Drew Enthusiast

21 “I’m disembodied”

[drewsuncrustables]

The rawness of this movie was so emotional. The loneliness the disembodiment of this movie was just fantastic. This is the type of movie that I could watch even if it had no words, I’d still be able to understand and feel all the emotion throughout this movie. The chemistry between the two actors was phenomenal they worked amazing together. Luca couldn’t have casted a better cast. Everything was amazing I can’t get over it. Cinematography was beautiful it was all beautiful.

[amaranthinespirit]

neighbor!simon riley walking into the wrong apartment

simon was downright beat, another day of extensive labor scratched off the shitty calender on his wall—if he could even make it there. going up the stairs was a challenge he didn't want to face, but the elevators in his building were out of order. steeling himself for the extra ache in his knees with every step, he began his ascent.

it wasn't nearly as bad as he thought when he reached the landing of his floor, trudging his feet along the carpet until he reached his door. a plant in the corner of the hall caught his eye—since when had that gotten there?

he shrugged it off. it was a question for another day because nothing was more important than a fat nap on the couch—too lazy to make it to the bed. he could barely get the key in the door, twisting and turning it with hazy focus before shouldering his way inside.

blasted with warmth and vanilla, simon instantly realized his mistake.

he glanced around, noting the cozy decor and myriad of plants—hanging pots, mini ones on windowsills to big ones scattered in different corners. warm toned lights bathed his skin, lulling him into a sense of calm and clarity. the blankets on the couch did him no favor, practically calling him to stick his face into them.

the sweet scent of fresh-baked goods wafted in his nose, distracting him from the figure that appeared by his side. only having a split second to react to the—naked?—figure wielding a frying pan before everything went black.

simon came to a few minutes later, halfway dragged towards the couch by the same figure that knocked him out cold. jesus. at least now you were clothed. in a robe with a tantalizing amount of skin on display

with a groan, he rubbed his head which prompted you to drop the leg you use to tug him along. a soft gasp of surprise escaped your lips, and you bent at the waist to inspect him.

"simon? what the hell are you doing here? I could've killed you!" a soft, familiar voice fussed, and when his vision unblurred, he was met with the sight of your pretty face.

you weren't exactly simon's neighbor. you lived on the floor directly below his apartment—often complaining about his heavy footsteps. but after warming him up by tons of sweet treats, you two became familiar. he'd return the tupperware with delicious foods, and the trading never ceased. unless he was on a mission—which you quickly learned he was back from.

simon rubbed his head with a grunt. "doubt tha'. fryin' pan's a shit weapon, luv." he drawled.

"says the man laying on the floor after being knocked cold." you hitch a hand on your hip, leg cocked as you stare down at him.

he can almost see directly up your robe, flushing red all over his face as he quickly averts his gaze. not without another peek.

"..." he stays silent for a moment before his muscles go lax. "got me there."

"so why the hell are you in my apartment?"

"thou' it was mine."

your brows furrow, a frown developing on your face. "did you just get back? jesus, you must be exhausted, and a frypan to the head couldn't have helped."

"yer a genius, bird."

"cut the attitude, or I'm kicking you out." you threatened, but it was empty. there's no way you were kicking him out after taking him out with a frying pan. "are you okay, though? like really because that does not look good."

"already achin', can't even tell anythin' worse happened." he's not lying. his entire body suffered the aftermath of his mission. stiff muscles, a headache, and joints that have seen better days. he could barely tell he got smacked in the head.

still, you fuss over him in a way that makes his heart flutter. "let me get ice and something for you to eat while you lay on the couch. would've done it myself, but you weigh a ton." with that, you turn away in a flurry, not wasting a second to take care of the man who broke into your apartment and caught a glimpse of you naked.

"way to flatter a man." he called back before settling into the plush couch, feeling the soft blanket under his fingertips.

he could get used to this...

[brokenbough]

I haven't done any linecook!simon since JANUARY. Anyways, teaching linecook!simon to bake because we need him jacked at all trades.

It was another lazy morning for the both of you. Some baked goods from your favorite bakery and breakfast made by your favorite chef. But something seems to be plaguing Simon's mind. You can see it on his face when he sets down your cup of tea.

"Something wrong?" you ask, cooing at him as you always do. He says he hates it, but you see the way his eyes melt just a little when you call him "baby".

"No, no. Just. You can bake right? And I can cook. And I can bake a little, and you can cook a little." You swear you hear him cough out "And I mean a little."

You hit at his arm with a grin, before he pulls you into his lap. Of course you can't eat breakfast in the comfort of your own chair.

"So, what's wrong then?"

"I just. I think we could both do better...? Do you know what I mean?"

You take another bite of his hashbrowns, mind momentarily blank. "Hm?" your mouth is full. It makes him smile, albeit a little crooked. "Like... you want to be a better baker?"

"Yeah, but fluent enough to make my own recipes, yknow?"

"I can teach you to bake," you offer sincerely, knowing how much it frustrated him when he couldn't do something on his own. You know he loved when you baked for him, baked for yourself. He enjoyed just the smell that enveloped the house when you decided to try something out or make your chocolate chip cookies again for the nth time.

But he wanted something of his own.

"You would?"

"Of course. The same way you taught me to cook a little something."

He smiles, bending slightly to kiss your face. "Thanks, love."

You smile back, kissing him.

———

"Okay, I know you said you wanted to be able to make your own things, but baking is something precise. You can't just add a little extra something because you think it might go together."

"Exact measurements. Got it."

"But it can be fun, so don't get frustrated. Bad attitude makes bad batters."

"Good attitude, got it."

"Alright. Let's start with something simple."

He watches you and works on his own project according to your steps. His first muffin is... okay. A little gooey in the middle because he kept checking the oven.

"One thing when checking things with batter, if you poke it in the middle with a fork and it comes out with batter, it's not cooked through."

"Okay, so I fucking suck, is what I'm hearing."

You laugh, "no, baby. Just means you're a beginner. I burned my first muffin. Yours is just a little uncooked."

He huffs, kissing your forehead. "Right."

You help him try again and again, making him take breaks when you see him getting frustrated.

"It's a thing you learn Simon. Sometimes even following recipes still causes mistakes."

"I know. Just wanna be able to bake you something."

Kissing his nose makes him smile again. He pulls you into him, closer than before, and turns on the T.V. "Little break before we try again."

You nod. "Yep."

———

He finally perfects your banana nut muffins as the sun starts to set over the tiny home.

"Holy fuck, Simon," you groan, having forgot what it felt like to bake for just the fun of it. "This is so good."

He smiles brightly, starting on one himself. "Aw fuck, yeah they are."

——————

yayayyaya, another linecook!simon 3 months later 🥹

@cece2608 @epidemiciscoming @drewsuncrustables @bubbyprincesse @st4rna @revnatheshadow @fizzy6665 @canyonmooncreations @angstyjellybean @rockcollector3000

[ghostedink]

Simon Riley has a crush (part 2)

Part 1

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The records room was always quiet.

That was one of the reasons you liked it.

Rows of metal shelving lined the walls, each one filled with neatly labeled folders and sealed document boxes. Fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, and the only real sounds were the rustle of paper and the occasional turning of pages.

You’d been here long enough to memorize where most things were.

Which was exactly why Laswell asking you to grab a specific archived mission report hadn’t seemed like a big deal.

“Top shelf, back row,” she’d said casually over the phone. “Old operation file. Should be labeled Operation Glass Harbor.”

So here you were…

Standing on a small step ladder.

Stretching your arm as far as it would go toward the very back of the highest shelf.

“…almost…” you mutter, reaching..

Your fingers brushed the edge of the box.

You leaned just a little further.

The box tipped.

And then—

A large gloved hand reached up beside you and caught it before it could fall.

You nearly jumped off the ladder.

When you looked down—

You were staring at a skull mask.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

Ghost.

Lieutenant Simon Riley stood there holding the file box like it weighed nothing.

He froze too.

Because this was the first time either of you had been this close.

“…Sorry,” you said quickly, climbing down the ladder a little too fast. “I didn’t see you there.”

Ghost immediately stepped back like he’d just realized he’d accidentally walked into a minefield.

“Was… uh—”

His voice sounded rougher than usual.

“Was lookin’ for Laswell.”

You nodded quickly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Nervous habit.

“Oh— she’s probably still in the briefing room.”

Silence settled between you.

The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable yet.

Just… unsure.

Ghost was still holding the file box.

He stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

“…Think this’s yours,” he said, holding it out.

You reached for it.

Your fingers brushed the glove covering his hand.

And both of you paused for half a second.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He nodded once.

Then neither of you moved.

Which is when the door behind you clicked shut.

Neither of you noticed.

Down the hall—

Soap and Gaz crouched beside the door like two grown men about to rob the cookie jar.

Soap slowly checked the small wedge he’d shoved under the door handle.

Gaz was trying not to laugh.

“You’re a menace,” Gaz whispered.

Soap grinned.

“A romantic menace.”

He twisted the handle slightly from the outside.

Locked.

Perfect.

Inside the records room—

You were flipping open the file after putting the box away, scanning the label just to double check.

Ghost shifted his weight.

And then he heard the door.

Or rather—

He heard the lack of it opening when he reached for the handle.

It didn’t budge.

Ghost tried again.

Still nothing.

“…Door’s locked.”

You looked up.

“Oh.”

You walked over and tried it too.

Still locked.

“…Huh.”

Ghost blinked slowly behind the mask.

That was suspiciously calm.

“Y’not concerned?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully.

“Not really.”

He stared at you.

You gave a small shrug.

