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꒷꒦꒷ ; stelle ・❥・twenty three ・❥・she/they ・❥・aquarius ・❥・ dark trope luvr ・❥・monster fucker
꒷꒦꒷ ; i'll post as much as i can.
꒷꒦꒷ ; Scroll away if you do not like the au, genre, or details of the fic; this blog is dedicated to those who find comfort in chubby self-inserts. Majority of these will be Female or Gender-Neutral readers
stelle's picnic basket ao3 link
kinktober 2024
march munches
All DIVIDERS used here and in my fics are from: cafekitsune
The morning he does starts off with Ghost passing him in the hallway, a steaming to-go cup in his hand. The smell of coffee meets him.
"Since when do you drink coffee?" he says, halting in his tracks.
"Since the time you learned to mind your own business," Ghost says without pause in either voice or step, continuing his march like a man on a mission.
Soap snorts and keeps walking, thinking nothing of it until a few days later he spots Ghost with another coffee, this time along with a little paper bag. He makes the mistake of setting it on the counter for a moment.
Johnny immediately hooks a finger in the opening and peeks inside, the smell of sweet and warm baked goodness meeting him.
Ghost nearly takes Soap's hand off from how hard he slaps it away.
"Hands off."
"Ach, Jesus, alright." He rubs his stinging hand. "A good morning to you too, Lt."
Ghost rolls the top of the bag closed again and leaves just as suddenly as he appeared, mind and attention focused elsewhere. He disappears around the corner as Soap tries to think of how and why Ghost is walking around with warm pastries. Did he go off base and bring it back? Did he bake it himself? Now there's an image, Johnny thinks.
He's given the opportunity to find out just the next day.
He's en route to the shooting range to meet with Kyle when he runs into Ghost marching off with yet another bag in his hand.
"Hey, Lt," he calls, jogging over to him. "I'm headin' to the range, you in?"
"Later." Ghost doesn't look at him, instead scanning around searching for something. Soap looks down at the bag in his hand, seeing light condensation on the inside from whatever hot food is in it.
"Jesus, you doin' food deliveries on the side now or somethin'?"
"Or something," Ghost says in the tone of voice that actually means: "Shut the fuck up."
"Well if that's the case," Soap starts, willfully ignoring him just to rib him a bit, "I think I'd like to make an order for lunch—"
Ghost tenses. He does so in a way that Johnny only sees when there's a loaded gun in his hand and a soon-to-be corpse standing in front of him. It activates something in Johnny's lizard brain and muscle memory takes over, immediately stepping into a defensive position, facing whatever it is that's coming at them.
But all he sees are a couple of medics on their break.
You're sitting at one of the tables outside, trying to get as much fresh air as you can on the woefully short break you managed to get. One of your coworkers, someone who's worked on the same ward as you ever since you arrived at this base, walks up to you. You smile up at him in greeting. He hands you a styrofoam cup filled with a steaming drink, made from the overworked coffee maker which you gratefully accept.
The both of you are too far for either Soap or Ghost to hear. They can only see you kick out the other chair for him to take, see him sit in front of you, and start getting into a conversation that you both lean into.
You laugh at whatever he said and the sound of it reaches to where the two soldiers stand.
Soap swears the air drops in temperature a few degrees. He stills. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. All he dares to move is his eyes to look over at Ghost.
Ghost stands there like the manifestation of cold wrath itself. His eyes, as dark as the thoughts running through his head with perfect clarity, stare down the medic sitting in front of you. As sharp as the knives that his fingers have the sudden urge to wrap around.
The sound of the bag in his hand collapsing under Ghost's deathgrip cuts through whatever spiraling void his mind began to fall down. Ghost heaves a quiet breath and resumes his march over to your table. Soap stays where he is, watching with a morbid fascination.
When he approaches, you look up at him and instead of the concerned (if not frightened) expression that Soap expects, you give him a beaming smile. He places the bag down in front of you.
In the moment that you're busy opening and looking through it, Ghost shoots the man across the table from you a look that Soap can't see from here, but the way that all of the blood drains from the medic's face gives him a pretty good idea.
You place the containers of food on the table and say something to Ghost. He rumbles something back to you and turns away without anymore fanfare. By the time he makes it back to Soap's side, the puzzle pieces have started to click together.
"Aye, so it's your lass who you've been sneakin' all those goodies to."
"Wot?"
"Ye know, your girlfriend?" He gestures to you.
"Fuck are you on about, Johnny?"
Soap is struck with the full understanding that A) Ghost is head over arse in love with you and B) Has no intention of doing anything about it. Which does and doesn't surprise him. The man's a workaholic, dedicated to the job just as much as any other of the 141; they wouldn't be alive if they weren't. But he's also not one to be passive about things. Ghost is about as blunt as a sledgehammer to the back of the head, doesn't waste time with tedious little social dances.
Which leads Soap to come to the other, most crucial realization of C) Ghost has absolutely no idea.
"Nothing. Never mind."
Ghost rolls his eyes and slinks off, leaving Soap standing there with a million thoughts racing through his head.
Soap disagrees with the notion that he's impulsive. Impulsivity carries the notion of thoughtlessness, of a lack of regard for the future. Instead, Soap sees no point in running in circles, hemming and hawing. He encounters a problem, sees what needs to be done, and executes. Hesitation gets you blown up.
Which is why, after encountering this predicament, Soap knows what needs to be done to solve it. All that is required now is the right time to act and the perfect opportunity strikes on an afternoon he's walking with Ghost to Price's office.
"Lieutenant!" your voice calls out from the other end of the hallway. The man in question immediately halts and turns back around. You come jogging up to the both of them, a small plastic container in your hands. "I was going to give this back to you earlier but, you know, busy." You hand the container to him which he takes. "Thanks again, it was really good."
"You liked it?" he asks, soft, timid, like your approval is what keeps the world spinning.
Soap wishes he had a camera right now. Or a pencil and paper. Just to immortalize the look on Ghost's face.
He stands with his chin tucked, like a bashful wee puppy dog if Soap had to describe it. He stares at you with his big, unblinking eyes, glittering like you just handed him the key to paradise instead of a piece of empty plastic.
