SHERIFF ( AFFECTIONATE )

Hi, I'm Omen and I write ''that cringe shit''. If you think this is bad, wait until you read my novels.  TIP ME!

[crohno]

Howdy, I’m Omen, and I figured I’d make a new pinned post after a few months of work.  Here’re a few things you need to know about this blog:

I’m a side-blog, so I can’t follow you back or comment using my handle. I enjoy writing fan content,    but there’ll be times where I don’t update for a while.  I’m writing my own books, and I also make comics! I write x Readers because I like interactive fiction   ( and men lol ).  I’ll write pretty much any genre.  I do offer NSFW! I choose the characters 90% of the time,   but if you happen to jive with the same character(s) I do, feel free to drop requests in my inbox!  There’s no guarantee that I’ll do all of them, but if it inspires me then I will.  If I don’t do it, it doesn’t mean your idea sucked, I just couldn’t make it work for me personally. I offer tailored xReader requests as commissions!  You can DM for more info about that if you’re interested.  I also accept tips if you enjoy my work! Other places you can find me include:  A03  |  FFN.net  |  Wattpad.

[crohno]

Spark in the night is so good!! Your prose is stunning <333

Thank you so much, I'm having fun writing it and I'm glad you're enjoying it! 💛

[crohno]

SPARK IN THE NIGHT. ( 2 ) [001/F!Reader]

A/N:  So believe it or not, this was originally a stand-alone idea and I didn’t intend to carry it on.  However, thanks to the support this fic has received, both here and on A03, I feel compelled to continue it!  This will not be a perfectly cohesive story, more like snapshots/specific moments in time between 001 and our little firestarter, but they will be chronological and you can tie a story together based on said moments.  I just don’t have the spoons to write a fully fledged novel at the moment, unfortunately.  Anyway, thank you so much for reading, it means the most, and Imma stop waffling now.

001 requests, SFW and NSFW, are  OPEN!

Summary:  001 visits you in the infirmary.  Predictably, things are not as they seem. Words: 1.3k Warnings:  N/A. Like my work?  TIP ME!

Three days.

That’s how long you’ve been asleep since that unexpected turn of events.

When you awaken, it’s to two nurses and a concerned Brenner, a multitude of different wires attached to various parts of your body, machines beeping around you.  You make a soft noise as your 'benefactor' places his knuckles on your forehead, seemingly checking your temperature.

“Good,”  he says, more to himself than to you.  “Your fever’s broken.”

“Fever…?”

Dr. Brenner presses his hand flat against your forehead, and your questions promptly vanish.  All you can focus on is the relief that his cool hand provides  -  even if, in any other context, you’d flinch away.  This man has taken so much from you, stolen all of the progress you’d fought to make in the cripplingly unfair realm of adulthood within a single night.  Not that you can recall any of the details in any meaningful capacity.  You just know that you hate him;  that you’ll never forgive him.

Think about all he’s taken from you.  What he’s extracted from you.

His hand soothes.

“Now, 019.  What do you remember about your lesson three days ago?”

“I…  that was three days ago…?”  Your brow furrows deeply, eyes becoming thin, uncertain slits.  You remember being upset.  You remember talking to Peter.  You remember an all-encompassing heat…  and then nothing concrete.  Black spots;  vertigo so sudden and intense that the floor had felt like the ceiling;  then waking up in this room.  “... I don’t know,”  you admit, your lower lip quivering with fear.  The longer you stay here, the more pieces of yourself that you lose.  He’s draining your memory dry.  Soon enough, you’ll be nothing but an empty vessel.  The perfect patient, mindless and vacant.  That thought’s enough to have you throwing your bed sheet aside, though you don’t get far before the doctors swarm your bedside and push you gently back into place.

“It’s alright.  You’re not in any trouble,”  Brenner says calmly, his palm still pushed against your forehead.  The pressure behind it has increased, keeping your head firmly against the pillow.  He may be older, but his joints certainly aren’t failing him yet.  “You simply pushed yourself too hard.  Exhausted yourself.”

You stare up at him helplessly.  You can’t put your finger on what it is, but something isn’t right.  Your memory is coming back blank, save for a terrible heat, but you get the feeling that he isn’t telling you the whole truth.  While you can’t say that you’ve never passed out from using your powers before, this time was different.  It was a heavier sleep  —  the kind that can only be achieved by a mind that's been forced to shut down.  You’ve never had that happen before.

“No… no, I…  I did something…”

“Yes, you did.”  He smiles ever so slightly.  The awkward quirk of his mouth, the one that he hesitates to show anybody, annoys you greatly.  “You demonstrated an extraordinary power.  But you used too much of your energy, and wound yourself up in the infirmary.  You must be careful not to over-exert yourself like that in future, 019.”

Part of you wants to protest further, but you’re growing tired again.  Your eyelids flutter before they fall closed, and the sound of shuffling feet is like music to your ears.

“Rest more,”  Dr. Brenner suggests, withdrawing his hand as he stands up.  “You need it.”

Despite your attempts to stay awake, to really concentrate on what truly transpired before your impromptu doctor’s visit, you feel yourself quickly succumb to sleep once more.

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead.”

The gentle voice prompts you to open your eyes.  His image is hazy, but you'd know that fluffy golden halo anywhere.

"Peter…?"  

You attempt to sit up, though his hand on your shoulder makes you lay back down.  You're feeling a little less confused now, as if you can actually stay awake for a while.

"Shh.  Don't try to get up."

He's alone, which you find odd.  Not even the doctors are present.  It's then that you become aware of the freedom in your limbs.  No more needle in the back of your hand.  No more beeping monitors.  Just Peter and his patient smile.

"How are you feeling?"

"Pretty lousy,"  you say with a wince, imagining that you don't look your best right now.  "Tired.  Like, really tired.  Like someone sucked out my brain through a straw."

He offers you a pitying tilt of his head before he draws his seat close to the edge of your bed.

"Is that all?"

"Well, I…"  You think about it, wondering if you're missing something obvious.  "... yeah.  I mean, isn't being dead to the world for three days a problem?"

"Five days."

Your mouth falls open in disbelief.  "Five days?!"

"Five days,"  Peter confirms with a sober nod.  “You went back to sleep.”

Now you’re getting nervous.  You feel it in your head first;  a blooming ache between your eyes, one that trails down and weighs heavily on your chest.  With great effort, you attempt to cast your mind back to that training session with Peter.  All you wind up with is a blank slate.  The harder you try, the more resistance you meet, until your head really starts to hurt.

You must look scared, because the next thing he does is glance upwards, casting the camera in the corner a cursory look before patting your hand gently.

“We need to talk.”

“Okay?”

“Not here.”  The intensity in his eyes takes you back to a moment you shared five days ago, though it shows itself in little more than a blinding flash of blue.  Then, the feeling is gone.  “It’s not safe here.”

Unease creases your brow, though the look in his eye tells you not to ask any more questions.  You’d hate to put yourself in further danger.  You’re already compromised, slow and drained even if you are feeling a lot better than you were when you first woke up.  The last thing you need is unnecessary stress.

Peter reaches down beside his chair leg and retrieves a white plastic cup full of water, offering it to you slowly.  You ease yourself into a halfway comfortable sitting position before accepting it.  It takes approximately one millisecond to realise how thirsty you are, swallowing the entire thing in a few staggered gulps.

“Can I have more?”  you croak pathetically, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Peter nods, rising from his seat.  

“Tomorrow,”  he whispers, meeting your eyes with a distinct urgency.  “You’re going to be back on schedule tomorrow.  We’ll talk properly then.”  He straightens up, flashing you his usual pleasant smile as he returns to his regular volume:  “I’ll come back with water and a doctor.  Rest in the meantime.”

You want to ask him what the hell he’s talking about  —  and why he insists on speaking only half of the truth.  The cameras have never really been a problem before.  The only thing you can think of is that it concerns Brenner himself  —  and after everything you’ve been through since arriving at Hawkins Lab, you don’t think that’s too far out of the ball park whatsoever.

With a deep sense of anxiety, you lean back into the pillow and await Peter’s return.

Rest up.  Tomorrow's going to take it out of you.

[crohno]

SPARK IN THE NIGHT. [ 001/Fem!Reader. ]

Summary:  [Y/N]’s powers are evasive, but still a force to be reckoned with.  001 knows this better than anyone, but not even he understands their true extent. Warnings: N/A. Words:  1.8k A/N:  if villain why sexy.  On a more serious note, this character’s so well-written and I enjoy him so much despite his minimal screen time.  Also, it shouldn’t need to be said, but I will just for clarity’s sake:  reader is of age and is one of the eldest members of the program, and has not been there since its conception.  Her abilities were found out later, and she was already on the cusp of adulthood when she was brought in to the lab.  While this work isn’t smutty, I may use this dynamic in future 001 stories, so here’s the necessary disclaimer.  There’s also some movement in the timeline/chronology to make room for an older reader, don’t mind it okthanks--

Requests for 001, both SFW and NSFW, are OPEN! Like my work?  TIP ME!

“Focus.”

“I’m trying.”

That’s all you ever feel like you’re doing lately.  The older you get, the more you feel Papa expects of you.  It’s stressing you out big time, and said stress is making you feel disconnected from the power that you seldom have trouble utilising.

The blocks in front of you remain still, and you try one more time to force them over before grunting with frustration.  “... I can’t do it.”

Peter smiles sweetly, head canting to one side.  “Don’t be a defeatist now, [Y/N].”

You came into the program mature–  an anomaly that had been located and stolen away at a later date, one that had what most of the others did not:  a tangible childhood.  Experiences outside of the confines of Hawkins Lab.  Though you can’t remember a lot of your life before this dreary regiment ( you figure Dr. Brenner has something to do with that, like he so often does ), you recall the sun;  thunderstorms and flora;  ice cream on scalding days and hot cocoa on subzero nights;  the feeling of an extra blanket at night, a complimentary pillow tucked between your knees;  undisturbed sleep, waking up at noon on Saturdays.

Sometimes, these memories fuel you.   They fill you with such resolute misery that you unleash something horrid, turbulent.  It’s like wind, only silent and infinitely more deadly.  It’s as if nothing has weight when you become clouded by rage.

But sometimes they disable you, too.  That ache to be free sometimes culminates into a grief so thick that it’s hard to get yourself out of bed.  When this occurs, Dr. Brenner’s tasks are just surefire ways to have children laugh at you  —-  and that sends you further into your downward spiral.

“Obviously you can do it,”  the orderly continues, arms unfolding as he takes slow steps towards you.  “You wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t, silly.”

“I can’t do it now,”  you reiterate pointedly, trying not to lose your temper.  Not only does Peter not deserve the brunt of your anger, but emotional responses get you punished.  You remember the last time you dared raise your voice to a guard only in hot, vivid flashes of pain.  Your skin prickles, as if you’ve been lightly grazed with the service end of a taser.