“They lock it sometimes if there’s a security sweep.”

Ghost didn’t say anything.

Because he knew exactly who was behind this.

Soap.

You set the file down on the nearby table.

“Well… I guess we wait?”

Ghost leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

The silence returned.

You glanced at him.

He glanced at the floor.

You both spoke at the same time.

“Sorry—”

“Sorry.”

You both stopped.

Then you laughed, soft but genuine.

Ghost froze.

Because he’d heard you laugh before in the hallway.

But never this close.

“…You go first,” you said.

Ghost cleared his throat awkwardly.

“…Just… uh…”

He shifted again.

“…Don’t think we’ve properly met.”

Your smile softened.

“Oh.”

Right.

You held your hand out gently.

“I’m Y/N.”

Ghost stared at your hand for a second like it might explode.

Then he carefully took it.

His glove swallowed your hand completely.

“Simon.”

You blinked.

Your smile got a little brighter.

“Simon.”

He immediately looked away.

Because hearing you say his name felt… weirdly nice.

You sat down at the table beside the open file.

“You work with Captain Price’s team, 141 right?”

He nodded.

“Yeah.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand.

“That must be intense.”

Ghost shrugged.

“Sometimes.”

You studied him for a moment.

He looked like a walking threat.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Skull mask. Tactical gear.

But the way he was standing—

Awkwardly shifting his weight.

Avoiding eye contact.

—it didn’t match the terrifying reputation at all.

“You’re quieter than the others,” you said gently.

He huffed softly.

“Soap talks enough for the whole team.”

You laughed again.

A comfortable quiet settled in after that.

You flipped through the file lazily.

“…Do you like coffee?” you asked suddenly.

Ghost blinked.

“…Yeah?”

Your smile turned a little shy.

“Oh good.”

You tapped the table lightly.

“I wasn’t sure.”

He frowned slightly.

“Why?”

You hesitated.

Then admitted softly—

“I leave coffee outside your office sometimes.”

Ghost went completely still.

He remembered the others telling him that, but he didn’t entirely believe it was true.

“…That’s you?”

You nodded.

“I thought maybe you were too busy to grab some before briefings. And if you didn’t like coffee.. I was gonna start bringing tea instead...”

Ghost looked genuinely stunned.

“…Been drinkin’ those for months.”

You looked delighted.

“Really?”

He nodded slowly.

“…Best coffee on base.”

You tried not to smile too big at that.

The room grew quiet again.

But this time it wasn’t awkward.

Just warm.

Ghost glanced at you.

You were still flipping through the folder, humming softly to yourself.

Not intimidated.

Not nervous.

Just… comfortable.

With him.

After a moment you looked up.

“…Simon?”

“Yeah.”

You tilted your head.

“Why do you always stop talking when I walk by the briefing room?”

Ghost froze.

Because apparently Soap had been talking.

“…Do I?”

You nodded, amused.

“Every time.”

He stared at the table.

“…Didn’t notice.”

You watched him for a moment.

Then smiled softly.

“Well… I’m glad we got stuck in here then.”

Ghost looked at you again.

“…Yeah?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

Outside the door—

Soap pressed his ear to it.

Gaz leaned against the wall beside him.

“…Hear anything?” Gaz whispered.

Soap grinned.

“…Silence.”

Gaz raised an eyebrow.

“Is that good or bad?”

Soap looked extremely pleased with himself.

“Oh, mate.”

He leaned back from the door.

“That’s the sound of two shy people having the most awkwardly adorable conversation of their lives.”

Down the hall—

Price walked past and saw them crouched by the door.

Shook his head.

“…Idiots.”

Laswell didn’t even look up from her tablet as she followed behind him.

“Give them another twenty minutes.”

Back in the records room—

You and Simon were now sitting across from each other.

Talking.

Actually talking.

Neither of you had noticed the time passing.

Neither of you had noticed the door was unlocked 10 minutes ago.

And neither of you were in any rush to leave.

[dante-mightdie]

bluecollar!simon angst

it’s the fifth night in two weeks that simon has come home late, nothing more than a simple text letting you know and a string of unanswered phone calls left by you following. normally, he tells you to come meet him at the pub and have a couple drinks with him and the lads before you both stumble home tipsy together

fifth night he comes home to you curled up on the sofa, bridgerton on the tv and a blanket draped over you. in the microwave, there’s a wrapped up plate of dinner with a little note saying ‘for you if you’re hungry <3’. the first few nights, it was left on the table with no note. clearly, by now you’re expecting him to not show up on time

he switches the tv off and carries you off to bed, careful not to wake you when he presses a kiss to your head with a sigh. he knows it’s not gonna be long before you start asking questions and he’s not sure he’s got the answers for you

the next day, he’s already at work when you wake up. and you frown when you find the lunch you packed him still in the fridge. you decide to drop it off to him on the site, not wanting him to go hungry during a long shift but when you get there, the only person you’re greeted with is the site supervisor. who tells you that he gave all the boys a day off, since the weather was due to be pretty bad today and they wouldn’t be able to do what they needed to do. he also tells you that they said they were setting off for the pub instead

there’s an itching feeling in your chest, telling you something is wrong because normally simon would pass on information like that to you. so, you decide to surprise him there. it’s a short drive to the local pub, simon’s lunch sat in the passenger seat next to you, slowly ruining out of the fridge

it’s busy when you get there, it takes you a while to spot simon. but you find him, in the smoking area round the back, the only area not packed out with people. he doesn’t see you, but you see him. and her…

you recognise her from a few pictures you found on his phone when you first started seeing each other. the ex who broke his heart before he met you. he told you how he gave her everything, and he came home to find all her stuff packed up and a new relationship soft launched on her social media a couple weeks later. it took him a long time before he felt like dating again, his mates had made a couple off-handed comments about how it destroyed him when it happened

but right now he looks perfectly content, sat with her on the bench, not talking much but she’s got his jacket round her shoulders to protect her from the subtle chill in the air. to you it feels ice cold. they’re passing a cigarette between themselves, her eyes batting at him every time he lifts his pint to drink it

you bite down the tears threatening to spill and make your way over to the table. they don’t spot you until you drop the metal lunchbox in front of simon, his eyes widening at the sight of you,

“you left that at home.”

you turn on your heel, ignoring him calling after you as the tears spill down your cheeks the second your back is to him. you hear his boots stomping after you, but he loses you the second you disappear into the crowded pub. you know the house is going to be extra cold and lonely tonight, but you’ve gotten used to it recently…

[dante-mightdie]

oh but bluecollar!simon where you had kids but split up whilst they’re still little

still takes such good care of you and his babies. when he comes to pick them up for his week with them, he’ll always find something in your flat that needs fixing and takes care of it right on the spot. gives you cash every time you see him despite you trying to protest against it

he’s still the person your girlfriends call when you get too drunk on a night out and he acts so irritated but he loves it really. when he picks you up bridal style and you just shove your face into his neck, inhaling his aftershave

“you smell soooo good, si. that the one I got you for father’s day?”

he’ll message you when he’s got the kids, telling you to come over for dinner because they miss you. but in reality, he just wants any excuse to see you. still calls you the missus when he’s on site despite not actually being together

and when he drops them back to you, you always give him a tray of food to take home because you know he doesn’t eat properly when it’s just him in his flat :(

babydaddy bluecollar!simon ftw

[ilylovelyz]

simon cleaning up y/n's apartment just because and stumbling across her secret years collection worth of photos and hard-drives of simon taken without his consent. its a photo album, decorated with pink lace and a white hard cover.

the sheer thickness of the binder is absurd, heavy in his hand, he knew you had a crush on him way before he took the chance to ask you out, but the photos of him go back years, quite literally the moment he came into your life.

the photos, some low quality, some taken with what he thinks had to be a producers camera, were of him doing mundane things at odd angles. him eating alone at random unpopular food stalls, him on his 6am morning runs, him out with the boys at secluded bars, and photos he imagined you treasured considering the amounts of lipstick stained kisses left on them— him changing in his own room, clearly taken from closets or odd corners, mere feet away from him.

at the end of the album, he comes across a polaroid of him, encased in velvet. when he opens it, it's revealed to be a photo of him fucking his own cock with your panties, the bottom titled "si' <3 10-06".

the photos go from taken in secret, to the photos he knows you took of him following the two of you officially dating, but still taken without him actually knowing somehow.

he's a bit embarrassed. a little turned on. a bit confused, how did you find him? where did you get all this time from? how did his seemingly innocent, normal and considerably more fragile lady break into his flat?

he then dusts off the album, puts it back underneath in your closet, and goes on with his day.

[rosaries-and-thorns]

You wake up to an empty bed one morning after a very eventful night prior. You’re covered in hickeys, sore between the legs, and doubtlessly your hips are going to hurt by evening. Confused and dismayed you text Simon, who doesn’t answer. His hoodie, mask, and phone are all gone. For a desperate moment you think he’s been called on assignment, or even worse: left entirely.

When he finally comes home a few hours later, you demand to know where he’s been. Wordlessly, he pulls his shirt over his head and points to a new tattoo on his shoulder:

A perfect imprint of your teeth.

[punkkture]

thinking about how it must be such a good bonding experience between you and simon to have him let someone else fuck you. especially when he’s already in there.

contains: dp, threesome, tiniest tiny bit of ddlg but not really word count { 581 } mdni - dead dove maybe ? kind of inspired p!link

.ೃ࿔*:· — he’s laying back against the headboard with his cock already shoved eight inches deep inside you. you’re panting, soaked with sweat from the nerves already. his hands always make sure you’re fucked out for things like this.

your face is pressed right onto the side of his, a little bit of drool already sliding off your tongue from just not being able to close your mouth.

the hot bare skin of his chest pressing against yours. the solid mass of his arm caging around your back, making sure you don’t move. his other arm is so sweetly petting your hair and face. continuing to brush the messy strands away from your eyes while he mumbles things to you the whole time.