"It was delicious," you say fervently, "you have to show me what recipe you used."
Sweet, steaming, bloody Jesus.
Ghost has been cooking meals for you.
Soap stares gobsmacked, open mouthed at the side of Ghost's head, mind reeling. Ghost doesn't realize because he's too busy looking at you. Nothing short of a bomb threat could pull his attention away.
Ghost shrugs, fiddles with the container like he all of the sudden doesn't know what to do with his hands.
"It was nothing. Just something I threw together." The way his eyes soften, sweet as melted chocolate at your praise screams otherwise.
"Well, either way. It was amazing." You look down to quickly check your watch.
"No rest for the wicked, eh?" Ghost drawls.
You sigh. "Tell me about it."
Soap watches the moment with certainty that nothing will come of this, can see in perfect vision that you'll leave and Ghost will do nothing but watch with the yearning they write about in poems. The both of you will live in complete ignorance about the near apocalyptic levels of longing that he just knows bothers Ghost more than he realizes.
He glances at Ghost. Glances at you. Formulates a plan. Sees every way it could go horribly and every consequence that could come of it. Commits anyway.
"Have to say, I really admire you medic folk," Soap says before you scurry off, leaning a shoulder against the wall, casual as can be.
"Oh," you say, taken aback by the sudden flattery. "Thank you, Sergeant."
Soap feels Ghost's presence behind him like a world-ending missile in its pre-launch phase. He swears he can hear a countdown start.
"Aye, some of the hardest workers I've seen. Nothing short of brilliant, too."
The missile's coordinates lock in right on Soap's head. He refuses to acknowledge the cold sweat that starts up along his spine.
You wave him off, a pretty heat making its home on the apples of your cheeks. Soap wouldn't have guessed Ghost had an eye for sweet little things like you. "Takes all sorts to keep the wheels moving," you say, a humble deflection.
"But you all are the ones that keep us in one piece. That's no' a small task," he leans his head in just a touch, as close as he dares with the Shadow of Death standing right behind him glaring holes with those demon eyes of his into the back of his skull. "Ah, careful though," he further dares to employ the little side-smile-eyebrow-quirk that's yet to fail him, lowering his voice into a gravely lilt that always gets him the attention he wants, "you keep on like that and you'll make the rest of us look bad, bonn—"
"You have training duty to report to," Ghost interjects in his full Lieutenant Voice that has Soap unconsciously shooting up from his slouch on the wall. By the time his muscle memory has passed, Ghost has already shifted his attention back to you. "I'll see you later, yeah?" he addresses to you, sounding like a completely different person from literally just a second ago.
You smile at him and nod. "Yeah." He returns the nod and watches in soft silence as you march off to whatever else the rest of your day has in store for you. The two of them stand in silence. He measures the air like he would the stability of a live explosive in his hand.
"So," Soap says once you're out of sight, hearing the countdown reach zero. "When's the weddin'?"
The sound of Ghost's palm smacking the back of Soap's head echoes down the corridor.
I have so much brainrot for Vergil and Dante right now. You can read this thinking of game or anime Vergil, the feeling is the same.
vergil x reader
The room was flooded with blue.
With him.
Dawn was still far from reaching the hidden place you called sanctuary. Night was beginning to surrender, but the sun had yet to appear, a place caught between both worlds. If it had to be described, it would be that uncertain hour where the darkness softens just a fraction, when the world breathes a little slower.
When it feels as though time might take pity on you and grant you just a little more.
Outside, it was raining. The sound was a murmur that bled through the walls with effort, like a distant conversation. You couldn't see it, but you imagined that the outside world was also blue: the cold hue of the early morning, of wet streets, of a cloudy sky blanketing the stars.
The hue enveloping you, however, was anything but cold.
Maybe this is what the ocean floor looks like, you thought, staring at the colored walls. But it couldn't possibly be this warm.
Your eyes blinked slowly, begging to give in to sleep, but you kept your gaze stubbornly fixed on the blue. The word adhered to your thoughts until it lost its shape. Blue, blue, blue. You couldn't see anything else. When the world remains this silent, thoughts can become devastatingly loud. You didn't want to close your eyes; if you did, the color would disappear. It would slip away.
You didn't want the gold of the dawn, but the deep indigo of the twilight.
The world sank further as more thoughts washed ashore. Deeper and deeper. Bluer and bluer.
Then, you were pulled back to the surface the moment a warm hand gently encircled your wrist beneath the sheets.
You thought he was asleep.
Your gaze drifted from the walls and settled on him.
The scarce lighting softened Vergil’s features, turning him into something more ethereal than lethal. His eyes, whose true depth remained unknown to you, cleared from a raging storm into a peaceful sea. Blue, blue, blue. A clear gaze, softened by sleep, locking onto yours.
While his expression was indecipherable most of the time, his eyes could be terrifyingly honest.
You wondered if he knew.
You never mentioned it.
Nor did you speak a word as your hand was drawn out from under the covers. He held it between the two of you, at the level of his chest, of your eyes. Vergil’s hand was larger, calloused where yours was soft, with invisible scars upon his palm that could only be felt when skin pressed against skin.
There was nothing special about your hand, it was merely a human limb.
Even so, Vergil’s touch was always cautious when it came to you. Not because he believed you were fragile and feared breaking you, though you knew he easily could. In reality, he touched you as if it were a surprise that he actually could, that you allowed it. Trying to see what he was looking at was in vain, but you knew his vision wasn't the same. What did he see that made him hesitate?
It should have been you trembling, yet it was his fingers that wavered as they covered your skin.
Sometimes, it seemed as though he were waiting for the moment you would reject him, as if scorn were inevitable.
You didn't pull away. You didn't dare break the silence. Words could shatter the fragility of the moment. Instead, your eyes never left him. His fingers separated yours slowly, one by one. It was hypnotizing. Painfully intimate.
You shifted your gaze from your joined hands to him. A few white strands of hair fell across his forehead, but he made no move to brush them aside. All his attention was anchored to the smaller palm pressing against his own. If he closed his hand, he would trap you completely.
As if he hadn't already.
