#bluelizardasks

Of course, by morning, everyone has heard of Kyle's pain management method. Kyle the lapdog, you think to yourself, sulking in the bathroom. Ran right to John like a loyal mutt. You don't even need the bathroom— it's just the only place you can find some privacy now. Johnny is up your ass constantly, asking if you need "something stronger" for your cramps, and Simon now stares at you with heated eyes. He doesn't say anything— just stares. It should freak you out more, because it's creepy and weird, but you're used to it by now. You'd rather the staring than Johnny's harassment.

You sit on the floor, leaning against the side of the bathtub, and play with the stupid bracelet stuck on your wrist. You scowl at the sapphire, the stupid heart shape mocking you. The tracker has to be under the stone, but you've got no way to get it out. It's not secured with a bezel, so you can't pry it out, and you can't take the stupid thing off, so crushing it is out of the question. The only good thing to come of it is that you've got something to fidget with.

You shift your attention to the brace on your ankle. How much longer do you have to wear it? It's too hard to keep track of the days. You guess you'll only have about a week left until it can come off, give or take. You just want it off. You didn't realize how much you liked the walks until you sprained your stupid ankle.

Stupid sapphire, stupid bracelet, stupid ankle… today is going to be a bad day.

You're not sure how long you've been sitting in the bathroom, but you're sure it won't be long until someone comes looking for you.

Perhaps you're psychic. Somewhere between 5-10 minutes pass before Kyle knocks on the door, asking if you're doing alright. It's more pattern recognition than it is psychic ability, but you need some sort of whimsy in your life right now.

You stand with a groan and open the door, begrudgingly leaving your bathroom oasis because 'it's lunchtime.' You're pleasantly surprised to learn that the other three are gone.

"We're gonna get back on a schedule," Kyle hums, sliding you a plated sandwich. "Me 'n the lads. Gotta get back to the gym, keep ourselves fit. Cap is gettin' soft in the middle already."

It's meant to be a joke, but you're too foul of a mood to laugh. You choke down a rather large bite of sandwich, eager to go back into hiding.

"What's wrong, lovey?" Kyle asks, a grating hint of sympathy in his tone. "Is it your cramps again?"

You feel your eye twitch. Of course it's got to be the cramps— not that his joke wasn't funny, or that you're mad at him for running his mouth and giving everyone— particularly Johnny— more reason to harass you.

"No," you grumble. "Just don't feel good today."

He gives you a pitying look, and you wish you could scratch his eyes out.

"I'm going to my room," you mutter, popping the last bite of your lunch into your mouth and standing from your seat.

"Wait," Kyle grabs your arm before you can leave, and it takes everything in you not to slap him.

"One last thing, lovey. Tomorrow's Simon's turn to stay behind. Then Soap, then John. That'll be the schedule, just so you know what to expect."

He releases you, and you try not to stomp on your way back to your room. Johnny better hope your mood improves by tomorrow.

Your head starts to ache, so you lay down for a nap, trying to fall asleep before it gets bad.

The day isn't even over, but you've already declared it a bad one.

—

You manage the rest of your period without anyone's fingers down your underwear, and you're quite proud of yourself for how you managed. Johnny had been pestering you on day three, getting too handsy, so you started retching. He let go, and you ran to the bathroom, faking a sick episode. Sometimes you do get nauseous on your period, so it wasn't too big of a lie, and you know others do, too, making it extra believable. They left you alone for the rest of your cycle.

Another few days go by, and you're out of the brace. You think that, since the two weeks have gone by, and you're walking without pain, that this is the end of it. You're excited for the walks. You didn't realize how much you enjoyed them until you couldn't go anymore. The excitement dims when you remember the harness and leash, but still, it'll be nice to be back outside.

Unfortunately for you, it isn't over. Simon and Kyle approach you, Simon wearing a balaclava and carrying a bottle of mystery liquid. They sit on either side of you.

"Lovey," Kyle says softly, cautiously. "Don't worry… but we have to take you back to the doctor."

Your eyes dart to the bottle Simon holds, realization dawning on you. That's the sedative he dosed you with the night you escaped.

"No," you hiss, panic bubbling. "I'm not drinking that again."

Simon sighs, having the audacity to sound exasperated. Like this is an inconvenience to him. "You 'ave to, doll. 'S for yer own good we take ya to the doc, make sure everythin' looks how it should."

"I don't need to be sedated," you argue, scooting away from Simon only to bump into Kyle. You're trapped.

"Cap and Johnny already got the car warm," Simon sighs, not even bothering to argue back. "They're waitin'. Just a few sips, doll. C'mon."