“Hm.”  Peter plucks one of the blocks from the top of the pile, turning it over in his hands as he comes to stand next to you.  Though you came into this place against your own volition and therefore trusted no one, it was hard not to like him.  Unlike the other orderlies, Peter is so reserved and so polite.  His voice is soft and musical, and he shows far more heart than any of the other doctors.  He’s a rare ray of sunshine in the midst of a storm, and for that you appreciate him.  In spite of your vicious temper, it hadn’t taken you that long to warm up to him and him alone.  “Perhaps you aren’t feeling motivated enough.”

You scoff, sitting down on the floor like a petulant child.  “Why should I feel motivated?”

He arranges himself in a neat squat before you, his back straight.  It contrasts heavily with your slouched frame and your nasty scowl.

In a quiet, but moved hiss:  “I’m tired of this.”

Though he isn’t outwardly vocal, his eyes speak loudly, and something in the air between you shifts.  That usual disarming friendliness gives way to something darker–  the sort of look that one might give a car wreck, wide and wondrous and full of fascination, glued to the carnage.  When your eyes meet, it feels distinctly as if he’s struck you.  Your spine feels like a block of ice, rigid and firm, and your own gaze reflects something monstrous as you hold his magnetic stare.  This place, it sickens you.  It fills you with such feral hate that sometimes you question whether you’re still human at all.  The charts all say so, but surely there’s no room for such potent disdain in a person.  You see it in him too, that quiet hatred, and it makes you feel vindicated.

“Tired of what?”  His voice is low, all too aware of the cameras that coat this building’s walls like ornaments.  There’re no rules against the subjects talking to those overseeing their tasks, but excessive discussion is heavily discouraged.  An orderly’s job is to observe, perhaps offer a gentle word of encouragement if the patient is struggling particularly hard, not to dictate and guide.

“Of performing,”  you retort, all but gnashing the words out as vitriol takes hold.  Anybody else and you’d likely have been taken away to be disciplined already.  Peter won’t do that to you, though.  If there’s anybody that's safe to vent to, it’s him.  “I’m not a dog.  I’m performing tricks like I am one, though.”

That’s all they are.  Tricks.  Your disgust for your abilities comes and goes.  Sometimes, you’re in love with these bizarre inclinations.  On other days, you want to shove your fist through a self-made hole in your chest and pull.

“My life was stolen from me.”

“Lower your voice.”

“Stolen!”

“Lower.  Your voice.”

There’s a tense silence, one where you both feel the burn of that camera lens despite the fact that it's facing away from you.  Always listening, even if not always watching.  You should know better than to run your mouth like that  -  especially after all of the shocks and solitary confinement you've endured for past misdemeanours.  They're even less forgiving with you than they are the kids, for you're an adult and 'should know better'.

He’s trying to help you.  That’s all he’s ever tried to do:  steer you out of trouble.

However, your surroundings remain silent.  Without a chorus of approaching footfalls to destroy your morale, you're able to reign in your anger.  It feels as if you won't get another shot.

Peter shifts, holding the block in the palm of his hand.  It's as if he's positioning it for you to knock it over from a closer distance.

"You're angry,"  he murmurs, his blue eyes soft again.  For just a moment, they'd looked stormy and dark;  now they're back to beautiful, like a sunlit ocean.  "That's understandable.  But you must use it."

"How?"  You hate yourself for letting your voice tremble.  You're not weak.  In fact, you're the furthest thing from weak.  Not only can you kill with your mind, you can withstand life in this lab.  That's a true testament of strength.

"Stand up."  There's a hint of mischief in his tone as he raises to his feet again.  You follow suit, sucking in a deep breath when his hands rest on your shoulders and swivel you around gently.  The pile of blocks enters your field of vision once more, and you feel provoked by that perfect crimson wall.  Just knock it over.  Stop being an idiot.

You watch as Peter arranges the structure.  By the time it's done, the twenty blocks are arranged in a two-by-two column that spans upwards rather than outwards.  They're roughly chest-height for you, and Peter adding the final block in its centre takes it to your collarbone instead.

It looks vaguely like a person.  A very skinny, square person with no limbs, but a person nonetheless.

The orderly snakes his way around the structure until he's back by your side, then behind you.  Anticipation floods your body as he hovers there, leaning close.  His chin is all but hooked over your shoulder by the time he's finished moving–  like the devil whispering in your ear.

"That, is Papa,"  he tells you in a low croon, and the feel of his voice so close sends electricity through you.  He almost sounds angry  -  and you've never heard this man speak in any manner other than controlled.  Pleasant.  The sudden influx of emotion compels you;  it makes you feel seen, filling your veins with liquid fire. It feels as if you're about to riot with this man.  "Think about all he's taken from you.  What he's extracted from you."

Oh, this is absolutely against the rules.

"Peter–"

"Concentrate,"  he interrupts, Luciferous whisper smothering your attempt at reasoning with him.  His duality excites you.  It may be your first glimpse behind the curtain, a tiny fraction of the truth, but it feels akin to riding fast on a motorcycle.  Your heart is pounding.  Your skin is tingling.  You let out a short, sharp breath through your mouth as you do as he says, honing in on the structure before you.

You think of Fall.  You think of the bounteous blackberries that litter the bushes and the hot spatters of colour above you as you walk the woodland trails.  Then you think about these sterile walls and lifeless halls, and something inside of you twists unpleasantly.  

Summer.  The drip of ice cream.  Long evenings on the windowsill spent reading by fading sunlight.  This cold man-made floor beneath your feet.  White, white, white.  Something in your veins snaps like branches.

Spring.  The bloom of new life.  Flowers bursting through cracks in the pavement.  The sun greeting you after a long hibernation.  This dull, soulless rainbow spanning the length of this horrible room.  Something in your mind crackles.

Winter.

Cold, cold, cold.

Empty.

This place is in a perpetual state of Winter, and it chills you to your core.  

A strange sound, strangled and tight, leaves your throat as something in your head gives way, invisible force surging forwards with the speed of a train.  Only the blocks don’t fall over  -  they’re set ablaze.  Blinding fire stretches high towards the ceiling as the wood gradually flakes away, and there are a few moments of surreal silence before the fire alarm starts blaring.  Oh, he’s going to be punished to high heaven for this.  He can already feel the current coursing through him.

Peter falls into step beside you, staring at this tall flame with a look of abject shock.  You’ve always been full of surprises, ever since you entered this hellscape on scraped heels and bleeding nails, but this is a new one for any of the subjects.  Not even Papa’s prized 011 boasts elemental powers.  Hell, even he had been restricted to telekinesis.  He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, noting the dazed look on your face as a torrent of blood gushes from your nose and stains the pallid white of the ground below.  It’s evident that you hadn’t been aiming to do this;  hadn’t known you could.  You’re as stunned as a deer that’s been struck by a car, paralysed by steady revelation.

                This is what you are.  A spark in the night.  A blaze of glory on legs.  

As commotion fills the Rainbow Room, orderlies and people armed with fire hydrants and buckets swarming the scene like flies, Peter watches as you’re whisked away by a myriad of different doctors.  Just before you leave the room, he catches your legs faltering, exhaustion winning you over as you collapse into the nearest employee’s arms.

Her, he thinks as an iron-clad grip secures itself around his upper arm.  She’s my ticket out of here.

[wordfather]

[crohno]

I  SWEAR  I’m slowly chipping away at this Pike/Reader fanfiction.  It’s just taking me a while because of all I’ve got going on.  Here’s a tiny excerpt though.

[crohno]

       ❝ ... you’re leaking. ❞

       Steven Ogg  -  Rush.

[crohno]

❝ Don’t laugh, actually turns out there’s more money in peace than in war. ❞

Steven Ogg  -  Rush.

[crohno]

LITTLE RABBIT. [ I - Simon/Soft!Reader ]

Summary:  You catch his eye from across the room, and for once it feels like  he’s  the one being sized up.  Warnings:  Some spice, though not outright smut. Prompt:  I is for INITIATION. A/N:  Sorry for the break between uploads, I took some time to recuperate from burnout.  No promises on how fast my next upload is either, but thank you to everyone who’s left sweet comments and kudos/likes during my absence!  Anyways, we’re playing big into the innocence kink in this chapter so if that’s not your thing then a-yo, this might not be the one for you!

Like my work?  Tip me! Want a tailored fic?  Pay me to do it!

“Did you like that, too?” “I did.” “Noted.”

Noted.

Damn well noted.  

He feels like a fool, but he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you ever since that run.  It went by without a hitch, and Negan had been more than pleased with the plethora of goodies you’d brought back to the Sanctuary, but Simon had barely registered his boss’ praise.  Suffice to say that a free serving at the “pussy-bar” had been respectfully, yet firmly, declined  -  and that had been without seeing the way your head dipped as you left the room.

Dejected, almost.  Like a puppy that had been scolded just a little too harshly.

He hasn’t been able to get you alone since.  While he hesitates to say that you’re actively avoiding him, your paths haven’t converged naturally again.  That run was damn near three weeks ago, and he’s all sorts of frustrated.  He wants to see you, wants to talk to you about the moment you shared–  wants to see if you’re thinking half as much about him as he is about you.

Simon doesn’t know when he became genuinely fond of you.  It had started as a mean-spirited sort of friendship;  one in which he'd gleaned as much enjoyment out of seeing you cower as he had from seeing you smile.  Over time though, his interest had shifted.  It's something he begrudgingly admits, that you impressed him somehow, but admit it he does.

He stirs his coffee listlessly, hip all but glued to one of the cupboards of his kitchenette as he simmers and stews.  Is this what he gets for being such an asshole to you at the start of your relationship?  Is this just karma fulfilling its notorious cycle?  Why is he being so precious about a single kiss?

You know why.

He winces, as if the voice in his head bears weight outside the confines of his mind.

You like that girl.

Sure.  He does.  What’s the harm in that?  He likes his people, doesn’t he?  He likes Gary and Dwight and Arat well enough, and he halfway respects Negan.  There’s hardly anything threatening about liking someone.

Well now you’re just being pedantic.

Maybe so.  

Simon is startled by a knock at his door.  It’s late, approaching midnight, and he can’t work out for the life of him what sort of task he’s going to be put to while it’s so dark out.  After a moment of consideration, he puts down his mug and moves to open the door.  The last thing he needs is for Negan to barge in.

“[Y/N].”

Of all the things he thought he’d see, you didn’t even make the list.  His boss, most likely, or one of his men asking for a round or two, but not you.  You’re standing there with your hands calmly clasped, clad in a baby blue shirt and a flared skirt that makes his mouth feel dry.  God fucking damn it, are you trying to kill him?

“I came to see you.”  

You say it matter-of-factly, devoid of your usual apprehension.  Something about your pinprick precision is electrifying to him, prompting him to slowly step aside and invite you wordlessly into his room.  As you pass, he detects the faint aroma of flowers, and he wonders briefly if it's for him.

“What can I do for ya?”  he asks as he closes the door, sounding far more confident than he feels.  He’s never been the type to flounder around people.  He’s cool and calm and pragmatic, even at the worst of times, and that’s what makes you so irritating to his pride.

“Nothing.”

Simon’s brow furrows.  “Then… why did you come?”

You catch his eye from across the room, and for once it feels like he’s the one being sized up.  

