real.

She couldn’t disappear.

But, she could be good. 

Tom moved away, stepping aside for Ben to take his spot. He grinned down at her, and, pitching his voice, he asked, “Is baby ready for a change?”

Yes.

No. 

Maybe.

Never.

Anastasia said nothing, holding still. Ben, not expecting a response, swept a quick glance over her. He tapped the outside  of her leg, just below her bum, instructing, kindly, she move her legs. She did, her knees bending. Tom watched, ready to assist if required. Ben smiled at her, wrapping a hand around one of her ankles, squeezing it. “Butterfly?”

Anastasia, at this, spread her legs, opening them. It was a horrible sensation, exposing herself in such a way. It was intimate, and how she wanted to snap her legs shut. But, she didn’t, her body tensing. She focused on the ceiling and started counting. 

One, two, three…Ben reached for the tabs of the nappy she wore, quickly undoing them. He gave another tap, signal for her to lift up her hips, and she did, still counting, as he tugged the nappy away. Another tap, and she was down again. There was a rustle, the nappy balled up as Ben disposed of it into the little nappy dispenser. Ten, elven, twelve….A wipe, multiple wipes, were tugged out from a packet, crinkling. Anastasia went on counting, Tom whispered she relax, reassuring her she was fine when Ben touched her, wiping. You’re good, he cooed. Dada’s just cleaning you up, like we always do. They were cold, the wipes, but fresh, necessary, to clean her accident up. Sanitary, scentless, perfect for sensitive skin. When he was finished, he tossed them away and a new nappy was slipped under her bum. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two….powder rained over her, rubbed in to soften her skin. She held still, holding her breath. He finished, taping the tabs in place to secure around her hips. He checked it wasn’t too tight, snug enough for comfort. He praised her, telling her she did wonderful. Then, a large shirt, one of theirs, was put on her, Ben guiding her arms and head in carefully. 

Cute, he called her. 

Tom agreed, scooping her up off the changing table, swinging her onto his hip. He kissed the side of her head, bouncing her slightly. 

“You did so well,” he told her. 

It was here she should’ve said sorry again. Made it clear she learned her lesson, and wouldn’t act up again. Use her nappy, listen to them, be their good little girl. And, maybe she did say sorry, but, not to them. Maybe, to the universe, she apologized, or to herself. Somewhere, as she went on counting silently, the numbers became words. She became a broken record, voiceless. Only two words flashed through her mind, a tether to keep her from losing it completely. 

I’m sorry.

Tom took her over to the corner of the room, her nursery. He lowered himself into a chair, her rocking chair, made himself comfortable. Ben cleaned up the rest of her changing station, put away her supplies, and then, going over to her crib, began to strip it. Tom squeezed her, signaling for her attention. 

Anastasia blinked at him.

He smiled. His eyes glistened. His mouth moved, but Anastasia didn’t hear him. Her mind was elsewhere. 

Why me?

Tom started rocking, cradling her. 

She heard, muffled, from afar, him whisper how lovely this weekend would be. How they’d spend the rest of the day and the next couple days, him with his little family near. He told her he loved her, I love you, and I’ll never let you go. 

She was safe with them. 

Ours, he whispered. 

Trapped in his hold, rocked, her mind aloof, grey and spiraling, Anastasia let herself be his, sinking deeper into their rabbit hole.