"I said no!" You shout. You can only see Simon's eyes, but that's all you need to see to know he's unhappy with you. They harden, and he sets the bottle down on a side table.

You think you're getting away, but instead, he grabs you, yanking you into his lap. He's got your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you tightly. He squeezes you like an anaconda, so tight you can't move, genuine fear icing your blood. You swear you can feel your ribcage bowing in with how tight he's holding you.

Kyle grabs the bottle and then your chin, tilting your head back and bringing the lip of the bottle to your mouth. You don't even think to turn you're head away, not with Simon crushing you, and Kyle tips the bottle, forcing a few swallows of mystery sedative down your throat.

Kyle pulls the bottle away, and Simon releases you, letting you fall forwards out of his lap and onto the couch. You suck down desperate gulps of air, trembling from your fear. Kyle puts his hand on your shoulder, but you jerk away, to startled for touch. You glance over your shoulder at Simon, who spares you an apologetic glance before collecting the bottle and hurrying out of the living room.

You push yourself up, only to fall back down onto your front, your arms too weak to hold you. That shit works fast.

The last thing you see before everything goes dark is Kyle, kneeling in front of you and reaching for your face.

—

John and Simon are in the front of the vehicle, Johnny and Kyle in the back, cradling their sleeping beauty. Simon's leg bounces furiously in the passengers seat, his foot thumping against the weather mats on the floor.

John plants a firm hand on Simon's knee. "Stop that. You'll wear a fuckin' hole in the floor of my SUV. Paid good money for this, so I could haul you lads around comfortably."

Johnny leans forwards, clapping a hand on his former lieutenant's shoulder. "What's wrong with ye, LT?"

Simon says nothing at first, only sighing. But, he remembers himself. He's not in the military anymore— his feelings are no longer considered a weakness. He's with his men, his family; there isn't a safer place to be vulnerable than with them.

"She's scared o' me," he mutters. "She didn't want the sedative, didn't cooperate, and I had to hold her down. Squeezed 'er tight, held her still, and she shook like a leaf when I let her go."

Johnny pats his shoulder, and John squeezes his knee. Kyle cradles their sweetheart, her head in his lap.

"'S okay, mate," Kyle assures. "She'll forgive you. Cap's spooked her before, and she's warmed back up."

Simon sighs again. "…I was the one who took her. I thought maybe if I was soft on 'er, it would make up for it, and now I'm the one hurtin' her."

"You watch yourself, lieutenant," John orders, squeezing Simon's knee again, though this time in warning. "You know good and fuckin' well that she's better off with us. You saw 'er yerself workin' in that filthy petrol station, and ya saw her sorry excuse of a flat. Don't feel bad for savin' her. She'll come around."

Simon nods. "I just don't like scarin' her when she 'asn't been bad. Feels wrong."

Johnny gives Simon a gentle shake. "Yer only doin' what's best for her, LT. She'll realize it eventually."

Simon clasps a hand over Johnny's, squeezing it in a wordless thanks.

Johnny sits back in his seat, massaging his bonnie girl's legs. Kyle pets her hair. John brings both hands back to the steering wheel. Simon watches out the window.

—

The world blurs back into existence as you stir from your sedative-induced sleep. You're warm all around, and the air smells of roses. You blink your eyes a few times and stretch, startling at the slosh of water. Your eyes pop open, met with the sight of foamy bubbles.

You're in a bath.

A quick glance to your side reveals Simon, kneeling next to the tub, quietly watching. The balaclava is gone, now.

You sink deeper into the water, hiding under the bubbles. You spare Simon a quick glare before turning away, staring at the faucet.

"Doc said yer ankle's fine," he says quietly.

You say nothing.

"We can go walkin' again. Today, if ya want."

You shut him down fast, barely letting him finish.

"I don't want to walk with you."

Out of the corner of your eye, he startles. You can't tell for sure, but you tell yourself you hurt his little feelings.

"Don't be like that, doll," he sighs. "I'm sorry I squeezed ya so hard. We needed ya out fast, 'else we'd miss the doc."

"I didn't need to go," you argue.

"Yes, you did," he argues back, though his tone is much softer than yours.

You don't bother responding, or even looking at him, giving him only your silence.

He lets you ignore him for only a moment before sighing again, as if he's the one with something to be stressed about. He reaches over you, grabbing your washcloth and the bottle of your body wash.

"Don't," you snap, slapping his hand away when he dips the cloth beneath the bath water. "I'll wash myself."

Simon grips your chin, forcing you to face him.