“Why do you think I came?”

How quaint it is, that Negan’s right-hand man feels on edge because of a small, defenceless girl.  He shifts from foot to foot, feeling charged in ways he doesn’t know how to articulate  ( even with a vocabulary as verbose as his ),  before flashing you an easy smirk that doesn’t suit his current heart rate.

“And here I thought you were avoiding me,”  he says conversationally, moving to stand in the ‘kitchen’ once more.  “Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”  Your eyes travel to a bottle sitting on a small table in the far-right corner of the room.  “Some of that, though.”

Simon’s eyes follow your gaze before they settle back on your face.  The sound of him pouring his neglected coffee down the drain is as exciting to you as the sound of a zipper being tugged loose.

“It’s a tequila kind of night, is it?”  he asks as he serves you a generous glass, letting his hand brush yours as you take it from him.  There’s a smile on your lips as you press them to the rim of the glass;  it borders on smug, though perhaps self-aware is more accurate.  There’s power, however slight, in making him do things for you.  “Where’ve you been?”

“Negan’s been putting me on watch lately,”  you muse as you take a swig, leaning against the table.  Its kick is immediate, and you’re not prepared for how much it burns as you swallow.  You decide to ignore Simon’s amused chuckle when your face betrays your intermediate drinking skills.  “... I thought you were avoiding me.”

Simon scoffs as he takes a sip straight from the bottle.  “Cute  -  but I’m not twelve, bun.”

Whatever this little routine of yours is, he’ll play it out until it no longer amuses him.  As it stands?  He’s invested.  He finds your bolstered confidence invigorating, and he doubts that a little liquid courage is going to hurt you either.  It'll be all the more fun to seize control of the situation later.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as you cross and uncross your legs, your skirt riding up your thighs as you shuffle against the table.  The sound of you stubbornly swallowing down the rest of your drink earns his attention, and when he turns you’re upright again.

“Is that how you think of me?”

“Huh?”

“You accused me of avoiding you first,”  you say, arms folding over your chest.  In that moment, you look like his unhappy wife, scolding him for the fifteenth time that week.  “Do you think I’m twelve?”

The words cut deeper than you probably mean for them to  -  and he likes it so.  Simon sees an opening, and it’d be remiss of him if he didn’t take it.

“Now [Y/N]...”  He slinks closer to you with all the grace of a panther, and you don’t shy away.  He isn’t the only one who’s been waist-deep in thought since the supermarket run, and the feeling of him gradually invading your space sets your nerves alight.  “I don’t think I’d have done what I did if I really thought that, do you?”

You bite your lip as you consider it.  You’re a little intimidated by the desire that Simon sparks in you.  You’ve been with one or two men before, but in comparison to him, they were boys.  Children stumbling around in adult boots.  Simon is different;  he’s older, more reliable and aeons more mature.  You’d never dreamed of a man before, never laid around and thought about what it might be like to sleep with him.  Now you have.

Your eyes follow the corded muscle of his bicep as his finger tips your chin upwards, eyes large and round as they meet his.  The way he's looking at you, with such explicit, dirty hunger, makes you want him all the more.

To his surprise, it’s you who initiates.  You stand up on your tiptoes and press your lips candidly to his, and he’s powerless to stop the wave of desire that floods him as he pulls you closer, until you’re flush against him.  This isn’t how he pictured his night going at all, but it’s the best way it could have turned out.  He’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You radiate heat;  a warm, soft thing beneath his heavy hands, and it doesn’t take long for his cool, measured façade to crack.  Soon enough, he’s got you backed into the kitchen counter, his tongue in your mouth and his hands on your hips, and he’s drunk on far more than just a swig of tequila.

“Sit,”  he commands heatedly as he helps you up onto the counter.  Your legs curl loosely around his, almost as if asking for permission, and he grants you it by drawing you closer to the edge.  Closer to him.

Your face is picturesque;  cheeks rosy, lips wet and parted–  and those eyes, those fucking eyes, so glassy and starved.  He wants you to look at him ( and only him ) like that all the time.

Gently, Simon swipes his thumb across your plump lower lip, thick fingers curled beneath your jaw.  “Where’s your bravado now, bunny?”

The pet-name sinks straight into your core, the tips of your ears going pink.  You want to speak, want to assure him, even if falsely, that he hasn’t shaken your confidence, but your thoughts are all jumbled up.  His free hand fiddling with the edge of your skirt certainly isn’t helping.

“Hm?”  He doesn’t expect an answer,  It shows in the way he dips his head, peppering kisses along your neck.  They’re almost chaste, though the delicious scrape of his moustache pedals it back towards sinful.  You’ve never felt this good from so little before;  your head is spinning, hands feeling along his strong shoulders, then his neck, before they sink into his hair, fingers growing taut as he licks and sucks and nips.  The streaks of grey only heighten your arousal, legs squeezing around his hips.

You moan his name softly as he nibbles your ear, hot breath and wandering hands setting you alight.  It’s as if he’s holding a flame to your gasoline-drenched body, teasing the edge of safety with its flickering heat.

“That’s right,”  Simon murmurs, satisfied with his handiwork.  You're like putty in his hands now, body soft and pliant while his is rigid and firm.  His hand slides slowly beneath your skirt, his hot fingers drawing a flaming pattern along the soft skin of your thigh.  He can’t stop himself from smirking when he feels you tense up, your chin hooking over his shoulder as he strokes and jeers.  “You just needed to be reminded of your place, huh [Y/N]?”

You make a sound, something that sounds vaguely in the affirmative, because really, you don’t know what you were doing sauntering into his room and pretending that you have any degree of control over him.  Maybe you did fleetingly, in regards that didn’t matter, but it’s obvious who calls the shots here.  You’re fine with that.  In fact, you’re more than fine with that.  You ache for that.

“I– I just wanted to see you…”  you stammer, your heel rubbing gently along the back of his shin.

“Seems you wanted to do a little more than just see me,”  Simon quips, amused, though it fades near instantly, a heedless look of lust replacing it.  “... me too.  I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the store run.”

The admission surprises you, if only because you thought this version of events existed solely in your head.  You may have come here to try your luck, especially after what had happened in the store, but most of it was out of desperation to see him again.  

“Stay here tonight,”  he suggests, pulling far enough away to be able to look you in the eye.  His gaze excites you, the usual brown blown black to suit his salacious appetite.  It’s dizzying, the amount of desire he’s looking at you with–  like he’s been craving you since the dawn of time.

You can’t trust yourself to speak without stumbling, your face red and your brain slow, so you nod, pull him close and begin the lascivious dance all over again. 

How funny it is, that the wolf finally has its prey between its jaws, yet all it does is nibble.

[crohno]

   ❝ Dead looks pretty weak to me. ❞

                         Steven Ogg  ➡ Rush.

[crohno]

LITTLE RABBIT. [ H - Simon/Soft!Reader ]

Summary: It’s such a childish reaction, yet it's honest, and maybe that’s worth more than a stoic outer shell. Warnings:  N/A, just some cheese. Prompt:  H is for HUDDLE. A/N:  Some canon divergence in that I ignored canon and made Simon an English teacher before the fall, but tbh does anyone give a shit when his origins weren’t explored in canon anyways?

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"That's the last of it, I think,"  Simon says as he drags the crate of canned meat he found into the space between your feet, his torch between his teeth.  Negan had sent you both on a detour after discovering an incongruous supermarket on the other side of town, his instructions simple:  clear it, bring anything of worth back.

Its awkward position on the map had ultimately been your ally.  You'd found a decent helping of supplies, enough to warrant the use of the jeep's boot, and you couldn't be more pleased with yourselves.  Canned goods for weeks;  toilet paper;  toothpaste;  even a bag of candy that was still three months in date.  A successful haul if ever you'd had one - and it had been completely unexpected.

"That's a lot of stuff."  You balk at the sheer volume of it.  It sits in a pile in the doorway, a reassuring heap of spoils after an honest day's work.  Once these supplies are spread out across the Sanctuary, their heft will seem a little less impressive, but it's hard not to feel empowered by such a productive day.  "We even found some peaches!"

"That we did,"  Simon replies with his signature smile before turning his head to look out of one of the windows.  Night had approached quicker than either of you were prepared for, and the dead roamed aimlessly outside.  "Hm… might be wise to stay here for the night.  I don't know how many are out there, but I don't like the idea of losing any of these supplies."

The building's disrepair is disconcerting, but you prefer the grime to a night of unrest.  Unlike you and Simon, the dead are impervious to the damage that nightfall doles out.  If they fall over or run into things, they feel no pain.  The worst thing would be to destroy the success of the day by being forced to leave most of your supplies behind after being overrun.  Scrambling around in the dark is a great way to get killed.

You nod your head and move to sit on the ground, the cracked linoleum cold beneath you.

"As soon as the sun comes up, we'll clear the lot, then load the jeep,"  Simon muses, his forehead resting on his arm as he peers outside.  The dead don't notice him on account of the dark, his torch pointed at the floor, but he also can't make much out–  just hazy shapes in the lowlight.

Not safe.

He sheds his jacket, laying it out on the floor before sitting atop it.  His back rests against a shelving unit, its hard surface unyielding as he shuffles in a vain attempt to get comfortable.  No use.

"Tchhh…"  he grumbles, suddenly very aware that the Sanctuary has, to some extent, spoiled him.  He actually survived out on his own for a long time before finding his way to Negan and, after they claimed the Sanctuary for themselves, the Saviors.  A bed in times like these is a luxury.  It’s easy to forget that when you’re reaping the benefits of being a high-ranking soldier.

His eyes flit restlessly to you.  You're laying on your side, body curled in an effort to keep warm, and Simon follows the captivating curve of your spine all the way to your ass before realising he's staring.  He's been doing it more and more lately, and every time he finds that he can't quite help himself.  There's a gravity that surrounds you, and he's sucked in like metal to a magnet.

"Hey,"  he whispers loudly, watching as you open your eyes and look up at him.  He feels a familiar tug inside, as if you’ve fed fishing wire down his throat and pulled gently.  Temptation like he hasn’t felt since before the end.  “... you look uncomfortable.”

“I am,”  you admit, fist curled in front of your face as you gaze up at him.  You won’t complain.  Having a roof over your head is more than can be said for some.  Still, the broken upper windows and the lack of heating speaks for itself.  “Cold, too.”

“Me too.”  You watch, somewhat mesmerised, as Simon spreads his legs and beckons you to him with a serpentine curl of his index finger.  “C’mere, bun.”

You’re thankful for the dark as your cheeks heat up.  “... what for?”

He gives you a look that illustrates just how foolish the question is, and you nod once in understanding as you hesitantly stand up on your knees and shimmy your way over to him.  It’s been a while since either of you have stayed anywhere but within the comforting walls of your bedrooms, and the sound of a corpse smacking its hand idly against the glass makes you jump.  Simon chuckles, hand hovering before it settles on your waist.

“It’s alright.”  His voice is comforting enough, but the fact that the creature walks away a few seconds later makes you feel even more at ease.  Gingerly, you settle in between his legs, drawing your jacket around your shoulders.  “Psh–  why so tense?”