Whatever he was looking for, he found it. You held your breath when he suddenly guided your hand to his face. It wasn't what you expected. His warm breath brushed against your skin, heating it. One, two, three deep breaths. His lips hovered, finding the right spot, and then pressed softly, then with more firmness, into the meat of your palm, his nose brushing your skin. It was a gesture far more expressive than any spoken declaration. Vergil closed his eyes, breathing in your skin, sighing into your palm, but you didn't dare blink. You just held him through it.
The ghost of his kiss remained as he pulled back slightly, just enough to follow the path he had silently chosen to trace. Vergil’s mouth ascended until it found the delicate skin protecting your wrist. Your heart responded by starting to race wildly, and Vergil caught the beats with his lips, feeling them, keeping them. He dismantled you completely.
Blue, blue, blue.
With Vergil, you had never known the edge of the blade. Nor the bite of ice. But tenderness was almost as terrifying as a stab wound. It was hard to discern which one could hurt more.
He did nothing without a reason, and you wondered if there was a hidden message.
There was.
He wouldn't tell you, but the thought was there, the words heavy at the back of his throat, pressing to get out. For someone who never hesitated to speak, he couldn't utter a single phrase.
If he were a better man, perhaps you would already know.
This is yours. Perhaps you don't know it, perhaps you suspect it, but he knows.
It is yours.
There isn't a moment where he doesn't think it.
If there was anything worth thanking the earth for—that devastated world he denies ever belonging to—it was you.
He could walk that earth simply knowing you are in it.
You felt his lips tremble against your pulse, pressing a little harder against that mortal fluttering. Distantly, you wondered if you had somehow managed to crack Vergil’s armor and slip inside.
Vergil shows off his power and skills to you on hunts because it’s a mating ritual for demons, only the strongest get the favour of the mate. Send tweet.
"He told you to use him. Get off on him. That he would just watch. Take in the sights as you find your high. But what you didn’t think was going to happen was him actually staying true to his word."
FemReaderXChris Redfield (established relationship)
Word Count: 2.6k
Smut - No Minors 🔞
I'm back with more Chris...whooooooooo!
Other Ao3 Shit // More RE Fics
Warnings: Smoking, Explicit Language
also we ride like Leon in Requiem as its questionable if i proofread this.
“Yeah…that’s it….”
Chris’s voice was low as you watched him cut the cap off his cigar.
“Chr-” you rock your hips more into him. Your body begging for his hands on you again.
He gives you a snide smile as he continues with his focus on the cigar in his hands, “You’ve got this babe,” he looks up to you, “don’t you?”
You let out a little whiney moan, “But…Ch-ris…please”
Chris chuckles softly, and before he can light his cigar, he wraps one arm around your waist and thrusts into you deeply before resting himself back on the couch.
“Fuck Chris…” your eyes shoot open to the brief rough connection, your body savoring that feeling.
“Do this right and I’ll give you more of that,” Chris reaches for his lighter, “alright?”
You look down at him and nod. Your mouth holding back some moans as you continue to ride him. His hard length filling you so well that you can’t help but let him know by moaning his name after (what feels like) every rise and fall of your hips. He told you to use him. Get off on him. That he would just watch. Take in the sights as you find your high. But what you didn’t think was going to happen was him actually staying true to his word.
You felt like you were turning into nothing but whines as you begged for his hands on you. But every time you asked, he just shook his head and would go back for another pull on his cigar.
And fuck…why was that so hot?
You found your thighs getting tired, but you were so drunk on his length that you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. And as he took another pull, the end of the cigar lighting up with a bright red glow, you snaked your hands around the base of his head. Your hands now wrapping your fingers around the back of his neck as you kept your steady tempo down below.
You moved your thumbs back and forth behind his ears, your long nails gently scraping over his skin. And as if instant, Chris lets out a low rumble as he takes in your touch. You watch as his eyes roll into the back of his head for a split second, your touch intoxicating to him.
“Mmm…that’s it babe.”
You grip the back of his neck and head slightly as you pick up your tempo. Those words starting something within you. The sound of skin meeting skin growing within the room.
“Chr-” you whine as you feel the burn in your thighs, “please…baby….please. I need more.” You catch on a bit of air as you feel your body wanting to release but refusing to.
Chris pushes out some smoke; its rough, dense, yet earthy sent hitting you straight in the face, “Tell me what you want then?”
You take in a sharp breath, “You”
Chris laughs as he sets down the cigar in the ashtray, “You already have me. Or did you forget whose dick you’re riding.” Chris laughs again, but lower, as he finally puts his hands on your body. “Don’t tell me,” his fingers gripping down into your supple waist, “that you’re so cock drunk that you forgot who you’re fucking?”
You keep your head low as you shake it from side to side, “No baby, never. I just – ah.”
Chris shifts his hips up into yours again, “Then use your words like a good girl and tell me what you mean by more. Cuz right now, you have everything you want.”
You push back a moan, only an annoyed hum leaving your lips this time, “Touch me Chris, for fuck’s sake touch me.” You begin to slam yourself into him, a bit out of annoyance and also out of a bit of need.
Chris hums, his one hand leaving so he could pick up his cigar, “No need to get so mad babe,” and as he brings the cigar to his mouth he can’t help but chuckle as he takes in your face, “you have hands too.”
You were clearly on the edge and just needed something more from him, but with how your brows were folding in on themselves, the glisten of sweat on your forehead, and the way your fingers were now digging into the back of his neck - your release was still far away.
You slow your tempo as you give yourself a short break. Your thighs taking in the pause as your body worked on coming back down.
Chris takes a pull, “Tired? Already?” He smiles smugly at you as he pushes out the smoke.
You groan, “No, just-”
Chris looks at you, his eyes growing dark as he watches you before him. The way your chest was moving through your elevated breathing, the slight shake in your thighs, and the way your arms were still resting on his shoulders. All such a perfect view for him as he enjoys himself. Enjoys you as you ‘use’ him.
“Come ‘ere beautiful…” With his free hand he grabs for your chin. His large fingers gripping down on your skin only to pull you forward. “Why are you being so grumpy, this was your idea?”