"You fuckin' know better," he scolds, his voice dropping lower. "This is the last time I'll tell you— ya don't fight when we're carin' for ya. Do you understand?"

You try to nod, but his hold on your chin makes it look more like you're twitching. Thankfully, Simon considers your answer good enough.

"Now apologize, doll. Say you're sorry for bein' a brat, and I won't pull ya outta this tub and give ya a lesson that'll stick."

You swallow, glancing away from his eyes. He gives you a gentle shake, pulling your gaze right back to his.

"I'm sorry," you mumble, your voice catching in your throat.

"Sorry for what, doll?"

You should've known you wouldn't get away without any humiliation.

"…for being a brat."

He smiles at you, his eyes crinkling just a bit in the corners. "Good girl." He releases your chin and picks the washcloth up from the bottom of the tub.

You grit your teeth and ready yourself for another awkward bath, but this time, Simon goes slow. He drags the sudsy cloth up and down your arms, over your collarbone and your chest, until dipping lower, where the rest of you hides beneath the bubbles.

He shushes you gently when you stiffen, your breath catching. "Yer alright, doll. I'm only washin'."

Stupid asshole. This isn't the way to earning your forgiveness.

He moves just as slowly, just as carefully, over your breasts, his fingers ghosting over your nipples before he moves down to your stomach.

You sit rigid in the tub, trying your hardest to ignore this brush his skin over yours. He notices, you know he does, but he hasn't said anything more.

He moves to your legs, and you let out a tiny puff of breath in relief that he didn't just keep going down.

He laughs softly, just a puff of air from his nostrils. "I'm not gonna touch ya like that, doll. Not right now."

His hands press firmer against your thighs. "But I want to."

That has your head snapping to him, and he gives you a small smirk, quirking just the corner of his mouth up.

"Hearin' the sergeants run their mouths about how they touched ya, how they made ya squirm…"

He laughs again when you turn away, staring back at the faucet while your cheeks flush bright pink.

Why are you always fucking blushing? You shouldn't be blushing right now anyway. You're supposed to be mad at him.

"Can barely stand watchin' ya turn pink like tha'. You drive me mad, doll."

He abandons the washcloth, instead splaying his big hand over your belly. You grab onto his wrist, trying to stop him, but it just makes him laugh again.

"Don't be so nervous, pup. I'm only petting."

'Pup.' Not him, too.

His hand slides lower, now, and you dig your nails into the skin of his wrist. What the fuck is he doing?

"Put those claws away," he scolds, though he sounds more mirthful than he does angry. "Had ya pegged for a pup, and here you are scratchin' me up like a kitty."

Again, he laughs, presumably at your not-so-subtle grimace.

"Not a kitty after all, then? So I was right; just a sweet little puppy."

His hand slides further down, his fingertips sliding into coarse hair.

"You said you wouldn't." Your voice comes out as a sharp, nervous squeak. It's almost embarrassing how scared you sound— your only saving grace being that you have good fucking reason to be scared.

Surprisingly, Simon actually stops. He doesn't pull away, but his hand doesn't slide any lower down. It would be nice if he'd get his hands out of your fucking bush, though. How long is he gonna sit like this? Realistically it's only been a few seconds, but that's a long fucking time to be petting someone's bush.

Finally, he pulls away, sighing as if he's the one who's inconvenienced. "You're right. I did say I wouldn't touch."

He reaches for your shampoo, and you let out a small breath, letting your muscles unclench. He stopped, for real.

He stopped this one. How much longer will he hold out before he doesn't stop?

Don't think about that. You'll only stress yourself out.

He stopped. That's what matters. You asked him to stop, and he stopped.

He listened.

—

Days go by and it ends up Simon's turn to stay home again. You're still holding a grudge against him for almost breaking your ribs and then drugging you, but there's not much you can do other than simply holding a grudge.

While the others go off to the gym, he takes you for a walk. He straps you up into the wretched harness, pulling it tight against you. "Don't want ya slipping loose," he hums. "Imagine the headache I'd get if you slipped free under my watch."

He clips the stupid leash in place and takes you outside, grinning when the wind blows your hair in your face.

"Missed our walks, puppy," he hums, sounding quite content.

"Stop calling me puppy," you huff, trying and failing to keep your hair from blowing back into your face.

"I'll think about it."

He tugs on the leash, pulling you along with him as he sets off to your typical path. He sets a leisurely pace, walking you through the woods to admire the changing trees.

You let yourself enjoy the smell of the autumn air. It's crisp, earthy, and even though the cold of the winter is formidable, the brisk chill of autumn is welcomed (as long as you're wearing a coat). You'll kick yourself for welcoming the cold when snow starts to fall, but you can only take so much summer heat.