“I’m not!”  It’s an outright lie, and neither of you need to be overly perceptive to know that.  It takes his hand flattening against your side for you to relax, your head coming to rest on the broad stretch of muscle that forms his shoulder.  It isn’t like you haven’t felt this man’s hands on you before.  Simon is a tactile person in general, quick to invade space and even quicker to manhandle.  Even so, this exchange feels distinctly different.

“This is the best I can do, I’m afraid,”  he says, and the rumble of his voice in his chest echoes in your temple as he adjusts your coat around you.  Already, you’re feeling warmer, the heat fostered between your bodies enough to make you feel a little more comfortable.  If you close your eyes and forget your precarious position, you very well may fall asleep after all.  “It’s not exactly five star accommodation, but…”

“Sure it is,”  you murmur back, a yawn forcing its way forth as you bury your cheek a little further into his tan shirt.  Part of you thinks you should press against him with more persistence, keen to offer him whatever warmth you can, but you're too shy to do so.  His scent–  coffee and soap– lulls you into a peaceful state, eyes half-lidded as you watch the glass.  “It’s the best I’ve had in a while.”

“You flirt,”  Simon teases, though he doesn’t sound offended by it.  “... get some rest.  I’ll keep watch.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

He makes a sound, one torn between an ‘eh’ and a ‘nah’ as he resigns himself to discomfort from the neck up, his eyes on the door.  He wants the sun to rise  now  ;  he’s itching for conflict, the kind that only taking to the streets with a machete can curb.  It’s funny how that is now an acceptable thing to do.  He won’t admit that he occasionally felt the urge to do such a thing  before  the world fell apart, mostly because he assumes that everybody had at least  one person that they wanted to murder in cold blood.  His list was just a tad longer than most people’s.  Working with snotty teenagers–  and their even snottier parents–  could do that to a man.

You’re a comfort though.

You’re a comfort far too luxurious for someone like him, but he can’t help but sink his fingers into you.  The gentle curve of your waist beneath his heavy hand feels like a slice of heaven, the edges feathery, your weight cloud-like.  An angel with long, fluffy ears.

His hand strokes idly, thumb circling wide enough to span two of your ribs.  He half expects there to be a black spot left behind in the morning, his filth leaving a stain that you can never quite get rid of–  like spilt wine on a white tablecloth.

“Simon?”

“Mm?”

You hesitate briefly, and suddenly the arm draped loosely around his waist feels too loose, your fingers tracing the leather of his belt loyally.  “I like this.”

The drone of the dead fades into the background, his hand stilling.  “... yeah?”

He feels you lift your head before he registers it, and your soft mouth meeting his cheek evokes a deep sense of surprise.  Simon blinks slowly before tilting his head down to look at you.  You’re looking back with the cutest smile he thinks he’s ever seen, his heart rate accelerating like a  damn schoolboy’s.

Without much consideration for the potential consequences, Simon feels himself bridging the gap between you, his lips meeting yours in a candid display of affection.  He can’t remember the last time he’d kissed a woman so gently, never mind with such emotion.  He’s fooled around with a handful of the women in the Sanctuary at this point–  such was always inevitable–  but this feels different.  It occurs to him then that ever since he found you in that attic, he’s not felt the urge to be so flippant.  That most of his desirous thoughts have been redirected to you.

When he pulls away, he can’t help but stare.  He can barely see you, but he can  feel  the scarlet blush radiating from your cheeks, your fingers curled tight in his shirt.  A wave of desire floods his body as his dirty thoughts suddenly eclipse him.  For one selfish moment, he considers kissing you again,  harder this time, but before he can act on it he feels you bury your face back into his chest and the moment comes to a natural conclusion.

“Did you like that, too?”  he asks quietly, testing the waters.

“I did.”

“Noted.”  He’s trying not to seem too giddy;  he doesn’t even know why he’s feeling giddy.  It’s such a childish reaction, yet it's honest, and maybe that’s worth more than a stoic outer shell.  “Sleep now.  For real.”

“Okay,”  you agree, your eyes closing out of sheer obedience.

The urge to smile keeps you awake for a further forty minutes.

[crohno]

You have NO IDEA how badly I want to write a Simon/Female!Reader in which he’s an English teacher and she’s an art teacher, or something to that effect.  I don’t care that he was confirmed to be a mortgage broker, in my happy little canon he was an English professor, loved books and  FUCKED--

[crohno]

LITTLE RABBIT. [ G - Simon/Soft!Reader ]

Summary:  A gun looks right in Simon's hand, not yours. Warnings:  N/A. Prompt: G is for GUN. A/N:  Sometimes I think about Simon not looking away from Jadis as he shot one of her people and I think about it  hard.   Like I get they weren’t very far away from one another but  still–

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“I was always more of a knife girl,”  you admit, feeling his piteous stare burning a hole into the back of your head.  Your aim with a gun really leaves something to be desired, but you don’t see the harm in it.  You’ve gotten this far with knives, arrows and pointy sticks  -  why fix what isn’t broken?

“You’re telling me,”  Simon replies, his grin a cross between entertained and mean.  “You’re gonna have to learn though, sweetheart.”

You turn the pistol over in your hand, scowling at it.  Guns have never been your forte, even before the fall.  They’re loud and they make your ears ring, and it’s hard to adjust to their vicious kick.  With a knife, though you have to get up close and personal, it’s quick and easy.  You’re a small thing, more cloth than skin, and even you haven’t had any issues with the sharp point of a blade.

“Is it necessary?”  you ask, scanning the open field.  He drove you all the way out here just to practise with you, but you’d be lying if you said the training was the reason you agreed to go.  You like spending time with Simon.  His duties as a Savior sometimes keep him distant for days at a time, but whenever you can be around him?  You like to be.  He’s become so ingrained into your routine by now that it feels odd when you don’t see him.  “You’re a good shot.”

“I’m a great shot,”  Simon corrects, his eyes remaining on you as he raises his own pistol, firing at a walker that’s a few yards away.  The bullet cuts clean through its skull, a myriad of brains and rot erupting from the other side of the wound as it drops to the floor with a stunted growl.  “But what do you think I am, your chaperone?”

Briefly, you think about him in a waistcoat, a spiffy little bowtie at his neck, and swallow hard.  “I think you’d be as good a chaperone as you are a shot.”

Simon scoffs, though he’s amused.  “Cute.  No dice, though.”

You watch him cross the short distance between you, coming to stand by your side.  A cool wind blows, and the grass surrounding you on all sides rustles and folds.

“What about it do you find so challenging, huh?”

“I don’t know.  It’s just difficult to keep my arm steady.”

You may not know squat about firing guns, but you’ve taken down assailants, dead  and  alive, twice your size with a tactical stab to their head.  Your disposition remains reserved despite it all, but you’re no fool, and you’re  certainly no doormat.  You’ve fought tooth and nail to remain alive, and you’ll be damned if a weak aim screws you over.  Negan’s advice to get you trained was surprisingly thoughtful, but alas, it may not be for you.

“Here, try again,”  he instructs, pointing ahead of you.  One of the dead is shambling forwards at a speed that would make a hobbling grandmother look spry, and it’s far enough away that he has plenty of time to direct you.

You try your best, but it’s hard for you to calculate where its forehead begins and its neck ends when it’s but a hazy shape in the distance.  When your gun fires, your bullet finds a snug home in its torso, nestling between exposed upper ribs like birds do branches.  The thing staggers, performing an ill-timed zigzag that makes it look as if it’s going to fall over, before its bent legs straighten out again.

"Ehhh…”  Simon’s displeasure is palpable, but even he has to admit that you didn’t actually do terribly, for someone who has next to no experience with guns.  Unfortunately, good enough isn’t going to cut it when you find yourself in a pickle, trapped between a wall and a hoard of the undead.  “You’re too unsteady.  Here, let me show ya.”

You stiffen when you feel him snake behind you, heat crawling up the back of your neck as his firm form all but moulds to yours in an effort to arrange you.  One large hand smothers yours as he adjusts your aim, one boot forcing its way between your feet and spreading your legs slightly.

Suddenly, you can’t quite remember what you came out here for in the first place.

“See, where you put your feet is important,”  he explains, and his deep voice travels down your spine like electricity does a wire.  You swear you feel his lips brush the shell of your ear, and you’re suddenly aware of just how close he’s standing.  “Understand?”

“I understand.”  It’s blurted out clumsily, your cheeks feeling warm.  You know this is innocent ( or at least, that’s what you’re telling yourself, for there’s no way that Simon would be interested in somebody like you, no? ), but you can’t stop your body from betraying you.  There's a part of you that feels guilty– dirty, even–  for enjoying moments like these, when he’s invading your space and reminding you of just how big he is.  It’s hard not to crush on a man like him, so large and confident, and you’ve given up trying.

He makes you nervous, but only in the same way that flying does.  You like him more than you probably should.

“Good,”  he murmurs, concentrating, his index finger stroking along yours before tapping gently.  “Finger only on the trigger when you wanna shoot.  Keep your arm tense ‘n’ steady, ‘n’ everything’ll be peachy.”

This time, with Simon’s arm steadying your quivering aim, you pelt the zombie right between the eyes, your own lighting up with accomplishment.  It’s a small victory, and you still have a long way to go, but his directions helped.  If you can internalise them right, you’ll be well on your way to impressing him.

“Nice shot,”  he remarks, unfolding himself from you and granting you room once more.  “Pfft…”

His chuckle catches you off guard, eyes swivelling to his face as he snickers.  “What?”

“Nothin’!  It’s just…”  His gaze settles on you, his hands curling into his belt as he glances you over.  “It’s like a bunny got a hold of a pistol.  I think Negan’s intentions are solid, but damn…  it doesn’t suit you.”

You’re caught between feeling affronted and flattered, your lips parting and meeting several times before you settle on an indignant:  “Then what does suit me?”

“You look pretty good with a knife in your hand,”  Simon admits, his stare unflinching.  In spite of that, his smirk is secretive, as if he’s holding some part of the truth close to his chest.

“... it’s what Negan wants,”  you tell him, your eyes flitting from the gun in your hand to his face.  Its dull weight against your leg feels unnatural;  it mirrors the primal desire unfurling in your chest as Simon holds your eye, pinning it down with ease befitting of someone his stature.  Even when he doesn’t say anything, he excites you.  “You’re gonna go against that?”

Simon purses his lips briefly, then shakes his head, and just like that the tension evaporates.

“Course not, bun.”  A loud clap signals a wrap on the current conversation, and you’re grateful when he gestures for you to raise your gun once more.  Something is changing between you two.  The air feels tighter, hotter, as if you’re on the cusp of a discovery–  or a bloody fight.  Neither of you are ready to confront it quite yet.  “Again.”  Pause.  “... do you need my help again?”

You dare to hold his eyes, feeling emboldened by his intensity.  The last thing you want him to think of you as is  weak.    Your gaze sweeps the length of his body,  visibly,  and you note the discreet crease forming in his brow, a smirk dancing at the right corner of his mouth.

“I might.”