You look away from him, “I’m not, I just-” you sigh, “need more Chris.”
Chris takes a drag close to your face. Your eyes moving to watch the way he pulls in the smoke on the cigar. Your body reacting in a way he could feel. And soon there’s a cloud of smoke hitting you again, “Need or want babe?”
You lean yourself in closer to him, his hand now leaving your chin, finding its place back on your waist.
You bring your lips to his, that earthy tobacco filled scent he’s been hitting you with all night now on your tastebuds as you press your lips into his. And after that taste of him you find your hips moving again on his length. The roll of your hips causing him to let out a low deep groan from him that vibrates the kiss you two were sharing.
Chris pulls back a bit, “Yeah…that’s it. Mmm, just like that babe.” He sets the cigar back into the ashtray that hand coming to grip your waist. Chris looks up at you as you’ve pulled back a little. Your head hanging low as you let the pleasure build again. Chris pushes back some of your hair, his eyes taking in your new expression, “There she is,” he hums, “that gorgeous girl of mine.”
Chris’s one hand begins to skim over your skin. His calloused fingers leaving behind a rough sensation over your plush body. And when it begins to travel down you feel your body shutter. A smile on your lips when you notice exactly where it was headed.
Chris brings his other hand to wrap around the base of your head. His thumb resting on your cheek and without fail you fall into his touch. His hand holding your head as you pick up the tempo.
And with force he pulls you into him, your lips meeting his again.
“Mmm…” it was muffled but your eyes shot open when that first touch finally found you. “Mmm…Chr-” you push your face into his more for the touch on your bud was everything you needed. Everything you craved right now. And as his thumb swirled down below that blooming release was finally back.
And while you wanted to pull back, moan his name in a way that always gets him riled up, he kept your face close to him. His lips glued to yours. Only your muffled moans giving him the sounds he adored from you.
You move one of your hands to his forearm, your fingers gripping down into his muscle as you worked your thighs harder. The rise and fall of your body picking up as you were getting close.
And through an act of desperation, you find your other hand gripping on the back of Chris’s head, your fingers raking over his scalp wishing his hair was a bit longer so you had something to pull on.
You feel Chris smile up next to your lips. His body reading yours perfectly as you began to break above him. He pulls back, but instead of letting you go he pulls you in more. Your head now over his shoulder as he kisses you down your neck. The roughness of his stubble running across your skin, similar to those calloused fingers.
“You’re doing so well babe,” Chris finds his spot on your neck, just far enough down where it could be easily covered with clothes, to begin sucking and pulling at your skin. The way he pulled in what he could, just like a harsh drag on a cigarette, you knew that this mark he’d leave behind was going to be there for some time.
You take in the rough pull by curling your fingers over the back of his head again. Your long nails scraping over his short hair.
Chris chuckles, “Mmm yeah…that’s it babe…” before going back to your skin.
You move you head into his, your hand wrapping more around the back of his head as you pulled him in, “Oh fuck, baby…I’m-” you feel him press down more on your bud, picking up the pace of his continuous circles.
He breaks away from your skin, only to bring his lips close to your ear, “Gonna cum on this dick?”
You close your eyes tighter, only a nod coming from you to answer him.
“Mmm…and whose dick are you cumming on?” His fingers gripping down into your skin
Your brows were knitting into each other so perfectly as you let your mouth stay open, your moans growing whiney again as you kept slamming yourself into him, “Yours baby. Your dick…mmmm…fuck baby,” you slam your hips down into him, but this time not going back up as you feel yourself falling into him. Your one leg trying to push you off as you felt your release rush its way all over your body.
Chris breaks away from your bud only to take in one of your breasts. His tongue flicking at your nipple as he sucks down on your soft skin.
You hold back a whimper as your mind tries to focus on one thing. And as you fight between your release and his touch on you, you find your body growing heavier as you start to fall into Chris.
Chris pulls away from your breast, a snide smile back on his lips as he moves his hands over your body. Adjusting you in a way to help support you. He brings you down, getting your chest to lay flush against his as his hands ran over your back. And as you rest there, Chris waits until you wrap your arms around his neck before he adjusts your legs. Getting them snug up against him again.
And while you thought that you had earned a break, that clearly wasn’t what was going on in Chris’s mind. Oh no. For you feel that grip of his fingers on the back of your thighs and soon the way Chris was pushing his back onto the couch.
“Oh fuck- Chris-” the room was immediately filled with the sounds of skin hitting skin – hard - as he fucked you from below. Your arms wrapping around his neck and head tighter as he rammed his length into you. Him making sure that each thrust was him bottoming out inside you.
“Mmm fuck babe, fuck you always feel so good after you cum.” Chris bites down a little on your arm as you kept it wrapped around him. Your back arching a bit to that new sensation.
“Yeah- yeah…just like that. Fuck babe…” Chris picks up his tempo even more, something you didn’t think he could do from the position he was in. But it was fast, rough, loud as your hips and thighs took in the new dull pain that was starting below.
Chris moves one hand to your shoulder as he wraps his arms around you. His fingers gripping you so tightly that you knew he was close. He had to be close only for him to whisper in your ear, “Let me feel you cum again.” Chris lets out muffled groan as he continues his tempo, “Be a good girl and touch yourself. Get yourself off on me again.”
You pull yourself away from Chris, your body now in view for him again. And as his hands rested on your hips, he watched as your hand traveled low. Your fingers finding your bud just like he asked.
Chris moans as he presses his head into the back of the sofa, his body nearing its release.
And you do as he asks, letting your middle finger work its way around your bud. It’s pressure bringing in another rise for you. Your one hand planted on his shoulder as you balance yourself above him. Your body rocking to his pace as he grips down tighter on your waist.
“Come on beautiful…” Chris’s breathing was now noticeably labored as he pushes through these last couple of minutes.
“Isn’t this how you wanted to be fucked? Letting me fuck you so deeply you forget where you are?” Chris’s tempo slows down a little, but he sends a couple of hard thrusts into you.
You nod as you focus on your center more. Your body starting to crumble again as you could feel another release coming on.
Chris notices the changes and smiles, “Come on babe…come on…” he was pushing those last two words from his teeth as he did what he could to hold on.