You should let yourself enjoy the fall, while you still can. You'll miss it when winter hits, and you'll kick yourself again for letting the last stretch of warmth slip through your fingers.

It's a good fucking thing your ankle's better, or you'd be stuck all winter pitying and loathing yourself your getting too injured to go outside while you still want to.

"You like Halloween, doll?"

The question startles you. Where did that come from?

It feels like when you think about a product, and then get an ad on your phone just a few minutes later.

"…yeah. Why?"

"'S in a few days. Was thinkin' maybe, if ya wanted, we could carve pumpkins."

You turn your gaze from the trees to focus fully on him, now. He's focused on you, waiting for an answer.

"You'd let me carve a pumpkin?" You find it hard to believe they'd let you around anything sharp.

He snorts. "Why wouldn't we?"

…is this another trick?

"Because I'd have a knife."

He stops, turning to face you with a smirk on his lips.

"Sweetheart, even with a knife, you wouldn't be able to hurt any of us. We'd 'ave ya unarmed and bent over in seconds."

You feel small, reminded of just how powerless you are compared to them.

"'Sides, we'd pick up one o' those carving kits, too. Cap wouldn't be very happy if we used the kitchen knifes to carve pumpkins."

Simon turns back to the trail, continuing the walk. You tell yourself his excuse is just a lie, and they are afraid of giving you weapons.

—

The others are still gone by the time you get back from your walk. Your cheeks and nose sting from the cold wind, your hair is a mess, and you're shivering, covered in goosebumps under your clothes. The house is barely warmer than the outside, offering no reprieve from the chilly fall temperature. You had noticed the house getting colder a few days ago, but you said nothing, thinking that since nobody else brought it up, you were the only one who noticed it. Now you know you're not imagining it.

You kick off your shoes and throw your jacket off, not bothering to hang it up. You're on a mission— need to get warm. You run upstairs, to your room, and dig for a pair of fleece pajama pants you know you have. When you finally find it, you grab a plain sweater, and a pair of fuzzy socks. You eye your heating pad, but decide to leave it. It gets too hot to use it for just warming up, even on the lowest setting, and it doesn't cover enough surface area.

Next request: electric blanket.

Dressed in your warmest pajamas, you head back downstairs and settle yourself down on the couch, resting your head on the armrest and curling into a ball like animals do to preserve warmth. You grab the big blanket John gifted you and toss it over yourself, waiting for the shivers to go away.

They don't, though. At least not fast enough. You lay shivering, staring at the fireplace like you can set it ablaze with your mind.

Simon joins you in the living room, a mug of tea in hand, and settles down into his recliner with an old man grunt. Neither of you say anything, simply sharing a space, sitting in a comfortable silence.

The cold refuses to leave your bones, even under all your layers. You end up squirming under your blanket, rubbing your legs and feet together and running your hands along your arms.

"What're you doing, doll?" Simon asks, both confused and amused.

"I'm cold," you huff, frustrated by your body's shitty temperature regulation. "I'm using friction to warm up."

Simon hums in acknowledgment and brings his mug to his lips. "I'll get some firewood later, then."

You assume that's the end of the interaction and return to your whole-body-cricket-feeting, thinking nothing of it when Simon stands from his chair. Then he's standing in front of you, your brow furrowing in confusion.

"Sit up, doll. I'll warm ya up."

He doesn't wait for you to listen, instead grabbing your shoulders and pulling you upright. Sometimes you wonder why they even bother telling you what to do when they're just going to move you themselves, anyway.

Simon maneuvers you until you're laying between his legs, your back to his chest— similar to how Kyle and Johnny lay you, only more awkward thanks to his broader frame and longer legs. It's a shock that the couch is even long enough for his body.

The fact that he's even on the couch with you in the first place is a shocker— at least, it would be, had this happened before last week's bath. Simon always kept his hands to himself, so you thought that maybe he just didn't enjoy physical touch and closeness on the same level as the other three. Now you know that's not the case; he was just holding off, apparently. Watching and hearing of the other three touch and grope without shame must've shattered his patience.

You try not to think about what that means for you.

He spreads the blanket back out over the two of you, cocooning you in your combined body heat, and rests his hands on your belly.

"Better?" he hums softly, and you nod, forgetting that you're supposed to be repulsed by him. Johnny is training you well, apparently; you hardly react to their touching anymore, even now while you're holding a grudge.