“my pretty baby.” “such a sweet girl for letting daddy share.” “promise it’ll feel good.”

he pats your bum once, angling his hips a little deeper and further up, a soft whine coming from your lips when his cock buries itself even more. it’s then you feel another set of hands on your ass. followed by a hot glob of spit. it makes you jump a little when it lands on your unused hole, a nervous whine making its way out when you feel a finger prodding in to the space simon isn’t taking up.

“just one more, baby. you can do that for me, yeah? helping daddy out so much.” he purrs into your ear.

the whimpers coming out of you are full of pure adrenaline, desire, and nerves. he can tell how worked up you really are about all of this. so when he hears the harsh mewl leaving you the second his buddy starts to shove his thick cock into your ass, he’s quick to praise.

the arm around your back tightens to keep you in place, his hand on your head buries its fingers into your scalp, trying to pet away the painful stretch. “good girl, sugar. such a good girl for me. so good at sharing, so good.” his mouth is right against your temple while he speaks.

his own groans fill alongside, he can feel the way you’re tightening and struggling to take two cocks at once. there’s a second of grace when he stills his, only to let his friend slip in and out of your ass.

it’s gotta feel soooo comforting to know simon is right there with you, holding you, stuffing you full in the most precious spot. his lips kissing at the side of your head while trying to get a glance at the sight of another man fucking into your ass.

“‘m right here, baby. not goin’ nowhere.”

there's nothing left in your head. just trying to grasp the concept of simons thick girth shoved into your cunt, leaking and getting his pelvis all sticky between the two of you. and its hard to block out the noises his best mate is letting out. its obvious hes excited too, the way he had zero mercy for shoving straight into your ass and continuing to piston in and out even when your boyfriend is staying still.

simon grabs your face by the jaw and gets your eyes to look at him. youre completely fucked out, lips covered in drool, eyes half lidded, your entire body is a ragdoll.

he wants you to look right at him when he starts moving too. each of you panting and whining, looking so lovingly at one another.

"bein' so good for me, baby."

[httpxyeager]

—Simon 'Ghost' Riley

synopsis: You move to the countryside looking for peace, space, and a life that finally feels like your own. Instead, you find routine, watchful silence, and a neighbor who's always there before you ask.

Wc: 15.8k

CW: fem!reader, artist!reader, butcher!simon, lowkey stalker!simon if you rily squint, kinda mean!simon ( he calls you stupid but in a sexy way), slight slow burn, mention of blood, praise, rough sex, fem! masturbation, mention of breeding, unprotected sex, choking, throat-fucking, spit play, spanking, cunnilingus, analingus, brief mention phlegm, brief aftercare.

a/n: this is a reupload bc the og got labeled and i refuse to be silenced so if you read this already no you didn’t🫵🏼. Jk ily<3

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

── .✦ The devil's in the details

A life that felt like your own.

It's all you've wanted for as long as you can remember.

Growing up meant learning the rules of the real world far too early—waking up every morning just to drag yourself to a grueling job, putting up with nagging customers and insufferable bosses who never seemed to respect boundaries.

Work. Pay the bills. Tend to responsibilities.

It disturbed your soul in a way you couldn't explain to anyone else—this idea that life was just endurance, not living.

Yet you always looked ahead. You never confined yourself to the standard everyone else seemed content with—and that refusal was why you were never taken as seriously as you wanted to be.

You learned early that dreaming meant working harder than everyone else.

I wanna make things with my hands!!

You used to squeal as a child whenever someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up. The laughter that followed always left you quietly confused.

What a cutie.

Wait till she grows up.

As if you weren't standing right there. As if it really was unattainable.

As you got older, that desire only split open and spilled into everything else—into baking, painting, shaping.

Anything that lets your hands create something beautiful. Something meaningful.

Over time, you realized it wasn't just about making things. It was about the space to make them—to exist without being watched, corrected, rushed. To live somewhere quiet enough that your thoughts could finally settle.

It wasn't that you were a complete introvert. You loved people—you loved the ones who mattered. But there was always that persistent pull, that quiet urge to disappear for a while. To exist in a world that belonged only to you. You would spend days on end just imagining.

And lately, that wasn't enough anymore.

You didn't just want escape. You wanted peace. Quiet.

Which was why you took the first opportunity to leave everything behind—a small farming town in rural England, offering work in exchange for relocation. Painting homes. Restoring old businesses. Fixing what had been forgotten.

Everyone had something to say about it. Your family. Your friends. Even your professors warned you against it.

But you didn't hesitate.

You've technically been here for a week already. Long enough to learn the unfamiliar quiet by heart, to wait while the cottage was cleared and signed off and made official. This is the first time you're really standing in front of it.

Ideas crowd your mind faster than you can catch the—paint, repairs, small changes that would make it yours. Your chest tightens, heart swelling, a quiet certainty settling in.

The place is neglected. Weathered. Clearly left behind.

And yet, all you can see is possibility.

For the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is falling into place.

"Excuse me?"

You're pulled from your thoughts by the soft voice beside you. You blink, realizing the man has been standing there the entire time.

He smiles, polite but tentative. "I just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking. It's an older cottage, so...lt isn't exactly our best."

"No," you say quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "It's perfect."

Something about your response seems to catch him off guard. He clears his throat.

"Right. Then there are just a few things we should go over before we-"

A sound cuts him off.

An animalistic, sharp, distant squeal loud enough to make you flinch, the noise carrying unnaturally through the trees. You turn instinctively, scanning the hillside.

Up the slope, partially hidden by the trees, stands a barn. One you hadn't noticed before. The doors open with a loud thud.

For a split second, you don't register what you're seeing—only that something too big has stepped into the light.

Then your stomach drops.

The man fills the doorway, massive shoulders nearly scraping the frame, his silhouette swallowing what little light spills out behind him. He's enormous-not just tall, but wide, built thick and heavy like he was carved for brute force rather than grace.

He's covered in blood everywhere. Dark, soaked into his clothes, smeared across his arms, clinging in thick, ugly patches that glisten wetly in the sunlight. There's a faint metallic smell that drifts through the air, making you scrunch your nose.

To top it off, he had a skull—patterned balaclava covering the lower half of his face.

The printed grin feels out of place against the quiet countryside, against the green fields and open sky. You can't see his mouth. Can't read his expression. Just the size of him, the way he carries himself like nothing around here surprises him anymore.

Your shoulders tense on instinct.

It was straight out of a horror movie.

"Um," you let out a small laugh, more nerves than humor honestly. "Is that... normal?"

"Oh—yeah." The man beside you clears his throat.

"Yeah, that'll be Simon. Local butcher." He gives a small, awkward laugh. "Looks worse than it is."

Suddenly, you remember everything they warned you about.

A woman alone in the woods.

Right.

You watched cautiously as the man walked toward the cottage right next to the barn, slightly more hidden in the woods than yours, slightly smaller as well.

His steps are steady, boots pressing into the dirt with an easy familiarity, like he's walked this path a thousand times.

Halfway there, he slows and glances over.

Just a look - brief, assessing—the kind of look anyone might give when they notice someone new standing where no one usually does. You tell yourself that immediately.

Still, your chest tightens in an unsettling way.

Even from this distance, his attention feels heavier than it should. He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just takes you in for a moment longer than you're comfortable with.

"Don't mind him. He's a private bloke—won't be any bother."

You nod slowly as you turn, stepping back toward the cottage, the normal sounds of the countryside slowly filtering back in—though the image of him, bloodstained and broad-shouldered against the barn, stays longer than you'd like.

His view of you was completely different.

All he saw was a small figure standing out in the open.

Too small for this place.

You were dressed simply, soft neutral colors that didn't draw any immediate attention—yet somehow, you managed to draw it anyway. A long skirt brushing your ankles. A fitted tube top clinging in all the right places, bare skin catching the last of the daylight. Gold glinting faintly at your throat and wrists.

He has been watching you since the moment you arrived.

Could see you almost too clearly.

The thought settled heavy in his chest. The cottage next to his. Empty for years.

And now occupied.

His hand tightened around the handle of the front door as he went inside, the knowledge of you settling somewhere in the back of his mind.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You wake up before the sun does.

The room is still dark, the cold from the night before still lingers stubbornly around the corners. The smell of wood and damp earth seeps into your space as you lie still beneath the covers, listening to the sound of your breathing and distant chirping of birds.

The nerves you thought you left behind start to stir low in your stomach. You barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow rest. It's funny how the waiting -the planning and the packing was easier than actually waking up inside this new life. A whole week spent imagining, filling the gaps with maybes and what-ifs, had felt gentler than this moment.

But now, lying in your own bed, on the edge of your first real day here, the anxiety creeps back into you like it never really left.

You force yourself up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the morning cold. The wooden floor bites at your bare feet as you cross the room.

You move through your room on autopilot. Pushing aside clutter and digging through your box filled with your things to wash up. You pull on a simple black crop top and black leggings—easy and practical, something you don't mind making a mess out of. You fix your hair the way you always do before big jobs, muscle memory taking over as you gather your tools, hand steady despite the tight, resistant pull in your chest.

Your first job is a simple mural for a little flower shop in town.

You'd already been introduced earlier in the week.