It sounds suspiciously as if you’re  taunting him.

[crohno]

I SHOULD BUT I WON’T. ❜ [Simon/Reader]

Summary:  You knew your decisions would catch up with you one day. Warnings:  threat, smut in the latter half. Prompt: i was thinking something between 3,000-5,000 words, with simon (ofc) x female!reader. the rough plot i was thinking of is that the reader left the sanctuary, and months into her hiding she’s accidentally discovered by simon somehow. i was also thinking a chasing/hiding/potentially fighting scene that eventually leads into (consensual!!) smut, but that part is really up to you and if you’re comfortable writing something like that. i’d be happy with or without it :) A/N:  Thank you so much to delia for commissioning this tailored piece from me!  I hope this ticks all your boxes!  If you’re interested in a tailored fic like this one, my inbox/dms are open to discussing it!

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Six months and four days ago.

That was when you’d thrown your shit into a bag and decided that you were going to take your chances on the road.  The Sanctuary was a safe haven for a while, but its rules played on your conscience.  In the end, all of the death and destruction that occurred within those walls was something you just couldn’t live with.  Though you wanted to blame it all on the man in charge, it was impossible to.  Sure, Negan was a psychopath, but said psychopathy trickled down his ranks like bog water, infecting everybody else with its muddy stink.  He may have had a tight hold on everybody’s proverbial nuts, but that didn’t mean you could abide standing by while he burned people’s faces off and forced outsiders to work themselves to death for him.  The Saviors were no better for standing around and watching it happen.

You were no better for standing around and watching it happen.  Several times over.

In all regards, that place left you feeling numb and inhuman, as if you should have been shambling around with the dead.  It was that that kickstarted you into action:  a selfish desire to preserve yourself.  You’d be damned if you made it this far just to take yourself out because of guilt.

You were a trusted member of the Saviors, and the teams they sent you out with were small.  You’d thrown your bag full of gear into the back, driven to the specified location and waited for your team to disassemble.  When they were far enough away, you’d returned your keys to the ignition and stamped on the gas pedal, tearing out of the parking lot and speeding down the road like a street racer.

Thus, your life as an unofficial fugitive had begun.

You still remember it like it was yesterday.

The fire before you crackles as you sit in your temporary camp, its warmth drawing you back to the present.  The car you hijacked is a thing of the past, no gas in sight for miles despite your dedicated scouting, and all you have to your name is a rucksack with three bottles of water in it.  Not exactly the height of comfort–  not when you’d become so used to having a square meal every day back at the Sanctuary.

There’s no use in lamenting over it.  Instead, you finish what’s left of the squirrel you managed to catch before laying your head atop your rucksack, doing your best to get comfortable. Your body curls up in an effort to combat the chill.

You spend the night the same way you have every night since leaving that place:  dozing uncomfortably, with one eye permanently open as the late hours drag.  You have to wonder if they’re still looking for you after all this time.  There’s no doubt in your mind that Negan sent a team out in search of you to begin with–  especially when you’d stolen resources from him like you had–  but six months later?  Is it really worth burning through that much fuel and dispersing that many men just to recover one wayward vehicle?  To you, it isn’t, but you don’t know if you can say the same for Negan.  That man’s pride is about as sensitive as an untreated sore;  you jabbing your knife into it surely brought spite like you wouldn’t believe rushing to the surface in an effort to cushion the blow.

But six months, [Y/N].  That’s a long time to avoid a group as good at finding people as the Saviors are.  Everything might be okay.

That’s what you’ve been telling yourself for at least four days now.  It puts you at ease for long enough to close your eyes for thirty minutes before you repeat the process.  A few hours pass laboriously, your mind occupied by the sounds of crickets and frogs.

You’re jolted awake some time later by the sound of a vehicle, and you sit up so quickly that you feel dizzy.  It’s been several months since you’ve seen another living person, never mind heard a car on the road.  Hearing voices this close to you makes you feel as if you’re dreaming, but the blinding glow of a pair of headlights is unmistakable.

I’ve got to get out of here.  

You train your ears as you stand up as quietly as you can, cursing the rustle of leaves beneath your boots as you adjust your bag over your shoulder.  Your heart is hammering so hard in your chest that you fear they can hear it.

“... stay on the road…” “... he said…” “... it’s that way…” “... are you a fucking idiot?”

It sounds as if they’re arguing about which route to take, and you debate on whether to wait them out or run.  They could very well come this way, but fleeing would absolutely blow your cover.  There’s no way you’re getting through the leaves without causing some level of disturbance, no matter how carefully you place your feet.

“No, he’s right.  He’s right.”  The familiar voice causes goosebumps to raise along your arms, senses abuzz as you watch his broad figure enter the glare of the headlights.  Even without seeing his face, you know who it is.  Simon…  he’s out here.  Why is he out here?  “Cutting through the woods cuts our journey in half.  We’ll park here for the night and–”

Snap.

“What the hell was that?”  

The men draw their guns simultaneously.  One barrel– Simon’s barrel– is facing you, though the others aren't quite so precise.  Your attempt to step back into the trees slowly had resulted in you snapping a twig, the sound loud in the quiet night.

You watch as Simon shifts to the edge of the road, his neck craning in an effort to see through the thick undergrowth.  You press yourself against a tree and pray the darkness shields you.

I've GOT to get out of here.

“... probably just a corpse,”  he utters, gun lowering slowly.  You breathe out a sigh of relief, though it’s short-lived as he retrieves a torch from his belt and shines it in your general direction.  “I’ll go get it.  You fellas stay here ‘n’...”  The beam hits your face and you let out a hiss, the sudden brightness hurting your eyes.  Simon’s stare is wide, genuinely surprised.  “... well shit.”

The jig is up, this you know, and it causes you to turn on your heel and make a mad dash for the treeline, your own torch snatched from your belt in an effort to light your way.  Trying to navigate through trees in the pitch black is a recipe for disaster.  Your plan is to get in deep, shake off your inevitable pursuer, and kill your light.  You’ll lay low until the morning and work your way out from there.  Maybe you can work your way around and hijack their ride.

If all else fails, you’ll at least try to take Simon down with you.  Your knife isn’t for show.

Commotion starts behind you, and someone fires a shot as bootfalls start in your vague direction.  The crack of the bullet hitting a nearby tree has you doubling your efforts to run.  After a moment of consideration, you shed the rucksack from your shoulders and speed up.  The bottles were rattling around noisily;  it was the equivalent of having a huge glowing arrow taped to your back.  Losing the water is regrettable, but you can only imagine what will happen if Simon catches you.  You likely won't need it ever again.  He'll take you back there and Negan will kill you for crossing him.

Your descent into the forest is mad, desperate.  Trees phase into one another;  leaves are kicked up as you tear through them like an animal;  the sound of Simon running after you, hunting you, has your adrenaline skyrocketing as you barrel through the bracken.  With your heart in your throat, you emerge into a clearing and look around frantically, searching for any feasible means of hiding.  You're completely turned around now and realise that there isn't much point in trying to calculate your next move.

You realise it too late, your knife drawn into your hand in preparation to fight.

The sound of boots skidding to a halt has you turning your head, breathing heavily.  He may have been a ways away from you, but his long legs carry him much further than you.  The bastard's barely out of breath, even though you sprinted for several minutes.

“Damn,”  he says, his gun pointed square at your face.  “Look who it is.”

Your mind cycles through possibilities, but you realise there’s no point in trying to achieve any of them.  If you run, he’ll shoot you.  You don’t have any bullets for your own gun, and trying to get close enough to use your knife when he has a firearm at his disposal will result in you eating lead.  He walks a little further into the clearing, his boots forcing soft grass to capitulate, and you feel a wave of hopelessness wash over you.  It isn't only because of your current position.  It's because of the feelings that are being dredged up inside of you upon seeing him again.  The circumstances are less than fortunate, especially when he's acting like his usual cold self, but still...  being face to face with him again reminds you of what you left behind.

Apprehension fills your veins as he extends his arms, performing a whole body shrug.  “What?  We’re not even gonna reunite with a hug?”

“Where are your friends?”  you ask through your teeth, noting the lack of company.

“Told ‘em to stay with the truck,”  he replies, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world.  A facetious smile curls across his face as his hands fall back into position.  The gun almost looks inviting at this point, doubly so when you consider the barbed wire you're likely going to become very familiar with.  “You’re a smart lady, [Y/N].  Thought it was likely you’d try to double back ‘n’ steal the car.  Be honest–  you had that thought.”

Your silence speaks volumes, your teeth bared in a frustrated grimace.

“Oh come, ON, sweetheart.  Don’t look at me like that, like I’m the bad guy.  You ran away!”

“I’m not going back there, Simon,”  you spit.  “You can’t make me.”

Simon cocks his head like a confused puppy, though his smile is menacing as he closes the gap between you.  By the time he stops moving, you’re all but toe to toe.  You could stab him right now- drive that jagged edge into his side and make a break for it- but you feel paralysed by the heat of his body, by the doubt lingering in your mind.  He wouldn't really do this to me, would he?

The cold metal of his gun kisses your temple.  “I think I can make you do pretty much anything in this position, mm?”

Your heart thunders against your ribs as you look up at him with as much malintent as you can muster, knuckles beginning to turn white with how hard you're clutching your weapon.

Back at the Sanctuary, Simon and you had been close.  Really close.  You were often assigned to his team before being trusted with your own small subset of people, and you always looked out for one another.  You’d cleared several locations together;  had each other’s backs as you descended blindly into the dark in search of goods.  You'd been together through thick and thin  -  and your connection went beyond just working together.  He made you laugh;  he made you cry;  he made you feel safe, and Heaven knows that's the most important feeling in the world these days.

The stern furrow of your brow melts away as you think about how you used to be.  You think about him bringing you coffee on early morning runs;  you think about the way you'd nestled your head on his shoulder while attempting to sleep on the cold floor of an abandoned warehouse;  you think about the kiss you shared when he'd approached you late into your lookout shift.  Though you'd not entered an official relationship, nor confessed your feelings for him, you figured it was pretty obvious that that was where you were heading.

Only you'd left before that could happen.

"You're really going to sell me out?"  You curse your voice for quivering.  You shouldn't feel so betrayed after the things you've done, after leaving him behind like you did, but you do.  "You're just going to let Negan bash my head in?"

He regards you carefully, the smile fading from his face.  "... you think I wanted it to turn out this way?"  

"You can look the other way."

"You know I can't."

"Of course you can."  This is as close to begging as you'll ever get.  You know there's good in him–  you've seen it–  and if there's a chance you can reach it then you'll try.  "He doesn’t know you saw me.  He never will if you don’t mention it.  I'm–"

"You didn't even say goodbye,"  Simon interjects, his expression rueful.  Though it stings, you can't help but feel grateful.  Now you're seeing the real him, the one that doesn't give a damn about his assignment.  The one who has feelings that go beyond Negan's expectations of him.  "Did you mean to leave me behind without a damn word?"

"I knew you'd try to stop me,"  you admitted, your lower lip nibbled on nervously.  "I'm sorry.  I am, Simon.  But I couldn't stay."

