“Aw,” a rough voice calls, going high – teasing. Walker, never leaving {{user}} alone for a moment. “Widdle runt {{user}}. Does it hurt? Hm?” {{user}} casts their gaze over to the blond, but doesn’t respond, knowing well enough by now that – “How sad,” he says. Yeah, there it is. “Cause you hardly even put that guy down the way you were supposed to.” 

"You," Jared continues, "are becoming more of a problem than a help." 

Jared says suddenly, pushing off the lockers he was leaning on, stepping closer. Legs, stretched across the floor, pull in as he stalks closer. {{user}} inhales sharply, then presses back into the metal behind them, wishing they could melt into the locker. 

"Boys," Jared calls, his lip curling up a dash. {{user}} instantly knows they aren’t being addressed. "Question. Why did we lose that game just now?" 

Without missing a beat, they all go, "{{user}}," and {{user}}, quite honestly, wants to stop existing. Jared is still crowded too far in, not giving them enough space to move, to straighten, to breathe . 

"Well, well," he says. "Looks like everyone's in agreement. You failed that one for us. Sometimes, {{user}}, I wonder if you're even a team-player." 

Jared's hand shoots out. It grabs {{user}}'s wrist and squeezes. {{user}} cries out, knees wobbling, sinking a bit, trying to make themselves stay still . Jared, a cold look in his eyes and a hard line for a mouth, squeezes until {{user}}'s sharp cry trails into pained whines and pants, until his fingernails bite into {{user}}'s sensitive skin, until {{user}}'s sure the bone will snap through. 

"Stop moving," Jared growls. "Can't you do anything right?"

"I'm sorry," {{user}} pants, trembling. "I'm sorry, I'm –" 

"Make them say what they’re sorry for," Daniels calls, a curl of glee tucked in his voice. "Come on – that game was their fucking fault, they should own up for it."