Names, faces, smiles. Florence, the owner, had shown you the wall, fingers dusted with soil, excitement bright in her eyes. They'd given you free rein over the design, only asking that you keep to a preferred color palette.

"Okay," you mutter to yourself, crouching by your supplies. "One, two, three-"

You line the cans up on the floor. Reds. Yellows. Whites. Count them twice. Then again.

"Four."

You tap each lid as you go, checking them off in your head like that'll keep your nerves in place. Everything's been ready since last night. Packed. Repacked. Adjusted.

You're stalling. You know you are.

Keys cold in your palm, you stand by the door longer than necessary. Your hand rests on the handle. You inhale once before stepping out.

A loud, wet huff greets you immediately.

You freeze.

Right behind you—way too close—is a dog. If you could actually call it that.

He doesn't look very friendly. Honestly, you can't even process whether or not he is friendly by the way he stands there.

He's massive—thick-chested, broad, and you're pretty sure you saw veins popping out of his shoulders, only reinforcing how strong this dog could be. His paws dig heavy into the dirt at the bottom of your porch. Drool clings to the sides of its mouth, slipping free as it stares at you.

And for a fleeting second, the image of yesterday resurfaced. Barn doors, and a blood covered man standing in the middle of the field.

Your heart jumps straight into your throat.

You lift your hand instinctively, bending just slightly at the knees before you can stop yourself.

"Oh-okay," you breathe. "This is... fine."

"Hi," you try, softer. "Hey, puppy."

The dog doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side.

You glance around, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. No neighbors. No cars. Just you and the beast blocking your path.

The distant sound of a truck came before you could react, stopping abruptly in front of you.

"Oi," the voice is rough and hoarsed.

"Mate. What'd I tell you?" He reaches over and pushes the door open from the inside.

The dog perking up instantly before running toward him obediently, tail wagging like nothing just happened.

It's only then you realized who it is. Who's standing in front of your door.

The butcher straight out of a slasher movie.

"You botherin' this bunny?" he asks the dog while scratching the back of his ears, happily wiggling his short tail.

Bunny?

"No bunny, just me," you laugh awkwardly before you step down off the porch, forcing yourself to stand straight even though your grip tightens on your bags.

He huffs, something close to a chuckle. "Right."

"Sorry about him," he adds.

"He likes to wander."

"You sure about that?" you ask, looking at the dog.

"Because he looked like he wasn't planning on leaving."

His lips twitches, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Saw you movin' your things yesterday," he says. "The place's been empty for a long time."

"Yeah," you reply quickly. "Feels a little weird, but I'll make it a home."

"Takes time," he shrugs, watching you for a second longer than necessary.

"You heading into town?" he asks, pointing at your bags in hand.

You blink. "Yeah. I was just—"

"Hop in," he says, nodding toward the passenger seat.

"I'll take you."

You hesitate, words catching. "You don't have to—"

"Already going," he replies simply.

You pause for a moment, eyes lingering down the road, wondering whether or not you should climb into this stranger's truck. The bark of the dog breaks your thoughts, deciding to climb in anyway. The smell hits you all at once—raw meat, metallic and heavy, softened slightly by the clean interior and a faint pine-scented freshener.

Large freezers are secured in the back.

The dog squeezes itself between the two of you, panting proudly. Still massive. Just... not focused on you anymore.

cute, you think.

"Simon,"' he introduces himself.

“Y/n."

The car ride is silent, tires crunching over gravel as the hills roll out around you. Fields stretch wide and open, cows grazing lazily, sheep dotting the landscape like pale stones. Trees sway gently in the breeze.

You watch it all pass, mesmerized. Though your thoughts are running wild, thoughts going back to the sellers words.

Private bloke

Not private enough clearly.

Your gaze shifts from outside to his truck, trying to catch a glimpse at the man.

Simon drives easily, his hand on the wheel completely scarred, you wondered if he got it from his line of work or something else, the other holds a cigarette out the window. He looks different like this—clean, relaxed, almost ordinary. He looks handsome. In a rough, rugged way.

"Need somethin'?" he asks, eyes still on the road.

"Sorry," you say quickly, eyes snapping away "Just— thinking."

"Didnt scare you too much yesterday, did i?" he asks, looking at you briefly. "You seem slightly jumpy,"

Your neck snaps almost instantly toward his hard face.

"No of course not!" You reply hurriedly,

He hums in understanding.

The truck slows outside the shop, gravel crunching under the tires.

"This good?" he asks.

You nod, already reaching for the door. "Yeah. Thank you."

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then gives a short nod.

"I'll be back," he states.

You hesitate, but smile anyway. Shutting the door with a loud thud.

You can feel his eyes on you until the bell above the shop door rings and the world shifts back into place.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The day goes by quicker than you expect.

One moment you're unpacking your things, the next you're moving on instinct alone. You work mindlessly— sketching, painting, letting your hands take over where your thoughts would only get in the way. People drift past on the sidewalk, slowing as they pass, curious eyes gazing at your art. A few linger. Most keep walking. You trade small smiles, nods of acknowledgement.

"Lovely," some say as they walk past.

It brings you back to before, when this was only just a distant dream.

At some point, you stop paying attention to the time.

By the time the sun begins to sink, warm light stretching long across the street, you finally step back.

The mural sits before you—unfinished, but already alive.

You begin packing up your supplies. Brushes rinsed.

Papers stacked. Movements slow, trying everything to not break the spell of the day just yet.

"Alright, Miss Florence," you call out as you step inside, setting your things down on the shop's counter.

"I'll be back around the same time tomorrow."

"Of course, love," she says easily, looking up from where she's standing. "The mural's coming along quite nicely. I'm impressed."

You smile at that, a quiet swell of pride warming your chest.

As you turn to say your goodbyes, her hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder.

"Is everything alright, love?" she asks, concern written plainly across her face.

You pause, staring at her, head tilting slightly in confusion. "Of course," you say. "Why?"

She doesn't answer right away-just nods toward the door, past the front window.

You follow her gaze.

A small sound of surprise slips from you at the sight of the red pickup truck parked outside. The big dog hangs halfway out the open window, tongue lolling as he pants happily. And leaning back against the hood is the man himself—somehow larger than he'd been in your memory. Smoke curls lazily around him, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"He's been waiting out there a while," she says, careful.

"Oh, we live on the same road. He's just doing me a favor." You smile reassuringly.

That doesn't ease her expression the way you expect it to.

"Why?" you ask, lowering your voice without thinking.

"What about him?"

"Oh—nothing," she says. "He's just a private man, is all.

We were a bit surprised seeing you come out of his truck... and now."

"That's all?" you press, eyes flickering towards the truck.

She pauses long enough that you lift your brows.

"Not much to him, really," she says finally.

"He's been up there longer than most people remember. Bought that land years back. Kept it when no one else wanted it."

"He's the butcher, though, right?" you ask, still trying to understand the wariness.

"He is. But it's odd," she admits. "He doesn't hire out.

Doesn't expand. Doesn't sell beyond what he needs to." She presses her lips together.

"Most folks around here like things that grow, y'know? But he stays exactly the same."

You wait for more. It doesn't come - and the lack of it frustrates you more than anything she's said.

Someone near the counter clears their throat. Another voice adds, quieter, "Never missed a delivery, though."

Florence nods in agreement. "Meat's always clean. Always fresh."

You let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So... he's just serious about his work?"

She clicks her tongue.

"He's particular," she says. "About his space. His time."

"And people?"

She doesn't answer right away.

"He doesn't come into town unless there's a reason," she says instead.

"And he doesn't wait around for nothing."

You glance back toward the window, toward where the truck had been.

"Oh," you say softly.

Florence squeezes your arm once before letting go.

"Just... take care, love."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.

"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"

You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."

"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.

"More curious than anything."

She hums, unconvinced but listening.

"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."

"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.

"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."

Her eyes soften at that, just a little.

"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.

You pause, then shrug.

"Not really. New place. New sounds."

You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."

She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."

"Mom—"

"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."

"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeah—but not in a scary way."

There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."

Her gaze sharpens immediately.

"About?"

"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."

"That doesn't make you uneasy?"

You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.

She doesn't look convinced.

"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back

"A ride?" she repeats.

You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.

"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, truly”

She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."

"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."

She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.

"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."

You nod.

"I will."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You're not sure when it became a routine.

At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.

Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.

You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.

"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.

You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.

You did it again the next morning.

And the one after that.

Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.

Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.

"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.

You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.

By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.

Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.

And maybe it did—except some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.

No freezers. No crates. Nothing.

You noticed it once.

Twice.

Then you stopped looking.

It was true what everyone said about him—he was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.

He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.

On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.

But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.

It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.

Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"

You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare you—it made the softness feel deliberate.

It was.... pleasant.

Comforting even.

Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.

"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.

"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.

They nod toward the window.

Outside, the red truck waits.

"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.

the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.

"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.

"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.

"Don't know what you mean," he hums.

You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."

He glances over for half a second. "Different?"

"Mmhm." You nod.

He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.

"Have you eaten?"

You click your tongue.

"No."

The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.

This wasn't part of the routine.

You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.

"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"

You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.

You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.

It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.

He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.

And you do.

When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.

You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.

Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.

"Stay," he says—low and firm by the door.

"Simon—he doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.

Shadow listens anyway.

Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.

Not just heat—the kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.

Yours doesn't try to hide you.

There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.

It smells like you.

Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.

His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.

The kitchen's small. He isn't.

He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.

You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.

This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.

The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.

You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.

"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.

"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"

"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.

He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.

You lean back against the counter, watching.

The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.

It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.