Simon's gun falls from your temple as he sighs with exasperation.  "Why not?  You can't pretend you weren't living large in that place.  You had a nice room, food and water, and a team of your own, and you just went and threw it all away?  For what?!"  Before you can answer, he tuts and levels you with a harsh look.  "Jesus Christ, [Y/N], Negan was talking to us about promoting you even further.  You had it good!"

"So you're just going to gloss over every cruel thing he's done and reap the benefits?  You're just going to pretend he's reasonable?"  You can't stop your frustration from spiralling.  This has been building up inside of you for years.  Just because you'd only recently found the guts to do something about it didn't mean you hadn't found Negan's methodology dubious from the get-go.  He walked around toting "we don't rape" as if he was the only sane person left on earth.  As if he was saying something particularly profound and rare.  You couldn't stand it any longer.  "I was tired of being a part of that system, Simon!  People were being killed left and right.  Tortured  -  and we all had to watch.  How can you accept that?”

“It keeps people in line.”

“What happened to Dwight wasn’t fair!”

A cold chuckle passes his lips, his free hand hooking into his belt.  A flicker of envy crosses his face.  “So it was Dwighty-boy that did you in?”

Your lips press into a thin line, your annoyance paramount.  You understand the hold that Negan has over every member in the Sanctuary, but Negan isn’t here.  In fact, nobody of merit is.  It’s just you, Simon and the trees  -  and somehow, that angers you even more.  You reach out and sink your fingers into his shoulder, squeezing hard.

“It wasn’t Dwight.  It was everything.”

You know in your heart that the only reason he’s hesitating is because of the spark between you.  If you were anybody else in any other time, he’d approach you with pragmatism so cold that it would stagger you.  You’d seen it.  You’d seen it with the men at the Sanctuary;  you’d seen it with Gregory;  hell, you’d seen it with Rick.

His soft spot for you still exists.

“... I should’ve told you,”  you say carefully, feeling a rush of heat as he locks eyes with you in the dark.  In spite of the time you’ve spent apart, you haven't forgotten what it was like to be close to him.  Now that he’s back, standing but a couple of feet away from you, you can feel those familiar sparks fizzling between you.  The unresolved tension feels so thick that you’re drowning in it.  “But would it have made a difference?”

The moonlight illuminates his face as he turns it upwards and heaves out a sigh.  That familiar muscular tic in his jaw is currently going crazy, and it takes all of your willpower not to lean forward and kiss it.

“... no,”  he admits belatedly, head tilting down to look at you.  Though you can barely see him, you know his eyes well enough to know that they’re sad.

“I missed you, Si,”  you confess, and you half expect him to lift his gun and whack you over the side of the head with it based on how hard he’s staring at you.  Before he can, you press your hand further into his shoulder, rubbing a soothing path along it before it curls around the back of his neck.  Your fingers dip beneath the upturned collar of his jacket, feeling at his bare skin.  Nails scratch gently, soft greying strands of hair threaded between your digits.

He shifts his weight towards you, his hands falling from his hips.  His pistol is now limp by his side.  If you hadn’t meant what you said, now would be the perfect time to disarm him and take your leave, but you can’t.  You just can’t.  Not to him.

“How much?”

You know him well enough to know that he doesn’t expect a verbal answer.

The distance between you promptly vanishes as you lean up and kiss him.  It’s a gentle offering, one that mirrors his uncertain approach when he was on lookout duty with you, and you don’t miss the quiet sigh he lets out when you pull away.  The feeling of his moustache tickling your upper lip lingers long after you back off, a pleasant heat pooling in your belly as you feel one of his large hands settle on your lower back.

He’s debating on what to do;  debating on whether he should apprehend you or not, and you attempt to make the decision for him by kissing him again.

“[Y/N]--”  he murmurs, though he doesn’t fight you when your hands raise to cup his face.

When you reconnect, it’s with passion, and the dull clatter of his gun against the grass signals to you that he’s made his choice.  Your knife joins the pile before your back hits the rough bark of a tree, and suddenly his large frame smothers your senses whole, his tongue meeting yours in a blatant display of lust.  Moaning into his mouth feels right, and he swallows the sound with all the greed of a king.

“Simon…”  You whine as he breaks the kiss, though your disappointment is short-lived as he buries his head into your neck.  The feeling of him kissing and nipping at your skin makes your head spin, legs trembling as the heat of his mouth travels straight to your core.  “I missed you…  I missed you so fucking much…”

Your words provoke him, a deep, guttural growl let out against your pulse point as your legs wrap tight around his waist.  Trembling fingers curl in his hair, flesh bared to him with a pliant tilt of your neck, and he takes advantage of your obedience wholeheartedly.  You gasp as his hips rock into yours, and he mirrors the exhalation heatedly as he sucks your neck hard enough to leave a mark.

Suddenly, your back is no longer scraping against the tree, and you let out a quiet squeal as you tumble into the grass, the man dropping to his knees above you.  Your hands reach up for him, and he meets you with another forceful kiss, his fingers sliding down your sides and under your shirt.

“Open your legs,”  he breathes hotly against your mouth, and you honour the command by doing as he says, dizzy with desire.  The feeling of him positioning a knee between your legs makes you want to drool, and before he can even think to direct you further, you’re already grinding against it.  Its solid mass provides you with friction so delicious that you want to scream, and you already know that the only sensation that will top it is Simon being any degree of inside you.  Even the idea of his thick fingers spreading you open makes your mouth water, and you’re not even going to mention the sort of frenzy his cock stirs up inside of you.  “Well shit,”  you hear him seethe, staring up at him through half-lidded eyes as your hips rock on their own accord.  “Seems you really did miss me.  Look at you, rutting against my leg like a damn whore.”

The words shoot straight to your core, your panties suddenly feeling much too damp to be comfortable.  “Simon, please.”

“I’m gonna take my time with you,”  he tells you, unequivocal satisfaction dripping from every word as his fingers raise your shirt.  “This is what you get for leaving me behind, like I wasn’t worth squat.”  He punctuates the word with a roll of his knee, and you all but sob at the pleasure that racks through you.  “We’ll see what you think of me when I’m done.”

The early morning sinks its chilly teeth into your flesh as Simon pulls your shirt over your head, followed by your bra, and you fight the urge to reach up and shield your breasts from view.  You aren't typically very concerned about being seen, but you've also never met anyone that makes you feel as needy as he does.  

As if on cue, a sharp exhale leaves you as he reaches up and pinches your nipples, rolling the now stiff peaks between his fingers.  His hands are so big and so skilled that you feel your resolve crumbling.  You'd normally put up more of a fight, at least attempt to even out the playing field, but you know as well as he does that you’re at his complete mercy.

You arch into his mouth as he locks it around one of them, his tongue drawing wet, agonising circles around the hard bud as he rocks his leg in tandem with your less-than-dignified ruts.

“We could’ve done this way sooner if you’d just stayed put,”  Simon murmurs, his facial hair leaving a pleasant burn behind as he trails kisses along your squirming body.  “I’d have had you transferred to my outpost.  We’d have fucked every damn day.”  You mewl in response, and you don’t resist when he pops the button on your pants and drags them down your legs, bare skin hot against the rough fabric of his cargo pants.  They’re snug enough around his hips to give you a glorious view of the half-hard mass straining against the front of them, your tongue wetting your lips in a wordless admission of hunger.  “But you royally screwed the pooch on that one, huh pidge?”

His hand slides between your legs, replacing his knee with vigour, and the concentrated friction drives you buck wild, head lolling to the side as your eyes roll back.  You’re not ashamed to admit that in the midst of your sleepless nights, thoughts of Simon kept you occupied.  You wonder if he ever thought about you in that way after your sudden leave, and the idea of him jerking off furiously as he curses your name has your body erupting with heat.

“Simon–”  It’s all but a cry as his large digits stroke along your clothed slit, the pressure of his fingertips both perfect and not at all enough.  “Simon, please.”

He gives you a thin smile, one full of faux pity as he runs his thumb in maddening little circles.  Even through the material, your clit aches, your tight heat clenching around nothing.

“Please what?”

“Please–  your fingers–”  You hesitate as he pushes the material aside gradually, and the electricity that jolts up the length of your spine makes you forget your own name.  “Inside.  Inside, please.”

It must stroke his ego, seeing you so horny when he’s barely begun, because the next thing you feel is two of his fingers buried to the knuckle inside you, stretching you out wide.  You let out a loud, high-pitched moan, legs trembling, fisting grass beside your head as he draws them back and fills you again.  When his thumb joins in, rubbing slick rings around your clit, you feel your world narrowing to a needle point, ecstasy smothering you in its seedy heat as you clamp tight around his digits.

He doesn’t let you rest.  Your orgasm doesn’t so much pass as it does begrudgingly decline, for though he withdraws his fingers from you in order to lick them clean, his others abuse your spasming hole with just as much ferocity.

“That’s all it took?”  A breathless chuckle leaves him, his finger leaving his mouth with an audible pop!  “I dread to think how you’re gonna handle the rest of me, sweetheart.”

In any other context, you’d be incredibly irritated by his arrogance, but his words sink straight into your core, fanning the flames that vehemently consume your lower half.

“Fuck me,”  you implore, you voice quavering as you watch him unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly.  He’s taking too long, at least in your impatient eyes, and you’re tired of being teased.  You sit up and bat his hands away, taking as much control as he’ll allow as you shift his clothing aside and take hold of him.  Christ, he’s big.  He exhales shakily as you pump your hand along his cock, warm palm providing him with the friction he too desires.  Your thumb against his tip, smearing pre-cum around it like glazing, feels like satin.

Simon catches your eye, gaze heavy and full of emotion.  His bravado seems to have dissipated like steam.

“Didn’t stop wantin’ you, [Y/N]...”  His voice is thick and low, reaching down into the deepest parts of you as you jerk him off.  His speech grows lazy and slurred as you lean over and kiss his neck.  “Went out lookin’ for ya myself… didn’t tell Negan… but I couldn’t find ya…”  He pauses to let out a gruff groan, hips jerking upwards before you push him back–  just enough to have him fall onto his ass, your body positioned above him.

“I’m here now,”  you whisper as you raise your hips, letting the tip of his cock slide between your dripping wet folds, heart leaping into your throat as it nudges against your clit.  “Ah…”

His hands on your hips bring you back to earth, guiding you down until he’s sheathed in your tight warmth.  The fit is snug, like a glove, and the pair of you moan in sync as your bodies join, his fingers digging into your hips with enough force to bruise.  Your forehead presses against his before you bridge what little distance remains between you, mouths hot and hungry as you ride him in earnest.  The grass is soft against your knees, and as your lips drag along his jaw and down his neck, you feel your head clouding pleasantly once more.  Thoughts of Negan's wrath ebb away, replaced only by the feelings brought on by the man beneath you;  by his strong hands and his masculine scent;  by his quiet grunts and his laboured breaths.