And with the way your nails dug into Chris shoulder, the next sensation he felt was how your center squeezed down on him, his lungs pushing out a low moan. He fucks you for a couple of thrusts longer, making sure to fuck you as you came before finally- he pushes your hips down into his and releases all that he could.
You sit on top of Chris, your shoulders slumped and before you can go to move yourself off him you feel his hand on your back. You bring your gaze up to his and see him looking at you with a soft smile on his lips. You place your hands on his cheeks, your palms taking in his stubble, as you fall into him, pressing your lips so deeply into his your ears pick up on both of you taking in a sharp breath through your noses.
You hum, “We should do that again…”
Chris smiles, his warm brown eyes looking up to you, “And soon too.”
You chuckle and soon your eyes carry over to his ashtray, “Gonna stay and smoke for a bit longer?”
Chris nods, “Yeah, but-” Chris knew that the smell of his cigars weren’t exactly your favorite, but you did tolerate them.
You reach behind him, tugging at the blanket that was draped over the back of the sofa, “I’ll stay, just don’t give me a bad time if I fall asleep on you.”
Chris smiles and brings you back in for another kiss, “I won’t, just don’t get mad at me when I wake you up so we can get you cleaned before bed.”
You smile and nod while slowly moving yourself off his length, his hands gripping down on you tightly as your moment sent an overly sensitive jolt throughout his body. You give him one more kiss before falling onto the couch. Your tired legs now resting over his thighs as you moved the blanket over yourself.
Chris watches as you pull the pillow under your head, your hand reaching out for his free one before he reached for his cigar again. And it was fast the way you fell asleep, his hand now rubbing your legs as he enjoyed his version of post sex bliss with you.
Summary: You never thought you'd get so involved with the same man who has taken away any semblance of peace from you. Trying to pick apart and understand the convoluted mess of emotions that was your relationship with Wesker was nearly as impossible as plotting your escape route, and you've given up on that quest a long time ago. However, some things are simpler than they first appear.
Notes: ~ 6k words. Ambiguous (toxic) relationship. Implied captor/captive dynamic. A touch of character exploration. Semi canon-typical Wesker. Brief none-explicit descriptions of sexual intimacy.
Credit: dividers by @/saradika-graphics
No matter how many years have passed you by, you remained by Albert Wesker's side for better or worse. And still he was an ever-evolving mystery to you. One would think that a man like him couldn't care less about sentimental things like human connection or trust, much less something like romance. And the truth was, you still couldn't even dispute that.
There were days when you wondered why you even still stayed instead of taking the easy way out. Escaping on your own was a thought downright fantastical in its potential success rate. Wesker was selfish, entitled, cold, cruel, sadistic, and all the unsettling characteristics trapped in-between. He was no gentle and misunderstood prince that was merely trapped behind the mirage of a vile beast cast upon him by some evil witch or wizard. There was no evil spell for you to break with a soft touch and a kind magic word. No true love's kiss to save the day and bring you a well deserved happily ever after.
Even though it was a fantasy you could occasionally indulge in, real life was very far from a fairytale.
You could've ended it all, you could've gone out with your head held high and on your own terms. What's the point of keeping yourself alive if you had no dignity left to defend? You could've proclaimed yourself a noble hero, someone who'd much rather take their own life than be used for evil. Sure, you'd never live to see the recognition of your selfless sacrifice, but... At the very least, you'd keep a clean conscience on you.
And yet, there were also reasons you've chosen to stay. Reasons beyond just being kept there against your will to complete your mission. As far as you were concerned, you've fulfilled your mission years ago already. You were still here, though. Still standing. Still feeling the firm pressure of his rough fingers wrapped around your own, in equal measure confining as they were grounding. Of course you've wondered about why you still stayed. But you've also wondered why he let you stay.
Perhaps it was that unfulfilled curiosity that has kept you here for so long. Even knowing he would never give you the satisfaction of realizing you were indeed special to him, you still wanted to get a glimpse behind the curtain one day - to prove that there really was more to him than he let on. It was your stubbornness, maybe. Or just foolishness. That's what he would say, anyway.
But you knew you weren't just seeing things, either. His actions spoke louder than words. Someone like Wesker didn’t allow touch - not without control behind it.
He could forcibly yank someone near him or place his foot on their neck at any time if it allowed him to look down upon them with that spine chilling tyrannical gleam in his eye, but he would never be seen lightly touching someone's shoulder or providing a reassuring pat on the back. And he certainly didn't enjoy it when that was done to him, either. You had to learn that the hard way in the first few weeks you've spent with him. Back then, he looked at you as if you weren't even a living, breathing being worth paying any heed to, more like some bothersome toy to be commanded and hauled around as he wanted.
That's how it started, anyway. It was far from a romantic meet-cute for you two, that's for sure. In the beginning, he only ever reached out for you and your hand out of practical necessity, nothing more. He merely didn't want you to get lost in the crowd and end up somewhere he didn't plan for you to be. Albert Wesker treasured his time, after all. He'd much rather prefer to concentrate on what truly mattered rather than squander his time trying to find you among the crowd. So, his hand would wordlessly wrap itself around your wrist like a vice, and not let go for a second until he was sure you'd stay right where he needed you to be like the good little pet you were. Really, it was more humiliating for you than touching. At least, that's how you felt about it in the moment, face heating up with frustrated embarrassment and your lips pressing together into a thin line to stop yourself from saying something stupid that would probably get you killed.
But that didn't stop you from still occasionally letting your mouth run wild on him. That would get his attention. You still remember how your heart sprang up to your throat the first time Wesker had abruptly gripped your entire face in one hand, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he all but yanked you close, a quick reminder of where you truly stood with him. Back then, your life had quite literally literally flashed before your eyes right then and there. You were confident that this was finally the end for you. And what a stupid way to go, having your neck snapped by some crazy megalomaniac instead of some heroic feat of glory, all because you just had to open your big dumb mouth and call him out on his egotistical bullshit.