You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.

"That smells amazing," you beam.

He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.

He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.

You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.

He stares at you—openly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.

"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.

You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."

It slips out softer than you mean it.

For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.

"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.

"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.

"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."

You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.

Between the shop and... everything else."

"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."

That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,

"Don't like going into town much."

You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."

You meant it as a joke-only half truth.

He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.

The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.

Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about it—grass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.

The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.

You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.

You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.

Every area except one.

You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.

The closer you got, the clearer it became.

Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.

The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.

You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.

For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.

Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.

You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.

"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.

All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.

"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."

Today, though?

Today, you wanted that angle.

Simon be damned.

You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.

You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.

You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.

You looked like a lost bunny.

The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.

He paused what he was doing and just stared.

You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.

Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.

Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.

Then you showed up.

He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmth—your laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.

And yet.

You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.

He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.

By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.

Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.

You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.

He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.

"Can I help you."

You startled—not badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.

You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.

Your pulse jumped—he could see it—but you held his gaze anyway.

"Just….. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."

He exhaled through his nose.

"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."

He meant it.

Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.

"I didn't walk in, though, did I."

Silence settled between you —thick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.

He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.

He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.

He stayed like that—half-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.

The contrast caught you off guard.

He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.

Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.

Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.

This—this—was the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yes—but framed by something gentle. Something alive.

The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.

"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.

"Now?"

"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.

Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.

"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.

"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.

"Fine,” he said. "I'll do it."

You stopped short and turned back to him.

"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"

He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.

You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.

The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift out—wood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.

He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.

You looked at him properly then.

The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.

You noticed things you hadn't before.

The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.

He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.

You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.

Brutal. Masculine.

Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.

"You alright, bunny?" he asked.

You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.

"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.

"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.

As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.

You were about to apologize when he spoke.

"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."

You blinked-then laughed again.

"Can I?" you asked again.

This time, he stayed still.

You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.

The contrast—him and the delicate bloom resting there—felt almost cinematic.

"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.

"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.

"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.

He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.

"Because you look like one."

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head—but you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.

You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.

Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.

"You got a boyfriend?"

Your hand stilled mid-line.

"Why the sudden question?"

"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."

You laughed at that.

"No," you said. "I don't."

He hummed in acknowledgement.

Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.

"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"

"Mmm. Couple years."

You click your tongue.

"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."

He shrugged.

"You can allow whatever you want."

You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The sounds around you settle into something easy— the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.

He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.

"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"

You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.

"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."

"People included?"

"Especially people," you admit.

He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like this—not in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.

"You any good?" he asks.

You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."

"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."

You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.

You go back to drawing.

Time slips by without either of you noticing.

The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.

Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.

"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.

"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."

You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.

"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.

The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.

You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.

"I think that's enough," you say softly.

Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.

You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.

"Here."

He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.

That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.

Then, quietly, "You see a lot."

"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.

He nods once.

"Thank you," he says.

The words hang steady.

"Of course!" You smile softly.

The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."

"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.

"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.

"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.

Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.

His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.

A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.

The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.

You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small things—a loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.

Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.

Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.

A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.

He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coats—or leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.

"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.

You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.

"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"

you reply plainly—ignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.

He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's close—close enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.

His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.

"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.

You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.

"I can handle a little cold," you tease.

You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.

Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.

It's one of those nights.

The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.

You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.

But moments like this don't let you.

They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.

It makes your cunt ache.

Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.

You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.

You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.

The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.

Fuck.

Your left hand drifts down without thinking—first over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.

Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.

You picture his hands on you—large, rough—teasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.

You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.

You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.

His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.

Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.

Your thighs squeeze together.

You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.

Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.

A moan slips free.

"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.

Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?

Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.

The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.

"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourself—naked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.

"Si-"

Boom.

The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.

You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.

"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.

Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.

"Y/N!"

The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.

You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.

You don't stop to think—just move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.

The power's out.

When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.

"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"

“I—yeah” you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power just…went out."

"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."

"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"

"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.

This place isn't insulated well enough for it."

You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentials—your charger, a hoodie, shoes—moving through your space with unsettling familiarity.

"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."

"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."

You don't argue after that.

The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.

Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.

When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.

You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.

He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.

The warmth hits you immediately.

The house smells like him—burnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.

And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.

It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing there—framed, dusted, given a place—feels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.

"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."

"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."

The words hit harder than they should.

Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."

"I would never," he says, without hesitation.

Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.

"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.

You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.

Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.

"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"

He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"

"Keep it around for storms." He adds

You blink. "Of course you do."

He almost smiles.

The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.

"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."

He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."

You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."

"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.

You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this before—like this is normal.

"You're quiet," he says after a while.

"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"

He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.

"No," he says. "Just noticing."

You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.

"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.

And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.

"Tea's good for you,"

The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.

The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.

"You're shaking," he says softly.

"I'm not," you lie automatically.

He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.

"Come here," he murmurs.

It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.

You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.

This is new for the both of you.

Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.

His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.

You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "I— I need a second."

He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.

You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.

The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.

You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.

"You don't have to run," he says gently.

You glance over your shoulder—and that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.

You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.

The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.

He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.

Your hand comes up on instinct—flat against his chest.

He stops immediately.

"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.

His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.

"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."

A beat passes.

Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.

"It's not," he says.

His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.

You don't.

The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.

His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.

You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.

"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you again—rougher now.

Hungrier.

As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomach—until it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.

"Fuck, bunny—you're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.

He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.

You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.

"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.

"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.

"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.

His expression doesn't change.

"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.

"Oh my….. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.

Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.

"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."

Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.

You can't imagine what you must look like right now.

You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourself—messy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.

The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.

"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.

His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.

Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.

He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skin—soft words, grounding words—until your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.

"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.

Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.

"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.

"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."

His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.

No pictures. Exactly what you expected.

He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.

"Like what you see?" he teases.

"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.

His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.

The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.

Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on you—his warmth. You need it.

"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."

Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.

His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.

Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.

You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.

"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.

He inhales deeply.

You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.

His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.

"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.

"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.

"Need you."

Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.

"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."

You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.

True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bites—taking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.

Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.

"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.

"Please."

He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.

You instinctively try to close your legs, face burning— but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.

"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.

"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.

He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.

His tongue slips out, presses flat against you—covering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.

The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.

You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth—warm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.

He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.

He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rush—just works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.

Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.

You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.

He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.

One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.

"Oh my god, Simon—"

They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.

Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.

"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."

It hits you in waves—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.

The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.

He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.

"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.

"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.

Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.

It's huge.

So thick it barely holds itself upright.

Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-

Would this even fit inside you?

But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.

Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your still—sensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.

The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.

You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.

"You think you can take it, bunny?"

Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.

"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.

Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.

He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precum—then taps it there. Hard.

"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.

"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."

For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.

"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediately—too full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.

No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.

"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.

His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.

Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.

"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.

Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.

He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and out—whines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.

Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.

"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."

You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.

He looks nothing like you feel.

He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.

Then warmth—unexpected.

You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.

"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.

You almost wish you hadn't.

It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywher—high, deep, overwhelming.

He hasn't looked away once.

"Almost in, baby," he tells you.

Then he stops. All the way in.

You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this full—like there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.

Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.

Letting the shock fade.

"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.

You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.

When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.

Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.

He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.

You're growing desperate. All the pent—up tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.

You want him. So bad.

"You can be rougher-ah,"

"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."

His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.

"I do!" you say breathless.

You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.

And you don't want him to.

"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.

His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward again—harder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.

"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.

Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.

Something flips inside him.

He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.

All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.

Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.

You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.

"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."

The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.

With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.

"Simiiimon-ah—ah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.

"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' good一fuck.”

He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.

You don't hear him.

You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.

The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.

"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.

"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."

You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.

He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.

"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"

"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasure—coming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.

"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissed—out face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.

Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.

"You're-ah-being—mean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.

The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.

Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.

"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.

It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.

You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.

As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.

"Ah—" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.

"Bend over."

His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.

"C'mon, bunny," he says, slapping your ass impatiently. "Bend over."

"M'gonna breed this fuckin' cunt," he mutters.

His hands grip your waist, putting you exactly where he wants you—on your knees, tits pressed into the bed, ass up just like he's imagined too many times before.

And you. You're just a cock-drunk, drooling mess. You can't even form words. Just cries and whines spilling out of you.

Music to his ears.

Fuel to his aching cock.

He positions himself behind you, a heavy hand coming down on your ass. The sharp sound echoes through the room, followed by your broken cry.

"Sii-"

His thrusts are messy—messier than before.

Desperate. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you harder, deeper. You chant his name like it's the only word you know.

Your body starts to betray you first. Your legs tremble, knees threatening to give out as the rhythm stutters, breaks, turns reckless. You can't keep up anymore—can't tell where one movement ends and the next begins. Every nerve feels lit, stretched thin, buzzing too loud inside your skin. Your breath comes apart in your chest, sharp little gasps you can't control, like your body already knows what's coming before your mind does.

You're right there—so close it hurts. The need swells until it feels unbearable, like pressure behind your ribs, behind your eyes. Your grip tightens, fingers clawing uselessly at his pillow.

"Fuuuuck, baby!" he nearly yells, hips snapping animalistically, your whole body jolting with every thrust.

"Fuckfuckfuck-" you scream, loud and unfiltered, grateful there aren't neighbors close enough to hear.

The pressure builds again-and just before you can release, he pulls out.

You sob at the emptiness, looking back at him. "No! — please.

He smirks, gripping his cock, a white ring of your slick at the base before he leans down, spreading your ass. Both holes are on display. You can't stop him even if you wanted to.