Maybe that's a good thing, though. It's obvious they're not going to stop touching, so being desensitized to it will help you in the long run. It's basically the same thing as moving to the city and getting used to the all the noise in the night, right? The noise doesn't go away, but you get used to it, and it makes life easier.

Totally the same.

—

John, Kyle, and Johnny return with pumpkins and one of those cheap little carving kits with stencils and pictures to copy. Either Simon was quick to tell them you want to carve a pumpkin, or they had already bought the stuff and realized they should probably ask if it's something you'd even like.

Kyle lines the table with newspapers and sets all five pumpkins on the table, handing you the stencil book. "Here, lovey. You get first pick."

You flip through the book, settling on a stencil of a witches hat with a spider dangling off it. You rip out your page and pass the book to Kyle so you can pick your pumpkin, holding your stencil up to each one to find the pumpkin that it'll fit the best on.

Kyle chooses a stencil with a bubbling cauldron. You wonder if he picked that one because it's on theme with your witch hat.

Johnny chooses a haunted house stencil, and you note it's high difficulty rating on the top of the paper, likely trying to show off.

Simon naturally picks the skull design, and John tosses the book aside, apparently planning to freehand his carving.

You wipe the dirt off your pumpkin and set it on the newspaper, grabbing one of the plastic carving tools. You're pleasantly surprised when you stick your pumpkin, discovering the tools are sturdier than they look. You saw the top off your pumpkin and brace yourself to scoop out the guts.

"Save the seeds, so we can roast 'em," Kyle orders, joining you at the table with his pumpkin. Then Johnny, then Simon, then John.

The smell of pumpkin insides soon fills the kitchen. You carve pumpkins every Halloween, and every Halloween you have to ask yourself how pumpkin spice smell can come from this.

You grab the scraper tool from the cheesy little kit, again surprised by how well it works. Scraping the sides is much easier than grabbing the guts and trying to pull them out like you're weeding a garden.

Soon enough, you've got a trash bag full of pumpkin guts and a bowl full of seeds. Kyle moves the bowl somewhere else, muttering about how 'someone' can't knock the bowl over again if it isn't on the table.

Now it's time for the stenciling, which is arguably harder than cleaning the pumpkin. You've gotta tape the paper onto the curved pumpkin, then poke holes around the whole design. Your hand cramps before you even get halfway done, and you have to shake it out.

You regret your stencil of choice when you realize just how thin you're supposed to be cutting your pumpkin, especially when you start poking out the legs on the spider. You should've considered the difficulty ratings while picking your stencil.

It's too late to back down now, though. Besides, you wanted to carve this pumpkin, so the challenge might be fun. If there's a will, there's a way. You'll make it work, and it'll look way better than the men's pumpkins.

—

The witch hat looks great. The spider only has five legs.

Still, though, your pumpkin looks much cooler than John's, who carved a ghost into his— only, he just carved the shape of a ghost out. It doesn't have any eyes, so it looks more like a giant apostrophe than it does a ghost.

Kyle's pumpkin looks good, too, though the bubbles look a bit angular. You know you're nitpicking, but you don't really care. You'll jump through hoops to prove to yourself that your pumpkin is the best.

Johnny's pumpkin looks wonderful, though you're the only one shocked by this. Johnny grins at you, looking quite happy with himself. "Ah'm an artist, bonnie. Might show ye my sketchbook, if you'll be my muse."

You choose to tell yourself that your pumpkin is still better because witches are cooler than ghosts, so his haunted house is lame compared to your witch hat.

Simon's pumpkin is… well, it's a pumpkin. You glance at his discarded stencil and discover that his was also rated to be quite difficult, with thin lines and small details that would be difficult for someone with hands as big as his to carve out. Maybe he would've done better if he'd picked up a smaller tool, instead of the biggest fucking one in the kit.

Kyle retrieves some tealight candles, and you all take your pumpkins outside to sit by the door. Kyle passes out the candles, and a lighter makes it's way down the line of you until all your pumpkins are lit up. You're quite proud of yourself and your witch hat (and 5-legged spider), and while you hate to admit it, the other pumpkins look too cool— excluding John's punctuation pumpkin.

You won't get to truly celebrate Halloween this year, but you at least got to carve a pumpkin.

—

Halloween comes and goes, and the clocks turn back. The sun sets at 4 PM now, and the weather only gets colder as the days go on.

Simon kept his word and brought firewood down to the house, but the fire really only heats the living room. There is a heating system in the house, though it apparently doesn't work that great. Shortly after Halloween, they brought out four space heaters to pick up the slack, one for each bedroom.