But... It's been almost a decade since that fateful day, and your head remained securely attached to your neck. You didn't even need to credit that to some life altering virus. It took you a while, but eventually, you figured out why he let you go relatively unharmed for your occasional antics. He may have appeared utterly cold and emotionless at first glance, but the truth was that he actually enjoyed the struggle. He enjoyed having you talk back to him once every few days or so when your resolve would waver. He enjoyed the challenge and the thrill of pushing and intimidating and forcing that fiery will of yours to slither right back into the safety of your inner thoughts.
It turned out that even Albert Wesker could become bored. No wonder he suddenly started purposefully tormenting you with coarse words and forceful touches for seemingly no good or logical reasoning. It was his very twisted way of taking a quick break and relaxing instead of taking a nap or doodling like a normal person would. A rather twisted and sadistic one, sure, but also fitting for a man like him.
...You weren't sure if you should have felt honored or insulted to be given the unspoken new title of his personal stress toy. But you tried to concentrate on the fact that it at least kept you alive and standing for the time being. His scarce touches of practical necessity have somehow shifted into a calculated game of poking and prodding instead, a scheme with the sole goal of uncovering each and every single way possible to make you tick. No longer would he ignore you as if you did not exist in his vicinity. Instead, you'd find yourself wishing he wouldn't pay you as much close attention to you as he did.
Anything that made you squirm, jump, or shudder would elicit a deep chuckle of approval from him. It demonstrated your continued usefulness for his amusement, sure, but it simultaneously kicked your already ruined sense of pride even further into the ground. Sacrificing your pride for your life wasn't so bad, you supposed, there were far worse fates out there. But it didn't mean you had to appreciate it whenever he'd grab at your chin or run his fingers down the length of your spine in a way that was very far from comforting.
It was nerve-wracking to say the least.
He was like a cat playing with a mouse without ever intending to end its torment and devour it; all he did was relish the excitement of seeing you try to scurry away and fight fruitlessly to escape from his claws. You could never predict whether he'd be soft and gentle with you, or forceful and downright cruel. Of course, you were well aware that he did this on purpose. Everything he did held some sort of bigger purpose to it. Even the most gentlest of touches can be cruel if all they do is make you wonder if something terrible is about to happen once it's over. This contrast of hot and cold, of you never fully breaking but still conceding to his whims - was exactly what has kept you under his watchful eye for this long without you being discarded.
You couldn't recall the exact time when that has also began to shift. Perhaps instead of one pivotal moment, it was a series of smaller ones. You did recall the first time you touched him without him recoiling or clamping down on your wrist like a vise.
Stress toy or not, you still had the privilege of remaining by his side far longer than most. Excella's injections provided him with the horrifying strength that elevated him far above any living human, but they also had their drawbacks. He'd always get a bit more... intense after them. And you were the one who had to handle that.
Of course it was you. Excella was far too important to waste her time on something like this; she'd simply leave you to it with a saccharine smile and a sympathetic pat on your arm that was as far away from genuine as they come. She knew you wouldn't be enjoying yourself in any way. You could have been irritated by her arrogant looks, but you couldn't really blame her either. Hell, you'd probably do the exact same thing if you switched places with her. You were not a flawless angel, either.
Wesker never suffered the same horrifying effects you were unfortunate enough to witness with your own eyes a couple of times. After all, he was unique, one of a kind. Ouroboros has accepted him, a privilege granted to very few. If your never-ending streak of bad luck was any indication, you'd most likely be denied this privilege, too. But that didn't mean he was entirely unaffected by it, either. You had no idea if he was hurting. If he was, you'd guess he wouldn't show it to you easily, anyway. However, he would become noticeably more frantic and woozy for perhaps an hour or two. Whether he was in pain or not might have been unclear, but the cold sheen of sweat on his brow and the strain in his breath spoke of some discomfort, at the very least.
Additionally, there were behavioral shifts, too. Those were the ones you've always dreaded the most. On your regular days, Wesker might have been harsh, nasty, and arrogant merely to toy with you and irritate you enough to justify punishing you later. But it was at least calculated on his end. For those crucial hours following his injections, you couldn't say the same. You could handle him rambling on about concepts your feeble brain couldn't even begin to comprehend: from all the evolutionary failures of humankind to the potential of godhood, or a simmering anger towards a man from the past that should've been left buried and incoherent tangents on the memories you couldn't fully discern. They were confusing, yes, but your life has long since stopped making sense. Besides, it didn't seem like he was even all that interested in your feedback. Most of the time, you couldn't even tell if he was speaking to you or to himself.
You preferred it that way, frankly.
But there were occasions when he would become erratic, restless, irritated. If Albert Wesker was unpredictable in his normal state, whenever he'd get like this, that unpredictability would be upped to eleven. And wasn't the entire purpose of stress toys to release those kinds of emotions? So, that's exactly what you'd be used for. You'd take him toying with you on purpose over him hauling you close by your neck or slamming you into the nearest wall on any day of the week. He didn't even seem to be enjoying it. It felt like you were simply being used as the closest thing to take his frustrations out on.
You could take being treated as a tool, but you never did grow used to fearing for your life.
You couldn't remember if you did so just out of sheer desperation to avoid getting roughed up again, or out of some strange genuine feelings of twisted attachment you've formed after so long stuck in captivity, but- On one of those frantic nights, instead of covering away from him like you usually would, you reached out and... touched him. Apprehensively, gently, not expecting anything in return and with nothing left to lose. You remembered that his cheek felt hot to the touch - too hot to be normal - his skin clammy with sweat.
You also remembered that, to your complete surprise, he didn't recoil from you at that moment. Perhaps your hand simply felt nice and cool against the abnormal heat his body and mind were burning up with as his physical being scrambled to adjust to the injection and its effects. You had no idea, and he never actually told you, either. You just knew that he leaned into your touch, a heavy exhale falling from his chapped lips that sounded downright labored. That was also the first time you've gotten a real, proper look at those eyes of his. Eyes that could not belong to a human being no more. In the darkness of his private study, your round pupils met his snake-like slit ones: red, pulsating, and almost glowing dimly. You didn't know back then that this signature glow you were so mesmerized by seemed to be somehow tied to his emotions. You just found yourself thinking that it was... oddly beautiful.