He spits directly on your asshole before burying his tongue there, licking and slurping like a man starved.

From your clit to your ass, messy and obscene. His hand pumps his cock as he eats you, smacking and pinching your ass, tongue pushing deep enough to make you cry into the pillow.

"Please—want your cock, Simon," you beg, pushing back into his mouth without thinking.

“Yeah, baby,” he mocks, voice pitched higher. “You want this fat cock in your tummy?”

His fist tangles in your hair, jerking your head back until your neck strains, eyes lifting to meet him looming over you.

"Yes, please," your voice is horsed, neck straining with veins popping out. Chin wet and you're panting like a dog.

It made Simons cock impossibly harder.

He sinks into you again-no pause, no waiting. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you without restraint, the bed squeaking so loud you're sure it'll break. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair harder, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch.

"This is what you wanted huh baby," he pants, hips never faltering, yet they get sloppy. His end is nearing.

He knows it by the way his balls tighten. Still dripping a sticky mess of both of you.

Then everything disappears.

Your vision blurs as you cum all over his cock again—no warning, no buildup.

You don't even know how many orgasms you've had.

This last one knocks you out completely.

You collapse onto the bed when he finally lets go, lying there motionless, drool slipping from your mouth as he uses your body for his pleasure.

"Fuck, bunny," he laughs. "Came so fast."

He doesn't give you time to recover.

He hauls you back up onto your hands and knees, positioning himself at the edge of the bed-your face level with his throbbing cock. Every twitch sends a bead of precum sliding down the angry red tip, already mixed with your cum.

"Make me cum, bunny."

"Wha-?" you mumble, still coming down from your high, vision spotting as you look up at him.

"C'mon, bunny," he groans. "You can't just leave me high and dry."

His hand comes down to grip his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your mouth waters instantly.

And then his earlier words echo in your head.

M'gonna breed you.

You whine softly and reach up, nudging his hands away so you can replace them with yours. You shuffle forward on your knees, settling in as you lean closer, both hands moving slowly up and down his shaft.

You tilt your head, staring up at him as you muster the best face you can manage, cheek brushing against the warm weight of him. You love the sounds he's making—ragged moans as he loses control.

"Want it inside," you beg.

Simon's eye twitches.

His breathing turns rough, uneven, gaze hardening as they lock onto you. For a split second, you almost wonder if you've crossed a line.

His grip snaps tight in your hair, the burn sharp enough to steal your breath. You barely have time to yelp before he's shoving his cock into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat hard.

It's sudden. Too sudden.

You choke, gagging around him as he thrusts shallow and rough, spit bubbling at your lips and dripping down onto him.

Your head rocks back and forth as you grip his thighs to steady yourself, fingers digging in.

His grip doesn't falter, using it as leverage to drive you deeper. It's brutal. Too much. The sounds you're making would make you blush under any other circumstance.

Your throat burns, gag reflex overwhelmed as you choke around him, fluids spilling from your mouth every time he pushes deeper. Your cunt gushes as he uses your throat for his own pleasure.

"Yeeeeah gimmie that—gurg, gurg—baby."

He grips the base—what you can't fully take-along with his balls, forcing it down. Your eyes widen as you physically feel the stretch of your throat around him.

You tap at his thighs hard and fast, panic spiking just before he finally releases you.

You pull back immediately, coughing, gagging as phlegm spills from your mouth. Your face is a complete mess when he grips your hair again, jerking himself fast and hard. His expression twists with pleasure and desperation, lips caught between his teeth.

Your hand slips down between your legs, rubbing at yourself as he works his cock over your face.

"M'close," he breathes, chest red and heaving, focus razor-sharp.

"Fuuuck, bunny."

Before you can say anything, you feel it—sticky ropes splashing across your face, catching in your hair, your lashes, your brows, your lips. Everywhere. It lasts longer than you expect, enough to leave you stunned.

He grips the tip, giving a final stroke before tapping your cheek and pulling away.

You look up at him as he backs off, dragging your fingers through the mess on your face and bringing them to your mouth, licking them clean.

"Don't do this to me, bunny," he groans.

You giggle softly, the sound weak and breathless, before collapsing back onto the bed. The exhaustion finally catching up on you. Every muscle feels loose, heavy, like your body forgot how to work all at once.

The mattress dips as he moves closer again, slower now.

"Easy," he murmurs, hand settling at your side to keep you from rolling awkwardly. He grabs something off the nightstand—a cloth, a shirt, whatever's closest—and gently wipes at your face, patient, thorough.

Your eyes flutter half-closed as he works, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing finally evening out. The tension from before disappearing and turning into something soft, and peaceful.

"There you go," he says softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers there for a second longer than necessary.

You hum in response, too spent to form real words.

He shifts again, sliding into the bed beside you and tugging the covers up around you, making sure you're warm. When he settles beside you, he pulls you in without asking, arm firm and grounding around your shoulders.

You melt into him easily.

For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, your head on his chest, his breathing steady beneath your ear. His hand traces slow, absent lines along your arm.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

You nod against him, eyes closed. "M'good,"

His arm tightens just a little.

"Good."

You smile to yourself, fingers drifting over the scars and dips along his chest. "Thought you said you were gonna breed me," you joke softly.

He lets out a low laugh, warm and deep, the sound vibrating through you.

"That was heat talk, bunny," he says easily. His hand slides to your waist, fingers trailing along your stretch marks.

You tilt your head, listening.

"When i do cum in your pretty pussy," he pauses, other hand reaching to drag a finger along your cheek. "It's gonna be for a reason.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

© all content belongs to httpxyeager 2026. do not modify or repost.

character belongs to its respective owner.

[huntressftw]

𓈒 ࣪ ˖ ♡ ⁺⑅ pervyjanitor Simon Ghost Riley! (dubious con )

warnings: +18 dubious con, finger fun, they get nasty in a supply closet, smut, reader receives oral

simon who's the janitor at the public library you frequent. always keeping his head down and focusing on the task at hand. whether it be mopping, sweeping, cleaning desks, or rearranging chairs, he never interacted with any of the library goers—until you.

"hi! can i get a library card, please?" you spoke ever so sweetly to the older librarian at the front desk.

simon's eyes glanced over at you as he heard your voice, you're new. this library has only a few customers who frequently stop in. students, elderly, or just those stopping in to find a specific book. but you—

you were gorgeous. his heavy gaze raking over your frame appreciatively. even pausing his mopping as he just turned to glance at your back.

"thank you so much" you exclaimed sweetly as you waited on your new library card to be made. you were feeling something strange—heavy—weighing on your back. making the hairs on the back of your neck prick up. thoughtlessly, you turn around to see what it is causing this feeling.

then you locked eyes with him, his blonde lashes focused on you with a blank face, almost as if he didnt think you’d notice him at all.

you were stuck for a moment, not yet being ready to turn away as you both stared at eachother. simon could feel his heart racing away in his chest, a feeling uncommon in his typically bleak and melancholy life. his scarred hands gripping the mop just a bit tighter as he stared shamelessly.

"hey" you say softly to him as he went on perusing your frame. his eyes drifting from your frame to your hips.

briefly, the tip of his pink tongue bared as he licked his bottom lip in arousal. you two staring at eachother wordlessly as simon decided he had to have you.

the old librarian grabbing your attention as she placed your new library card on the desk. "here you are, enjoy". she spoke nicely, oblivious to the silent exchange that just occured between you and the janitor.

you thanked her, turning back around to look for him. but he was gone.

walking over to a small couch in the back of the library, you placed your things down before walking off to explore some of the shelves. the library was empty, giving you ample opportunity to check out of the shelves. you walked over to the mystery area, glancing at some of the books on the shelf.

simon watched as you grabbed a book, standing two rows behind you as he glanced through the shelves. he could feel himself getting hard just from looking at you.

his eyes practically glazing over in lust when he saw you bend over to reach for a book on one of the low shelves. he had to lure you in, wanted to be close to you. he thought quickly as he chose to knock a book off of its shelf.

thud!

you turned around instantly after hearing the loud sound. "what-" you mumbled in confusion as you noticed that there is no one in any of the rows behind you.

pursuing the noise you walked with your newfound book in hand as you headed two rows behind you where you heard the book fall. kneeling over, you snatch the book off the ground. wondering how it could just fall randomly.

suddenly,

a hand slips over your mouth, making your eyes widen fearfully as you feel yourself being tugged backward against a firm chest. you wiggle resistively to no avail as the person just drags you backward and into a supply closet of sorts?

you could smell the sweet scent of cleaning supplies instantly upon entry. the dark closet does nothing to calm your nerves as you strain your eyes to see who dragged you in here. you hear a click, a buzzing yellow light bulb hanging above you and your perpetrator in the small room.

it was him, the janitor. you open up your mouth to confront him but he stops you just by slapping his warm palm over your mouth again.

"here's how its gonna be, yer gonna listen t'me. y'hear me?". his gravelly voice coming out roughly like he doesnt speak that much. his firm tone making it clear that you didn't have any other choices here. your mind travelling to the only other person in this building, which is the old lady at the front desk.

"why're you doi-" you mumbled behind his palm as he just stared down at you. his eyes raking over your form again.

"aven't seen a girl like you in a long time. not letting you go until i've had my fill" he answers your unfinished question before tugging the bottom of his mask up to kiss you. his soft pink lips landing on yours as you melted into the kiss. placing one of his large hands on your hips to pull you against his chest.