Today, it's Simon's turn again to watch you while the rest of them go out to the gym. Simon takes you for a walk like he normally does, though it doesn't last very long at all. The sun shines brightly in the sky, so you dressed for warmer weather, only to step out in frost-level temperatures. A weather briefing would be nice if they won't give you any means to check it yourself.

You walk for only about ten minutes before you can't take the cold anymore, breaking and telling Simon you're cold and want to go home. He praises you for being honest and speaking up, and gives you his own jacket to keep warm for the walk back.

By the time you reach home, you're still shivering, and the house of course isn't any fucking warmer. You need a hot shower, need to warm up now. You kick of your shoes as soon as you're in the door, and you throw Simon's jacket off and rush him to get the stupid harness off you.

As soon as you're free, you beeline for the stairs, taking them two at a time to get there faster. You go to your room first, collecting your fleece pajamas, and then hurry to the bathroom. You know the shower will warm you up for a good while, but you'll likely be back for a pair of fuzzy socks later in the evening.

You take a wonderful steaming-hot shower, like the ones Johnny teased you for. He can go to hell, because hot showers are as close as anyone could ever come to heaven on earth. You'd stay in the shower for hours if the hot water wouldn't run out.

When you get out of the shower, you're faced with the dilemma of the bathroom-sauna that comes with the steaming-hot showers.

It's too humid to dry off completely, and putting your clothes on while you're skin is damp, even if it's just slightly, is the hell on earth to complement your heaven.

So, you wrap one towel around your body and wrap your hair in another, collect your pajamas from the counter, and sneak out the door.

You feel like an idiot the moment you exit the bathroom. Simon stands in the hallway, just a few steps away from you, his eyes locked onto your body.

Why didn't you think to check the hallway before leaving?

He just stands there, staring, his eyes tracking stray water droplets you missed in your hurry to get out of the steamy bathroom.

You regret not waiting out the steam, regret not just sucking it up and getting dressed. Here you are, standing out in the cold hallway in nothing but towels, you start to shiver.

Simon's eyes snap to yours when he sees your shiver. "Cold?"

You say nothing, staring like a deer in headlights.

"I'll warm ya up."

You're frozen, stuck in place, as he stalks towards you.

It's naive to assume he's just going to snuggle up to you like he did the other day, but you don't want to think about the other possibilities.

He takes you gently by the arm, as your hands are full. You use one to hold onto your pajamas, and the other grips your towel to keep it from slipping.

He leads you to his room, nudging you inside and shutting the door with a click. He plants one hand on your lower back and pushes you towards his bed, his other hand taking your pajamas from you.

Maybe he's just going to dress you. That's all, he just wants to dress you because he likes taking care of you.

He sits you down on the edge of his bed and sets your pajamas down next to you. He takes the towel out of your hair, combing through it a little with his fingers before kneeling down in front of you. You know it's coming, but you tense and shut your eyes anyway when he reaches for the towel around your body. Simon's seen you in multiple states of undress, and still, you go rigid when it happens. You don't think you'll ever get used to being naked around him, or any of the others.

He unwraps your towel, not bothering to pull it out from under you. That should be your first clue that something is up, but you're too busy pretending you're somewhere else to pay it any mind.

Simon's hands settle on your thighs, squeezing gently before pushing them apart. Your eyes pop open and you snap your thighs shut, but he only pushes them back apart, now holding them in place.

You shiver harder now that your wet hair is down and your skin is fully bare. You hope that maybe Simon will see you shivering and feel bad enough to finally dress you, but hope isn't enough to stop him.

"Look at you," he hums softly, "shiverin' so hard. Need to get your blood pumpin', don't we?"

A blanket will do just fine, actually.

His hands slide up to your hips and he pulls, tugging you down to the edge of the bed. He throws your legs over his shoulders, eliciting a startled shout from you.

"Don't—!" You try scooting away, but he grabs your hips again, holding you still.

"Shh," he shushes you softly. "Let me take care o' ya, pup."

Pup. If you hadn't already been sure he's gonna do more than dress you, that nickname solidifies it.

He plants his hand on your belly, pushing gently, until you lay down.

"That's it," he praises, his voice voice slightly rougher than before. "Just lay down and relax."

You stare up at the ceiling, searching for a spot to focus on, when you feel his tongue on you. You shriek like a banshee, shooting upright and pushing his head away.

Simon grabs your hands, pinning them to your belly and pushing you back down. "Shhh, puppy," he shushes again, holding both your wrists in one hand and using the other to pet the skin of your thigh. "Y're alright."

You don't feel very alright.