Though, considering its actual origins, it was a rather strange and perverted kind of beauty. Not that you got to linger on that thought for too long. Because before you could do as much as utter a single word to him to break the tense silence between you, he wordlessly pulled you in by your shoulders, and suddenly his heated mouth was on you.
You remember being horrified with yourself for actually enjoying it after it had long ended and you were left rinsing off the residual sweat from your body. Although what you really wanted to rinse off was your creeping sense of shame.
That was one hell of a post-nut clarity for you, that's for sure. You were meant to hate this man, weren't you? Hate him with every fiber of your being, and you'd be more than justified in that hatred. But you couldn't deny the humiliating truth in the way your limbs have buzzed with pleasant warmth and your mind has flashed back to the heated memories of the few hours prior.
It was... nice to actually feel in control for once. It was also nice to receive pleasure without any strings attached for a change. The truth was, you definitely needed that, and you enjoyed it thoroughly.
Neither you nor he discussed it with each other later. You didn't have the guts to bring it up with him. That single night of shared vulnerability did not instantly alter the existing status quo between you. But it was the first little nudge that made the first domino piece drop. You could no longer regard him as just your brutal captor, no matter how much you might have wanted to. Especially now that you knew how he tasted on your tongue, or how his breath would stutter slightly when your hands pulled at his hair just right.
You could have been just as ruthless with him, or at least tried to while the chance presented itself. It would be only fair, after all. And yet, your touches were anything but. Excella would touch and caress him every time she cooed in his ear about this new world they were creating together, but you weren't intrusive nor demanding in the the way that you touched him.
You didn't bend to his will completely and you still took charge, but you never truly attempted to step on his toes, either. Perhaps that was the catalyst for true change. Somehow, eventually, that has become an unspoken routine for you two. He didn't force you into accepting it per se. Though, to be completely fair, not that you ever tried to refuse him. And perhaps that was for the better.
To be honest, you simply didn't mind it. You've already learned to make the best of your circumstances, and this arrangement was certainly way more beneficial to you than simply being used as a walking stress ball on the good days, and as a full-on punching bag on the bad ones, being given little to no agency at all. But with this, whenever Wesker reached for you or drew you in during one of his episodes, you could set the pace. You could control your own pleasure. You could genuinely connect to him in a very strange way for a brief moment in time.
You'd think someone like him would be a selfish lover, taking what he needs and leaving you there once he got his fill. But that didn't appear to bring him all that much pleasure. In fact, he seemed to get off on the fact that he was the one who'd have you shaking underneath him, your head utterly overwhelmed with the pleasure he was giving you, whether that was his long and expert fingers or him filling you. Without a doubt, the intense pleasure he would provide you made begging seem far less degrading in the moment.
And the longer it went on, the bolder you became. You were initially hesitant to do as much as cup his cheek or place your hands on his heated chest, too concerned about his reaction. But then, once you've figured out that he didn't want a simple obedient toy that simply does whatever he tells it to - after all, he already had plenty of those, variety is what keeps things entertaining - you've grown more and more sure of yourself. You would take advantage of the fact that your touch seemed to calm the hot fever that would rage through his body and mind during such moments. A caress over his hot forehead here. Your hands moving up and down his back in a comforting caress there. Never biting off more than you could chew. Even while you may have had every right to do so, you never tried to hurt him or put him down below you.
Until one day, you somehow got to touch him without it turning into one of those heated moments of passion. You remember him rambling on frantically about things long forgotten, names you didn't know, memories you didn't have any access to, unsolved grudges festering inside his brain like a raging tumor. You didn't know what nudged you into placing a gentle hand on his arm, your thumb swiping over the warm fabric of his dress shirt in a way that was... very simple. Not a suggestion, not an invitation, nor even a question. Just a mere touch of comfort he probably didn't deserve. However, your heart has long stopped thinking rationally. Good or not, this man was all you knew now.
You didn't have any special blood cells on you or unique DNA to exploit. You weren't particularly strong physically or intelligent, and your name alone didn't hold any weight or influence to it, either.
You were a nobody. A dumb, unlucky human who was unfortunate enough to be used for what little you could provide. And yet, all of that aside, somehow, you could offer him something nobody else could. A quiet companionship with nothing to gain. You weren't Excella, a brilliant and confident young woman, pushing her ambitions to gain more power. You weren't Jill, a broken soldier that was forcefully molded into nothing more than a tool with no sense of autonomy left remaining. And you weren't even Chris, a name still a complete mystery to you, but an impact of which was undeniable even to someone like you.
You were just... you. You were just by his side. Nothing to gain, nothing to push, nothing to win. And you freely offered him your touch and comfort without using it against him. You supposed, that's what made him slump into your arms on that night. You did nothing more than simply hold him through it. And ever since then, his touches have lost all sense of logical purpose that still remained. They were just... there, just like you were. Granted, you never really pressed him to explain himself. But it did become a strange kind of routine between you.
...You'd never take someone like Albert Wesker as particularly touchy or clingy, and yet-
His foot would touch yours under the table during meetings, his head would loll itself onto your shoulder the moment Excella would take her leave after administrating his regular injections, his arm would loop over your middle and stay there as he gave off his orders, and... His hand would find yours whenever he made his rounds. Instead of holding onto your wrist, now he'd securely lock your fingers together.
Granted, you still would be sooner caught dead in the ditch than to call him a romantic, even now. His touches felt sloppy half the time: far too rough and stiff to be considered swoon-worthy. But in some roundabout way, that's exactly what made them feel more genuine than the ones he subjected you to before this.
Now, he reached for you out of want rather than necessity. A want that went further than mere boredom. Instead, it was a quiet desire to feel you under his touch and indulge in you one way or another. To feel close to you.
His fingers were long and slender, oddly soft to the touch without his usual leathery gloves covering them. You'd expect them to be rough and dry, but instead, they were rather pleasant to the touch. Warm, too. But he was constantly warm, definitely warmer than a normal human being should be. You supposed, that was a perk whenever you'd get particularly chilly in the colder months.