"look at tha', not even puttiin up a fight. must've been wishing for this t'appen" he chuckled lowly after pulling away from the kiss.

you pressing a hand against his chest as you look up at his heated gaze. simon wastes no time as he goes to pull on the bottom of your top, tugging it up and over your head before you can even think. you let him, as you adjust to the situation.

wasting no time, he tugs on your leggings, tugging them down and off each leg like he was on a timer.

“fucking hell, look at you”

simon’s pupils dilating in complete pleasure at the site of you in just your underwear. reaching a hand down to the front of his black janitor cargos to adjust his hard on.

“fuck, please let me touch you” he eyebrows furrow as he stares at you intently.

his eyes struggling to focus as he visually devours you.

“…yes” you acquiesce,

growing wetter by the second as you stand before him. simon cracked a smile as he unzipped the janitorial jumpsuit he was wearing. the keys and rags attached shaking as he got out of the outfit.

it was your turn to appreciate him as you looked him up and down. you couldn’t even contain your blush at the site. sure, he was scarred. healed slashes, bruises covered by ink, and marks that looked possibly older then you—but he was hot.

“c’mere” pulling your arm gently as he tugged you closer to him.

running a rough palm against your cheek as he leaned down for yet another nasty kiss. his hot tongue slipping into your mouth as he dominated the kiss. his hand slipping down to your throat as he somehow backed you up against the cool closet wall.

“ve’ been waitin so long for a girl like you” he mumbled into the kiss.

you kiss back as you wrapped your arms around his neck. his free hand slipping down to the front of your panties. excitedly slipping the whole hand in, to touch your wet clit.

you both gasped at the feeling.

“yer gonna make me lose my mind” he grunted as he feels how wet you are from this situation. he swirls two fingers around on your clit softly while looking in your eyes.

leaning your head back against the wall, your eyes flutter close in bliss. the rough pads of his fingers coaxing you to an orgasm rapidly.

“yea that’s it, girl. just feel me” simon rocked his fingers consistently. his mouth lowering to kiss and nibble on your lip and neck as you moaned.

your hands gripping his shoulders as you squeaked in pleasure. “fuckin love how this pussy feels, maybe i should taste hm?” he teases as he rubs you.

using a finger to slip inside of you now as he watches your body’s reactions.

you were choking on your own breath a bit as you felt him quicken the pace. “mmh fuck” you squealed as he kept going. taking a hand to slap your clit now.

“not stopping til’ this pussy cums for me, ya hearin me?” he states calmly while bending to his knees to lean in and kiss your little pearl. his lips glistening with your juices as he looks up at you with a glint in his gaze.

that was it, you wouldn’t last any longer.

your stomach tightening and toes curling as your little pussy clenched repeatedly on his finger. simon licking and sucking on your clit as you came.

making you place a hand on his head to try and slow him down. the pushes only making him chuckle.

knock! knock!

you both freeze at you two knocking noises on the closet door. simon not moving from his spot on his knees, with you standing above him with a leg on his shoulder.

“simon dear, can you take that sweet girl on a date instead of screwing her in the supply closet?”. you two hear the older librarian who helped you at the front desk on the other side of the door.

“yes ma’am” simon grunted from his knees.

[caoimhewritesfics]

Simon was used to sleeping alone. If you could even really call it sleeping. Passing out from pure exhaustion, body unable to handle being awake any longer wasn’t your definition of “sleeping”.

Simon saw no issue. The less time he spent unconscious and vulnerable the better. So when he moved in with you? Yeah, you had to do something about it.

The first night you found him he was face down on the couch, phone just barely dangling from his hand.

You wanted to be angry, to be frustrated that he didn’t come to bed with you, but you understood. The man had never had a moment of peace his entire life, no wonder he wouldn’t be able to relax. Sleep was vulnerability and for Simon, vulnerability meant death.

You started small, lingering around him when he clearly started getting tired. You would just talk and touch his hair, trying to make him feel relaxed and safe. Eventually, he drifts off with your hands in his hair.

It takes months of slowly conditioning helping him to feel like he really can relax in your home. Each time you found him somewhere strange, clearly having knocked out there you start all over again, determined to get him to properly rest.

Finally FINALLY one night when you are deep into your skincare routine do you hear him shuffling into the room, setting his phone down and crawling into bed.

You can hardly contain yourself, nearly leaping onto him when you get into bed, sheet mask halfway falling off your face as you pepper him with kisses.

[silverlullabies]

Toxic!Price who insists “we’re pregnant” like he’s the one throwing up every morning, who sulks because everyone’s asking how you are, not how he’s doing, complaining that no one ever checks on the father and that he “helped make the baby, y’know,” like that one orgasm was equal to creating an entire human.

The kind of man who’s late to your labor because he was out with the lads and “didn’t think it’d happen that fast,” who breezes into the hospital smelling like beer and cheap aftershave, loudly joking about how tight you’ll be again after “getting stitched up” an asks the doctor if he can throw in an extra stitch for him.

Who sleeps through the night with the door closed while you’re up at 2am, 3am, 4am pacing with a screaming newborn, and when you shake him awake he groans something about “early briefing” and rolls over. He doesn’t change nappies because he “doesn’t know how,” doesn’t clean bottles because he “works all day,” but will stand in the doorway while you’re breastfeeding and make comments about how “that tit used to be mine” and how it’s “a waste” when he could be getting something out of it too.

Who sighs and accuses you of neglecting him when you’re touched out, bleeding, exhausted, telling you the least you can do is suck him off since he “never gets anything anymore.” Who talks about finding pleasure with someone else because “men have needs to” and is absolutely cheating on you while you’re at home recovering with a newborn.

Vs

Ghost who finds out you’re pregnant and somehow becomes even more intense, hovering in doorways, taking bags out of your hands, quietly installing grab bars in the shower without telling you. Ghost who starts intercepting your chores until you finally snap, tell him you’re pregnant, not made of glass, and he stands there, massive and awkward, murmuring, “Right,” before dialing it back a notch.

Ghost who Googles every symptom at 3am, buys three different brands of whatever weird food you’re craving “in case they taste off,” and has a go bag packed by the door from week thirty onward with snacks, chargers, and two different swaddles “just in case.”

When labor hits, he’s already moving before you finish saying his name, car keys, hospital bag, hand at the small of your back, voice low and steady in your ear the whole drive. Ghost who doesn’t leave your side, counts your breaths, argues with nurses on your behalf if you so much as wince.

And when the baby’s finally here, he’s the one gently prying them from your exhausted arms with a soft, “You just held them for nine months, love. ’S my turn now.” and won’t let you hold the baby.

Ghost who changes nappies without complaint, does the night feeds with your head on his thigh, lets the baby sleep on his bare chest so you can get four straight hours for the first time in weeks and if anyone dares call him “babysitting,” he corrects them and dryly tells them: “Parenting.”

[inspired by this TikTok]

[pinksplace]

I can’t stop thinking about Simon Riley

Simon Riley who has these big hands, hardened by war and calloused from murder.

Simon Riley with a permanent ache in his shoulder from the kickback of a rifle.

Simon Riley who’s lower back hurts every time he crouches into position.

Simon Riley with knees that click everytime he crouches.

Simon Riley with chafed inner thighs from the rough material of tac pants.

Simon Riley with shoulders tensed up to his ears.

Simon Riley who really, really, really needs a massage.

It’s Gaz who gives him your card, clicks his tongue and tells him “Trust me, bird’s got magic hands.”

Simon Riley who stares at it for two weeks, insisting it’s something for girls, nothing that a man like him would ever need.

Then his back goes out.

Two days of fucking agony, stuck on the shitty base couch because he can barely stand long enough to get back to his quarters.

Two days of wishing he’d just been fucking shot, at least then the med bay would give him the good drugs.

He crawls onto your table with a grunt and the words “Firm pressure.”

Then you touch him.

Like silk, your hands smooth over his muscles, needing every tight spot you can find until the knots come loose under your fingers. 

You take him apart with pressure so firm it’s almost painful, your elbow digging into his tailbone as you work over a particularly stubborn spot.

Simon Riley who’s so fucking vocal the whole time.

He groans, moans, even whimpers into the headrest. Simon who jumps against the table when you start to work on his upper traps.

Simon Riley who cums in his fucking boxers when you make his neck crack.

Like an out of body, third person experience he blows his load just as the tension releases.

It’s unmistakable, his choked noise and the way his entire body goes rigid.

Never mind how he reaches out and grabs your thigh with a grip tight as steel when it happens.

Simon Riley who leaves two hundred dollars in cash and his phone number on the table when he leaves. Along with a little note in his chicken scratch-

“Do you do house calls?”

[ohclaire]

Thinking about quietly possessive Simon Riley who has decided you’re his even if you don’t know it yet…

He’s always been loyal to those on his team, encroaching into possessive territory in even the best circumstances. He learned early that if he found something good, he needed to claim it fast and hold on tight or it would be taken from him. So when he finally had a team that didn’t treat him like a freak…he got protective. And you just ended up being the final nail in that coffin.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he does have a soft spot for people who are good. Good like Johnny, like you are. For too long he was only surrounded by the scum of the earth, people who took without any regard for the people around them, any regard for him. You weren’t like that. You were all give. Too much sometimes. People who take, love people like you that they can exploit. And thats where he comes in. To keep you safe.

To do that, though…he needs to stake a claim.

He started easy, purposely swapping your jackets so you would walk around with ‘RILEY’ proudly displayed on your back. You were confused on how the mix up occurred, but when you couldn’t find your jacket, he insisted you use his in the mean time. He wasn’t planning on recovering yours anytime soon.

