"Stop. Talking."

John's tone really doesn't brook any argument, but Rodney can't help himself. "This really isn't my fault, though!" he says. "Not this time."

John simply glares at him, then stifles a giggle when yet another feather traces along his hip.

Rodney squeezes his hands into fists, trying to stave off the inevitable numbness that comes from hanging around in manacles for several hours. He resists the urge to kick at the woman on his left, stoically accepting the tickling caress of the feather, the slickness against his skin.

He sure hopes this paint is washable.