“Good girl,”  he praises as you speed up, the obscene sounds of skin on skin tinting his vision rosy.  With his pleasure reaching a crescendo, he pushes you down onto your back, rejoicing in the feeling of your legs winding tight around his hips like a ribbon as he begins thrusting into you.  “Such a good girl.  I’m gonna cum.”

The statement fills you with such excitement that you grin wide, the feeling of him bottoming out and filling you to the hilt repeatedly causing your toes to curl and your nails to dig into his shirt.

“Simon–”  You give him your best doe eyes, heart beating so hard that you worry it’s going to burst right out of your chest.  “Fill me up.”

The look he gives you is a cross between bemused and so delirious with want that it makes you see stars, and before either of you can stop it, you feel his hips still and extreme warmth explode inside you.  Not your brightest idea–  far from it, actually–  but you’d be lying if you said you didn't feel drunk on the feeling of him using you like his own personal dump.  In fact, it provokes your second orgasm, this one even more blinding than the last, his name yelled out into the quiet.  To hell with it.  You hope his men back at the truck hear you crying out for him.

His arms tremble with the effort it takes to remain upright, and in one fell swoop he flips himself onto his back beside you, panting hard as the euphoria runs its course.  By the time his brain starts returning to him, it’s too late to reverse what he’s done  -  and he finds that he doesn’t want to anyway.  It's selfish, but he's left his mark, and that's more than most people can say.

Silence stretches between you, and Simon breaks it by turning his head in your direction, a cheeky smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.  “... did you really use sex to try and distract me?”

“No,”  you say, and your sober look has his smile dimming in seconds.  “... I really did miss you.  I regret leaving you back in that place.”  Despite your exhaustion, you force yourself to sit up, fiddling with the opening in his shirt as you crawl over him again.  You can’t believe that you hadn’t taken it off–  what an oversight when he looks like he does, all teeming muscle and chiselled edges.  “But I could always try again.  To distract you, I mean.”

The chuckle he gives you is dry, though his hands are warm and receptive against your hips as you settle in his lap.  He still isn’t quite sure what to do with you, doesn’t know whether the right thing to do is bring you back home- maybe he can talk you into coming with him willingly?- or let you try your luck out here.  It feels too much like letting go, especially now that he's had a taste of you.

She’s dead either way, his brain chimes sadly, and he dismisses the thought before he can linger on it too long.  No she isn’t.  She’s lasted this long, hasn’t she?

He can’t think about it anymore.  It’s just too uncomfortable.

“... Negan’s not expecting me back for three days yet,”  he confesses, his voice like gravel as you slowly unbutton his shirt.  “I’ve got some more time to kill.”

That answer, for better or for worse, satisfies you.

[crohno]

LITTLE RABBIT. [ F - Simon/Soft!Reader ]

Summary:  There’s something ugly in him.  He’s always known it. Warnings:  Depictions of violence, threat, Simon being Unhinged. Prompt: F is for FIST. A/N:  I really badly want to kiss this man’s neck but I’ll settle for his knuckles.

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You feel him coming before you see him.  The air in the thin hallway suddenly feels like it’s on fire, and an ugly aura glares to your immediate left.  By the time he stalks around the corner and enters your line of sight, you’re already on high alert.

“Simon…?”

His eyes snap to yours, wild with fury, and you feel yourself shrinking in the wake of his thunderous gait.  Suddenly, the corridor feels like one never-ending stretch of concrete.  It tries to tempt you into running, running until you exhaust yourself and wind up with the wolf’s jaws clamped tight around your throat.

But this is Simon you’re talking about.

Simon wouldn’t hurt you.

Right?

He walks by you without a word, and the wind that tails him feels like the bite of Winter.  He’s never ignored you before, and though you suspect there’s a reason for it, it still stings.  For a moment, you’re torn between leaving him be and pursuing him.  Your senses are screaming at you to leave this alone, to let him cool off in his own time, but you’ve never seen him so furious before.  He’d seemed apoplectic.

This time, the rabbit chases the wolf.

A story told in reverse if ever you’d heard one.

You follow what seems to be his natural path in earnest, though his heavy footfalls are long gone.  In spite of the distance he has on you, where he’s wound up is incredibly limited;  you’re essentially meandering through hotel hallways, most of the available doorways being rooms that belong to people.  Unless he's set up temporary shop in another Savior's room without anybody knowing about it, it's illogical to think he's entered any of them.

Your heart beats like a jackhammer in your chest as you hear clattering in the near distance.  Of course, you think, knowing very well what lies ahead.  The infirmary.

Slowly, you peek your head around the doorway, watching as Simon rifles through drawers and cupboards at such high speed that you wonder if he’s seeing anything he picks up.  Boxes of aspirin are scattered haphazardly around the room as he curses and seethes.

“... Si,”  you croak, your voice quivering with worry, your fingers holding on tight to the doorway as he tears through the room with the force of a hurricane.

His shirt is drenched.  At first, you figure it’s sweat.  Spending all day at the mercy of a late-Summer heatwave just isn’t practical, but he braves that instead of braving Lucille’s unquenchable thirst.  

Then the smell hits you, metallic and coppery.

“O-Oh my God,”  you stammer, making your way over to him.  Your hands settle on his back, and he shrugs you off with such ferocity that your wrist clicks.  Your fingers come away damp and red.  “What happened?  What did–  who did this to you?”

“You ever read a room, [Y/N]?”  Simon snaps as he whips around to face you, the words squeezed through his teeth as if he’s doing his best not to scream.  That’s when you catch sight of his hand. 

It’s as if his knuckles have burst open, a fountain of blood running down his tightly clenched fingers.  Your heart feels like it’s being squeezed, terror unfurling in your chest like a blooming rose, eyes pinpricked and wide.  Without thinking, you reach blindly for him, locking your fingers around his wrist and refusing to let go- even when he begins to struggle hard.

“[Y/N]--”

“Simon, please let me help, I can help, I can–”

He throws you backwards with excessive force, and you let out a sharp cry as you stumble back into the wall.  For the first time since you were initiated into the Sanctuary, you’re scared of him.  He looks different when swaddled in hate, like a rabid dog that’s desperate to sink its teeth into flesh, and you find yourself shuffling along the wall and towards the exit.

His fist meets the space beside your head.

Gently.

It’s clenched tight, knuckles a chalky white, but its impact is non-existent.  Somehow, that scares you even more.  His temperamental behaviour when he’s angry leaves you stranded in a deep pit of confusion, and the uncertainty is worse than knowing he’s about to hit you.

“Are you listening now?”  His voice is quiet but not soft;  he’s seething, words bubbling and fizzing like acid in a glass.

“I was–  I was listening–  I was, Si.”  Your breaths come out shallow, quick, and the fear that’s currently drenching your tongue tastes as bitter as cold coffee.  It’s hard to think with him leaning in like that, his face mere inches from yours.  It’s pathetic, you know, but you can feel tears threatening to prick at the corners of your eyes;  you’re so frightened your vision is blurring.  “I just–  your hand–”  You sniffle, trying to force yourself to keep it together.  You didn’t get this far by blubbering like an idiot.  “You’re hurt–”

“You should see the other guy!”  It’s said jovially, as if you’re having a normal conversation, and his white smile sears itself into your brain as he leans closer still.  “There was a rat poking around these parts, [Y/N].  A heretic.”

You can see it now, faint and yet so obvious you want to kick yourself for not noticing it:  the defensiveness.  A deranged version of it, oh absolutely, but defensiveness nonetheless.  Negan’s regime had been threatened in some way;  somebody had torn themselves free of the current, denounced his name and tried to pave their own way;  Simon had cut their time dreadfully short.  The gravity of Negan’s namesake is something you understand, to survive, but its cult-like significance within the Sanctuary sends chills up the length of your spine.  Breathing his name is akin to chanting a Satanic curse around these parts.  Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

“... he hurt you.”

“I killed him,”  he hisses, animosity dripping from every word.  His brown eyes are all but black with fury as he squints.  In that moment, he looks as if he detests you.  “I beat the shit out of him until he stopped moving.”  His bloody thumb curls against your cheek, leaving a red smear behind.  “That scare you?  Since you wanna be such a fucking princess about a bloody hand–”

Frustration overtakes you, and in an act of defiance, you slap his hand away.  You may be so scared that you feel faint, but you can’t stand it when Simon is mean.  He’s had yet to show it to you personally, but you’ve seen it regardless.  You’ve seen it on runs when confronting strangers and you’ve seen it with men that refuse to fall in line.  Hell, you’ve heard the ferocity with which he butts heads with Negan sometimes, two floors above the rest of you.  He’s nasty.  He damn well knows it, too.

“You’re letting me help you.  I’m going to clean your wound and bandage your hand, and you can’t stop me.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”  Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you angrily swipe your arm across your face to get rid of them.  You won’t give him the pleasure of seeing you cry, not when he’s this bent on destruction.  “Stop being an asshole and sit.”

Your legs are shaking, and you half expect to hear him fling open the door and leave in spite of what you said.  You may be able to speak sternly, but you're hardly physically capable of stopping a man that's over six feet tall from doing as he pleases.  You still can’t quite believe that you left that scene completely unscathed  (perhaps because you’re still in it, your demons whisper with a laugh),  and it shows in the tremble of your fingers as you crouch and retrieve bandages and rubbing alcohol.  With a clear head, they’re easy to locate, but Simon currently has anything but.

The sound of leather squeaking has the hairs on the back of your neck rising.

Simon is sitting, as per your request demand, an eerie silence surrounding him as he watches you busy yourself.  Fear radiates from you like heat, and he feels himself being drawn to it.  He’s hungry in ways he’s seldom distracted enough to recognise.

Rabbit, he thinks, his dark eyes tracing your every move.  There’s something twisting in his gut like a knife, serrated and ugly.  Maybe hate.  Maybe guilt.  Your resilience shouldn’t surprise him, not in a world this cold, but it does.  Why didn't the bunny hop away?

He's torn from his thoughts by a harsh sting, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth as he looks down at the alcohol-infused cotton that you've pressed to his open wounds.  It's already turning crimson, the blood serving as dye that's just a little too permanent for something so white.

"Fuck,"  he mutters, thick digits flexing before he falls dutifully still once more.  There are worse things he could endure, has endured, but there will always be something distinctly unpleasant about cleaning up wounds.  Being the kind of man he is, he much prefers to let them bleed.

You're happy it hurts–  at least a little bit, for just one selfish moment.  It's the least he deserves for being such a ruthless idiot back there, but you're wise enough not to say it.  You may feel self-righteous at the moment, but you're still trembling like a leaf - and he is still in a foul mood, his face stony as he watches you clean him up without a word.  He's breathing in deep through his nose, and out softly through his mouth, his sodden shirt sticking to him with every movement.

"You should still see the doctor,"  you whisper.  With his hand now mostly clean, you can see the ugly gashes for what they are;  one of them is angrier than the rest, wider and more resilient in wake of the violence.  Your medical knowledge is limited–  he’ll require a visit to the actual doctor after you’ve had your way with him–  but you know enough to wrap his hand up serviceably.  “... he came for you?”

Simon nods once, the motion curt.  “He stole my knife.  Had no other options.”