You keep squirming, trying to tug your wrists free from his grip. You know fighting is useless, that you'll never win, but something stops you from giving in every time. Even when you tell yourself to just give up, to take the easy route, something in your conscience won't let you.

He stands, letting your legs fall off his shoulders, and pins your wrists above your head. "Settle," he orders gently. "Keep squirmin' like this and I'll tie yer wrists." It's a threat, but the words come out light and almost playful; it's shockingly disarming.

Simon waits for you to listen, to stop squirming, before releasing your wrists and moving back down your body. He settles himself back on the floor, kneeling between your thighs, and lifts your legs back up over his shoulders.

You tense, but you don't squirm for fear of actually being tied up. The threat was playful, but you doubt it was empty.

"Good girl," Simon rumbles before pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "Just relax, hm? Gonna give ya something other than just fingers."

His mouth is on you again before you can protest, licking one long stripe up from your entrance to your clit. He laughs softly against your skin when you tense, your hands moving from above your head to your sides, gripping the towel underneath you.

"You're still shiverin'," he murmurs between your legs. "I'll fix that."

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking so suddenly and so intensely that he forces a choked cry from your lungs. He hums in satisfaction at your reaction and doubles his efforts, trying to earn more.

He alternates between sucking and flicking his tongue against your clit, the sensations driving you crazy. His arms wrap around your thighs, holding your trembling legs still while he torments you with his tongue.

It doesn't take much time for you to start squirming again, trying to get closer and get away at the same time.

Simon's tongue leaves your clit, leaving you with a confusing disappointment and a frustrating ache. Without warning, he starts licking at your pussy, testing the waters before pushing his tongue inside.

It feels so strange, strange enough to freak you out and sit back up, pushing him away a second time.

Simon lets you push him, though he fixes you with a heated, lustful stare. "Alright, pup," he purrs, pulling away and standing up. You want to relax at the fact that it's over, but the ache of arousal keeps you from celebrating.

The sound of Simon's belt whooshing through his belt loops has you snapping back to the present, and panic surges through you.

It's not over; it's worse.

You try jumping up from your spot, but Simon's too fast, pushing you back down onto his bed. He drags you up the mattress, shushing you while you thrash and murmuring promises not to hurt you.

Your thrashing slows when the leather belt, warmed by his body heat, presses against your wrists. He secures them together and wraps the belt around the bed frame, pulling it tight and then fitting two fingers underneath it, making sure it's not cutting off blood flow.

"Since ya can't follow instructions and be still like a good pup, we'll just have to tie ya up."

Oh.

You feel a bit silly now, knowing your thrashing is technically an overreaction. You assumed he was doing one of two things when he took off the belt: spank you, or fuck you. Now, as he settles back between your legs, you realize he wasn't going to do either of those, and your thrashing was for nothing.

After fearing the worst, letting him go down on you doesn't seem so bad.

Terrible logic.

"Now, be still. Don't make me tie these legs down, too."

He wastes no time, pushing his tongue back inside you and curling it up. You have to bite down on your tongue to keep from moaning. It feels so weird— you've never experienced anything that could compare to this feeling. No way to describe it other than just really fucking weird.

He doesn't linger, though, pulling out to return to your clit. Now, in addition to biting your tongue, you have to hold your breath to be silent. You might not be able to stop them from touching, but you can at least try to save your dignity.

Simon doesn't make it easy, though. He's determined to make you feel good, focusing solely and ruthlessly on your clit.

He gets one tiny squeak out of you, choked off and barely audible, and stops.

"Quit holdin' yer breath," he grunts. "You already know what'll happen if ya pass out on me."

He pinches your thigh as a warning, and you suck in a sharp breath, far from eager to give him a reason to punish you.

"Good girl," he purrs, and you curse your stupid brain and your stupid body for the stupid tingles the praise sends over your skin.

His tongue returns to your clit and you yelp like you've been stung, lifting your hips up off the bed to escape him. The bastard has the nerve to laugh as he wraps his arms back around your thighs, pinning you down again.

"Last chance, puppy," he hums. "Stay still, or I'll tie your legs, too."

Your body twitches every time his tongue flicks against you, which he only seems to take as encouragement. He alternates between sucking and licking, kindling a growing warmth that gets harder to ignore with each second. Even through all this, you manage to keep yourself relatively muted. Only a few gasps and heavy breaths escape, though even those little sounds seem to encourage him.

You don't mean to angle your hips upwards, don't mean to seek more, but your body betrays you just like it has every other time. He works you up to the edge and then pushes you over, forcing an orgasm on you and groaning when you finally give him a proper moan. His pace gentles as you come down, though he doesn't stop, pleasure slowly prickling into too much.