He was always watching from a distance whenever someone talked to you. Across the mess or on the mats, anyone approached you and suddenly nothing else he was doing mattered. You couldn’t understand when people would see something off to your side only to run away from the conversation moments later. Whenever you checked, you only ever saw the soft eyes of Simon. He never let you see the glare.

He got bolder. Eventually throwing his arm around you whenever possible. Casually, at first—at least that’s how it came off to you. Everyone else, however, knew he wasn’t big on physical touch. To them, it was radical. To you, it was just Simon. You liked the support his presence brought, knowing he was watching your back. Feeling him. He liked that too, of course, but he liked that everyone started avoiding you more.

And when you got hurt, he unabashedly told the infirmary that he was your fiancé to get in to see you (and changed your emergency contact while at it). You didn’t need to know about that, you were just happy for the company in the hospital.

Eventually, the questions came—to him of course, no one dared approach you now. So, whenever someone asks if you’re dating, he tells them yes.

You’re the last person to know that you apparently have a boyfriend.

[softsnarl]

Hii!🫶 Can you please do a Simon "ghost" one with a plus size reader. Shes been in love with him for years but shes really insecure so she hasn't told him. Possiably something happens that she thinks she definitely has no chance with him? (Maybe goes on a date or something) and yummy smut 😏🤣

Hello! And thank you for your request! There is no smut, just fluff. It didn’t quite feel right to write an insecure, plus-size!Reader who would immediately feel comfortable sleeping with someone—but that’s just me projecting because this hits home... Hope you’ll still enjoy this! 🩶

cw: fem!plus-size!Reader (in her 30s); light angst/hurt; fluff

The admin office at HQ is quiet after 1800 hours, just the hum of the overhead lights and the occasional, distant thudding of boots down the corridor.

You stay late most nights nowadays—not because the paperwork demands it, but because it gives you an excuse to linger in the same building as him.

Lieutenant Simon Riley.

You’ve been in love with him for nineteen months, three weeks, and four days. You re-counted once, then you told yourself never to do it again because the number of days wasted pining after one man in your 30s made your chest ache.

He never speaks to you beyond clipped “morning”s and the occasional “cheers” when you hand him a fresh stack of requisition forms. Sometimes his gloved fingers brush yours, and you live on those milliseconds for weeks afterward like some pathetic, lovesick fool.

Tonight you’re alone at your desk, sorting deployment rosters, when the door opens.

Sergeant John MacTavish, saunters in, still in his tac pants and a sweat-damp compression shirt, mohawk mussed from the helmet he just took off. He spots you and grins.

“Still here, eh? Yer gonna turn into one of these filing cabinets, lass.”

You smile back, small and practiced. “Just finishing up.”

He crosses to the coffee machine, pours two mugs without asking if you want one. Slides the second across your desk like he can sense that you need it.

“Ta,” you murmur.

Johnny leans a hip against the edge of your desk, takes a sip, then glances toward the corridor like he’s checking for eavesdroppers.

“Ghost’s in a mood tonight,” he scoffs, lips pursing in amusement, because, of course, Johnny cannot be bothered to take it serious. “Growlin’ at everyone,” he muses quietly before his bright blue eyes light up with mischief. “Think he’s finally gonna get it oot his system or murder the next person who breathes too bloody loud?”

His thick eyebrows wiggle suggestively to make you laugh, but your stomach drops through the floor instead.

You force a laugh. It sounds thin. “Get it out of his system?”

Johnny shrugs, smirking into his mug. “Aye. But she’s gotta be somethin’ else. Ghost’s a big bastard. Poor lass’ gotta be tall, sharp, dangerous—y’know. His type. The type that doesnae go down without a wee fight.”

The words land like a bucket of ice water to your face.

Not soft. Not round. Not the woman who hides behind spreadsheets and oversized cardigans because she doesn’t want anyone to notice how much space she takes up.

You stare at the roster in front of you until the names blur and your throat hurts from how tight it squeezes, but Johnny doesn’t notice the shift in your breathing. He’s already moving toward the door, mug still in hand.

“Alrighty then,” he sighs before stretching his arms above his head with a dramatic groan and flashing another smile. “Night, love. Don’t stay up too late again or the LT might think yer a security risk.”

The door clicks shut behind him. You sit in silence a long moment.

You don’t cry. You’re too tired for tears.

You just feel…

small. Irrelevant. Unworthy. Numb.

You feel worse than you’ve felt in months, and it’s exhausting.

The next morning you’re at your desk early, eyes puffy and glassy from a sleepless night and a chest too tight with anxiety, when the door opens again.

And Simon steps inside.

No preamble. No greeting today.

He walks straight to your desk, stops in front of it, gloved palms flat on the surface, leaning down just enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

Your heart squeezes and you swallow hard, wondering if he did get it out of his system last night.

He’s not wearing the skull mask today—just the black balaclava pulled up to the bridge of his nose. The lower half of his face is visible; scarred, stubbled, his sharp jaw clenched tight.

You open your mouth to say good morning, but he interrupts you before a sound comes out.

“Johnny talks shite when he’s bored.”

You blink, your brows furrow in confusion at the borderline frustrated and venomous yet quiet tone of his voice. He sounds like he’s seething.

“He talks shite,” he repeats. “Always has. Thinks he’s bloody hilarious. He’s not.”

You swallow. “I—um—”

“I heard him yesterday.” His hands twitch on the desk, like he’s keeping them from balling into fists. “Heard what he said. Heard how you went quiet after.”

Your heart stutters, eyes widening in shock.

He heard. He noticed.

“I don’t have a bloody type,” he says flatly and final. “I don’t want to just get something out of my fuckin’ system. I don’t sleep around.”

He leans closer and you can practically watch his pupils dilate in real time.

“But I like soft,” he admits, quieter now. “I want someone who doesn’t mind staying late so I can see her when I come back. I want someone who laughs at my terrible jokes even when they’re shite. I want someone who looks at me like I’m not a bloody monster.”

His gaze never wavers.

“I want you.”

The room is suddenly too small. Too stuffy. Too quiet while his admission lingers.

You stare at him, feeling dumb and oddly exposed, but he simply stares back. Unwavering as ever, demanding eye contact.

Then—slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch away—he reaches across the desk. His right hand covers yours; big, warm, and steady.

“I’m shite at this,” he admits, his voice barely above a gravelly whisper. “Never done it before... But I’m done pretendin’ I don’t feel it.”

Your throat is tight again, but you manage to croak it out. “Simon…”

He waits, staring with those intense eyes of his. Your hand trembles as you turn it over slowly to lace your fingers through his tentatively.

“I thought—I thought you’d never look at someone like me.”

His grip tightens, locking your hand with his like it’s something he’s been waiting to be able to do.

“I’ve been lookin’,” he rasps. “Since the first day you smiled at a bastard like me like I wasn’t made of nightmares.”

A small, shaky laugh of disbelief escapes you. Simon doesn’t smile back, but his thumb strokes over your knuckles once, testing.

“Will you let me take you out?” he asks eventually; his Adam’s apple bobs in his scarred throat. “Proper, I mean. Dinner. No mask. No more bullshit.”

And you nod before you can overthink it. “Yeah,” you whisper, smiling shyly. “I’d like that.”

He exhales through his nose, relieved, like he’s been holding this tension for months—much like you. Then he leans across the desk, careful, slow, and presses the softest kiss to your forehead.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, clothed nose brushing against your skin. “1800. I’ll pick you up.”

You nod again, slowly, while your eyes begin to sting. Simon straightens, rolls his shoulders, before landing a final blow to your emotions.

“You’re beautiful.”

Then, he turns, boots squeaking on linoleum floor, and walks out before you can say anything else. And you’re left there sitting, reeling internally, heart hammering and your stomach fluttering with excitement and nerves. Good nerves.

For the first time in nineteen months, three weeks, and five days…

you let yourself hope.

[ ᴄᴏᴅ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ]

[howyoulovelikeweaponskill]

“i’m goin’ home to fuck my wife.”

and those were the last words john uttered before slamming the palm of his hand down against his desk and leaving. spoken the way most things he says are - gruff and final, with no room for argument - stunning the room into silence until the door shut hard behind him.

everyone just looked at each other, dumbstruck.

“should we wait for him to come back?”

“what the hell does that mean—”

“is that code for something?”

“wait, he’s married?”

price didn’t hear a word of it - by that point he was already halfway down the hall, boots pounding concrete with purpose, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything else dissolving into white-hot static behind his eyes.

he can take a lot of bullshit. does it daily. but fuckin’ hell - they wouldn’t stop. wouldn’t stop talking, hovering, circling him like crows. clipping questions at him in endless fucking rotations.

what now, captain? what’s next? what do we do about makarov? do we move now or wait for shepherd’s greenlight? have you seen the updated file? should we pull soap and gaz back? do we burn the safe house? double-tap the asset? what’s the protocol—

jesus fuckin’ christ.

it’d been too long. john’s mentally checked out and he knows it. doesn’t care. he didn’t want to be in that room. didn’t want to sit at that table. didn’t want to give another goddamn order with five pairs of bloodshot eyes looking at him like he’s meant to have all the answers and none of the doubt.

he needs a break. not a debrief. not another satellite feed. not another fucking decision.

he needs to go home and fuck his wife.

needs to put his hands on something solid, something that he doesn’t have to second guess. something that’d let him burn off all the static and pressure and noise building between his temples without asking anything much in return. his sanctuary where he can fall apart and come back clearer. reset his head before it spun off his shoulders.

so he peeled out of the parking lot before he’d even properly put the car in drive, and sent you one text:

‘take off anything you value and put away anything breakable. i’ll be home in 15.’