Your hands are small in comparison to his;  both of yours cupping his injured one as you slowly bind it in gauze.  By the time you’re done, he seems calmer.  Not yet absolved of his fizzling temper, but more like himself.  Sane, at least.

“You scared the hell out of me,”  you admit as you tie the bandage up, heart rate beginning to settle as you catch his eye.  They’re brown again, though that tic in his jaw is still present.  Irate, like he wants to teethe on your hand for fun.  

“You should’ve turned me away,”  he says flatly, his eyes searching yours.  Gradually, his brow furrows.  “... why didn’t you?”

He can’t understand you.  He wants so desperately to wash his hands of someone like you, and in any other case he would have.  There’s something alluring about your innocence–  something so disarmingly fragile and pure that he can’t bear to tarnish it.  He used to think it was tied to your physicality, to some perverted desire to corrupt you, to drag you down into that same all-encompassing darkness that smothers him so that he won't be alone in it, but it isn’t.  It truly is akin to holding a small animal in his hands and being unable to crush it to death.  Sometimes he loves that part of himself.  It proves that he’s still human beneath it all.  Other times, he wants to sink his nails in and rip it out manually.

You shake your head.  “... I couldn’t.  If I can help,  I should try.  Trying is what makes you part of the living.”

Simon blinks, his anger traded for confusion.  He isn’t a meek man–  on the contrary, he’s a hardened pragmatist through and through– but something in you reaches out to him, makes him lower his guard.  It’s this that makes him realise that you’re the opposite of weak.  Not only do you choose to persevere, you can make people reconsider the way they persevere too.  Life isn’t sunshine and rainbows, especially not now, but making things worse is a choice too.

An empty scoff leaves him, his head shaking slightly as he moves to stand up.  “... I’ll see the doc.”

“Shouldn’t you wait until he comes here?”

“I’ll find him,”  he assures.  His hand feels cold without yours wrapped around it, and that’s part of the reason he wants to leave in the first place.  He knows what it means to get close to somebody in the world now:  it means leverage.  It means loss.  It means agony.  “I should find out why he left his post to begin with.”

You nod, giving him a weak smile.  “Just don’t kill him.”

“Eh.”  A sliver of the Simon you knows peeks through, with his silly smile and the light behind his eyes.  “We’ll see how good his reason is.”

[twdbegins]

me looking the other way when people remind me that Simon was technically an asshole and kind of a psychopath but the show didn’t really give us enough insight to that so I’m gonna continue to write him as being the absolute sweetest guy on the planet when it comes to his S/O

[crohno]

LITTLE RABBIT. [ E - Simon/Soft!Reader. ]

Summary: Sometimes, it feels like his boss is doing all he can to thwart him. Warnings:  N/A. Prompt: E is for ENVY. A/N:  … no excuses, just wanted to write Simon being Hot lowkey possessive.

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When he opens his door at midnight, he doesn’t expect to see you standing on the other side of it.

“[Y/N],”  Simon breathes, his brow furrowing as you wring your hands nervously.  You haven’t yet said a word, and the further the silence stretches, the more concerned he becomes.  Your face is grave and worried.

“Are you busy?”  you ask quietly, avoiding his gaze.

“No,”  he lies, opening his door a little wider and beckoning you inside.  He’s going on a run the following day, and the wee hours of the night are all he has to plan the best route, but he doesn’t have the heart to turn you away.  He’s been scavenging so many times over that he’s certain it’s in his blood by now.  He’ll find his way regardless of whether or not he prepares a roadmap, and his team will be none the wiser.  I’ll manage.  

Brown eyes map your path as you pace the length of his room, back and forth like a particularly slow pendulum, your fingers worrying the edge of your shirt.  He’s never seen you this upset.

“Sit,”  he commands, though his gentle tone makes it sound like more of a suggestion.  His hand touches your back as he guides you to take a seat on the end of his bed.  You perch on the very edge as if you’re worried you’ll muddy it just by being there.  “What’s wrong?  What happened?”

“Negan asked me to marry him.”

It’s blurted out quickly, and it takes a moment for it to register, but when it does, Simon feels a spark in his brain.  It’s unexpected, like a machine that’s long since given up suddenly cranking to life with renewed vigour.  It’s as if a segment of Hell has opened up in his mind, molten hate coursing through his veins instead of blood.

“No.”

The intensity in his voice surprises him as much as it surprises you, and Simon finds himself looking away in an attempt to realign his focus.  He can’t explain himself clearly;  he just knows that he doesn’t want Negan to have you.  His leader always gets what he wants, always has first dibs on everything, and you’re somebody that he doesn’t want to be known as second-best to.  Sometimes, it feels like his boss is doing all he can to thwart him.

                       I found her.  She comes to  me  when she has a problem, not you.                                             She knows I can take care of her.

"I mean…  how do you feel about it?"  He only asks when he's certain that he has control of his temper again.  Such a slip-up could cost him dearly if it happens in front of the wrong person.  "Do you–"

"I don't want to marry him,"  you admit,  and Simon feels some sense of equilibrium return to the equation.  "I don't want to be one of his wives.  But I'm scared of what will happen if I refuse him."

You think about Negan's smug face;  think about how he'd asked you for your hand in marriage as if he didn't have a care in the world.  Apparently he'd been sceptical of you, and so he'd been watching you closely.  He'd come to the conclusion that he liked what he saw, recognised your potential and wanted you for himself.

"You're as cute as a fucking doll, [Y/N].  Always fancied ya.  Just didn't know how you'd handle yourself.  Now I know you handle yourself fine 'n' fucking dandy."

He'd tipped your chin up with Lucille, smirking.

"Makes me wonder what else you can handle, beautiful."

"Nothing'll happen,"  Simon says, though his tone wavers slightly.  It's a choice, sure, but Negan isn't known to give up easily.  He can be extremely persuasive.  "It's your decision."  But he'll feel remiss if he doesn't at least mention the obvious:  "... but there're benefits that might interest you."

The look you shoot him is like liquid fire, and he feels his mouth go dry.  You've never looked so angry.

"What benefit is there to losing my autonomy, Simon?"

Simon stares at you, slightly astonished.  You're such a sweet thing, so neatly wrapped in a pretty pink bow...  he hasn't come to expect such sharp rebuttals from you.

Quietly, he chuckles, the rage inside subsiding momentarily.  Your spark is addictive, and the lightning in your eyes excites him in ways he can't bring himself to confess to you.  His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, dark eyes honing in on yours.

"Negan's wives live like Queens,"  he tells you, watching with glee as you twitch.  That look you're giving him, like you want to reach out and rag him around like a dog might a toy…  it endears him.  He's playing with fire, that he knows, but he just can't help it.  That visceral resentment in your eyes, it's turning him on.  "You'd never have to lift a finger.  You'd never be punished too badly, either.  No scavenging.  No points.  Just a whole lot of pretty clothes and sex."

"I don't want to sleep with him,"  you spit, feeling scorned.  "... he frightens me.  I don't trust him like that."

Some form of sobriety returns to him at that.  He'd been having fun, pushing your buttons, morphing your anger into something that pleased his fantasies, but he can tell that the time for teasing is done.  Beneath that quiet fury is still the same little rabbit he found in that attic, and the idea of Negan setting his jaws around your pretty little neck has him feeling hot all over again.

He leans over, his large hand squeezing your thigh in a display of comfort.  "If you'd rather remain a Savior, tell him as such,"  he advises, gazing at you with a look that sits between patient and domineering.  "The Bossman can be a lot to deal with, but he'll respect your choice.  He won't force you.”  He makes a slight face, one that suggests he’s being a tad too optimistic.  “He might continue to try and convince you, but he won't force you.  That’s a difference I’m sure you’re keenly aware of, after everything.”

Slowly, you nod, and the fire in your belly settles somewhat.

“... I’m sorry for being stupid.  I scare easy.  It’s such a pain to deal with, I know.”  Your legs curl beneath you as you look at him with a sad smile.  It’s no secret that you wear your heart on your sleeve, and that you aren’t good at slotting yourself into the tough role. You make up for it with other skills–  you’re light on your feet, you’re smart and you always seem to find good things while on runs-  but you leave a lot to be desired whenever brawn enters the picture.  There’s no doubt in your mind that Negan knows how terrified you are of him and his stupid proposal - and you also know he gets off on it.  It’s plain to see in the sadistic glint in his eye.

Sometimes you see that same light in Simon’s and hold your breath.

“You’re not stupid.”  His hand is slowly peeled from your leg, resting back in his lap.  “He can be… intimidating,”  he allows, figuring it doesn’t make him look like part of the crowd that bends to the man’s every whim–  even though he is.  “... if you ever feel scared, you can come to me.  You’re one of us.  We look out for each other.”

He hesitates to say that he’ll look out for you, specifically, but that’s what he means.

Slowly, you nod, before you smile slightly.  “What did you mean by ‘no’?”

It’s the first time you’ve rendered Simon speechless.  For a stretch that seems too long for somebody of his vernacular, he remains dutifully silent, staring at you as if you’re a puzzle he’s attempting to work out.  If he’s being truthful, he doesn’t wholly know himself.  What he does know is that if Negan were to put a proverbial ring on your finger, the time he’d be “allowed” to spend with you would dwindle down to mere minutes.  Now that you’ve built up a rapport, cemented yourself into his days and brought a smile to his face on more than one lucky occasion, he knows he can’t give that up.  Negan can’t win this one.

“Well.”  A cool smile forms on his face.  “These unprecedented little visits of yours would hardly be a part of your routine anymore if you were to marry him.  I don’t think I can do that to ya.  It’s clear you need me.”

You can’t help but laugh.  It’s such a Simon thing to say that you instantly feel better;  a little foolish, perhaps, but better nonetheless.

“Right.  I need you.”

“Yeah.”

He holds your stare for a moment longer than necessary, and you feel something jumpstart in your chest.  He has a way of making you forget about things that upset you, but he also has a way of making you lose track of your nerves.  Your lower lip is snagged between your teeth as you look away, biting back a smile as you stand up.

“Stay if you want.”  He gives you a callous shrug before rising from his bed, stretching out with a low groan.  His spine pops, and you follow the slight curve of his body before he’s back to standing straight again.  “You can take my bed.  I’m probably not going to sleep tonight.  I’ve got things to do.”

“You said you didn’t…”  you mumble, a hint of guilt showing on your face.

“Not important things.”  

“Don’t let me keep you awake, Simon.  You should’ve told me to go.”

He gives you a terse smile as he leans against his kitchenette, flicking the switch on his kettle.  “Coffee’s a thing,”  he tells you.  “Willpower, too.  Don’t worry about it.  Get some rest.”

And that’s that.

You watch as he goes about his evening routine, the smell of coffee potent as you shyly arrange yourself on his bed.  The sheets smell fresh, though distinctly of him, and after a moment of deliberation you pull the blanket back and arrange yourself beneath it, closing your eyes.

Your body is humming in response to being shrouded in his scent, and the sound of him sketching up a rough map makes the room feel lived in.

You doubt you’ll sleep any tonight, but you’re certainly at ease now.