"No more," you protest, still breathless and now trying to shift your hips away.

Simon doesn't let you go far before he pushes your hips back in place. "That didn't sound like you enjoyed it very much," he muses. "Barely made any noise f'me at all. I gotta redeem myself, yeah?"

You tug against the belt at your wrists, trying to force your hands free. "No— no, you don't," you protest, anxiety simmering towards a boiling panic. "It's fine, y-you can just untie me."

"Yeah? I should just untie you?" he parrots back, sounding amused, as if he finds your distress to be cute. You nod your head anyway, hoping that maybe some part of him will take you seriously.

"I dunno," he sighs. "You were real quiet— didn't seem very pleased with me at all. I can't leave ya unhappy."

Your choices are now laid out for you: tell him you liked it, or endure more of it. Obviously you should just say what he wants to hear, but thinking about admitting that you liked having his tongue on you puts a pit in your stomach. Even now, after over— how long has it been? Almost two months— of their games, you're still too prideful to say something like that. All you manage is a distressed whine.

He hushes you gently. "Shh, puppy, ya don't 'ave to cry. I'll make it better."

Feeling his tongue back on your clit, now extra sensitive from your orgasm, almost forces the admission from your lips.

"No! No, it felt good, Simon!" you yelp, not bothering to hide your growing panic.

He shushes you again, holding you in place when you try to squirm again. "Not good enough, then."

He buries his face back into your cunt, ignoring your shouting in favor of sucking on your clit. You realize too late that it wouldn't have mattered what you said; he would've kept going whether you admitted to liking it or not. It was just an unfair trick to inflate his own ego.

You can't keep silent this time, not when he's attacking your overstimulated nerves like this. Choked out cries and whimpers are forced from your lungs and he moans like he's the one being eaten, each sound only serving to encourage him.

As a last resort, you try kicking, bringing the heel of your foot down on his upper back. He grunts, but doesn't stop, not even losing his rhythm. You kick again, harder, shrieking when his teeth scrape against your clit. It's all the warning you need to stop.

You don't notice one of Simon's hands leaving your thigh until he's pushing two thick fingers inside you. He crooks them up to rub against your g-spot, the too-intense pleasure pulling a loud, ragged moan from your lips.

He barely even pumps his fingers, just targeting and rubbing against that sweet spot until your back arches up off the mattress and your eyes roll back. Simon doesn't stop, sucking on your clit and rubbing your g-spot until you start squirming again. Only then does he pull away, sitting up to get a better look at your blissed-out face.

"There we go," he purrs. "Much better."

He undoes the belt at your wrists, letting you catch your breath while he frees you from the restraint. When he decides you're breathing evenly enough, he pulls the towel out from under you and retrieves your pajamas from wherever they ended up.

He dresses you just like he always does before standing up, telling you to stay put while he gets you something to drink. You wait a few seconds after he leaves before you slip out of bed, stumbling at first on shaky legs. You hurry to the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and wetting in the sink.

You wipe yourself down quickly, deciding to focus on how nasty human mouths are instead of how good that felt. You're not sure how you should feel about it: one one hand, you should be grateful that they're not trying to hurt you, but on the other hand, it would be easier to hate them if they were.

Deciding you're clean enough now, you slip out of the bathroom and back to Simon's room before you he catches you.

—

You don't really know what to do with yourself. Simon, after making you drink some water, brought you downstairs to sit in his lap to 'keep you warm' while you wait for the others to return. When Kyle and Johnny 'played' with you, you just went to sleep after. Simon doesn't let you sleep, telling you to just rest your eyes so you're awake when the others get home. Every time you start to drift off, he squeezes you, waking you right back up. How he even knows when you're falling asleep is a mystery to you, but you aren't sure you want to ask.

Now that you're forced to stay awake, you realize that sleeping saved you from having to think. You've got nothing to do but mull over what happened, trying to make sense of what you're feeling.

You're trapped in a never ending battle with yourself. Telling yourself that you can't control how your body reacts, then asking why you didn't fight harder. Then you have to remind yourself that if you do fight harder, you'll be punished. Then you feel like a dumbass for wishing they weren't so nice about it. You bend to their will because you're scared of punishment, but then you turn around and hope that they'll be cruel just so it's easier to hate them? But earlier you were pissed at yourself for feeling grateful that they aren't hurting you. You shouldn't be feeling anything for them but contempt. But what about this, what about that.

It's a continuous loop of bullshit, and you're sick of it.