Similar to tonight. You didn't get many chances to get out and enjoy the outdoors, but this secluded balcony would suffice. There was supposed to be a full moon tonight, and the night air felt especially icy against your cheeks as you watched your breaths transform into small puffs of fog that vanished into the night. You did grab yourself a jacket before you went out, but you still found yourself shivering a little whenever a particularly harsh gust of wind would blow through you. The crystal-clear night sky here was one of the very few benefits of spending the rest of your days here. You wouldn't see the stars or the moon nearly as clearly back home, where the city lights were all the constellations there were to admire. But out here, tucked far away from the world to keep some very terrible secrets hidden from sight, the sky looked deceptively lovely.
It sort of reminded you of Wesker, in a way.
It seemed as though you could just reach up and touch the stars as they twinkled down at you, let them carry you away from here and up into the wonderful emptiness of space with them. But... Of course, you weren't that naive. Even this magnificent beauty above you was misleading in nature. Who knows how many of those stars were still even there, still just as bright and full of life as you saw them as. All you could see down here were mere echoes of stars that had long since been left behind in the past.
You were not sure how long you've been up here, reminiscing and contemplating. As of recently, you seemed to really struggle with the concept of time quite a bit. Whatever the case, it was long enough for a familiar calm voice to suddenly reach your ears from somewhere behind you.
"-You'll get sick if you stay out there any longer. Go back inside. Your dinner is waiting for you."
You lowered your head with a gentle, somewhat amused huff, but you did not immediately turn around to face him. Words like that would probably sound sweet and romantic coming from anyone else. However, you were well aware that for him, that was only a factual statement, nothing more. You catching a cold would render you useless for him for at least a week, and your dinner was always brought to you daily at a strict schedule. After all, proper nutrition is essential for both mental and physical wellness, or so you'd expect him to say in that matter-of-factly tone of his. You knew him and his mannerisms well enough by now. Albert Wesker was a creature of logic. On most days, at least.
That did not mean that you'd stop yourself from selfishly enjoy this small fantasy of yours just for a little bit longer.
"Why? Don't tell me you missed me."
You weren't serious, of course. You weren't even being sneaky or anything. It was just some light-hearted fun on your part. You weren't in the mood to play the risky game of teasing him tonight. You heard him scoff under his breath in a way that sounded kind of similar to a petulant huff. You wouldn't call him out on it. That was an observation you'd silently keep to yourself with a tiny smile as you listened to him approach, the fancy leather of his coat crinkling with every step he took.
"I am simply ensuring my assets remain in adequate condition. I need you at your best tomorrow morning. Not bleary-eyed and confused."
You'll take that as a yes.
"Good thing you came to remind me, then," you said simply, turning around to face him with a faint smile. Over the years, you've most likely gone a bit nuts. The you from the past would have been furious with you for acting like this: shooting easy smiles and following along with the very same horrible man who's been a deadly thorn in your side for so long. However, you figured that the past is in the past for a reason. All you had at hand is now.
And now, Wesker's composed stare was fixed upon you. Calculating and a little bit intimidating, as it usually was. His expression was as impassive as ever, too, but his gloved hand was already outstretched towards you, no words spoken for you to understand the hint. You did not hesitate to take it, allowing him to lead you out of the balcony and into the warmth of the study. His hand was quick to warm up your frosty fingers, and you couldn't help but compare him to a living heater of sorts. Of course, you would never dare to utter such a thought aloud, either.
But it was a nice joke.
Once you were inside, he still wouldn't let go of your hand, and this time you couldn't hide your growing smile at the observation.
"...You're in an unusually good mood tonight," Wesker remarked dryly, his grip on your hand tightening imperceptibly. But you couldn't help but notice a fleeting hint of curiosity behind those shades. You've learned to read him way better than he probably even knew. He was always a creature of curiosity. For worse... But also, sometimes, for the better. Like now. He huffed, quirking a brow: "I hope this isn't some attempt at sentimentality."
You're one to talk, Albert.
But you merely shrugged, nodding slightly toward your still joined hands.
"No, it's just... I noticed how you still hold my hand even though it's just us here," you said, squeezing at his hand a bit for emphasis. You were aware that this was a risky action on your part. It was a gamble whether or not he'd appreciate you actually pointing out the lack of logic in his actions. But you hoped... You hoped that your obviously positive reception would smooth over the potential hit to his pride.
If Wesker was irritated by your remark, he did not show it. But then again, he was never very open and blatant with his emotions, outside of an hour or two after his injections. He wouldn't make it easy for you to figure out what he really thought beneath that stoic demeanor of his. But that wasn't bad. You've discovered that you liked the challenge of unraveling the intricate jigsaw piece that is Albert Wesker. Just like he seemed to like the challenge of deciphering your feelings for him as they shifted and changed over the years.
"And... What sort of conclusion does that observation lead you to, then?" He honestly seemed more curious than peeved off, much to your relief. You were lucky to catch him on a good day, then. You'll take that.
You took a moment or two to consider your response. What was your conclusion exactly? Was there even one? The truth was that you mostly said it just for the sake of it. Not to necessarily prove something or get a particular answer out of him. "That you... like touching me?"
He scoffed, disappointed: "How simplistic."
You nearly sighed and rolled your eyes. He wasn't wrong, but he didn't have to make it sound like an insult. You tipped your head up, feeling a bit more emboldened, and gave him a defiant look. A lighthearted one, of course, you'd never have the guts to genuinely defy him, but a testament to your change over the years nonetheless.
"Well, not everything has to be complex to have worth, you know. Some things are worth valuing because of their simplicity, don't you think?"
The corner of his mouth twitched up into an amused smirk, and you could see that he was intrigued by your quiet but firm argument, just as you had anticipated. This time, he didn't try to disguise it from you. You were no Excella, who could probably compete with him when it came to debating some scientific material you couldn't even begin to understand by yourself. You couldn't possibly try to challenge him on something that he knew well. This included many complex things. But you could offer him some perspectives he wouldn't get to hear from anyone otherwise, precisely because you came from a world so different from his own. Of course, that didn't mean he'd actually consider what you had to say, but... You supposed, he found your worldview entertaining enough to humor you sometimes.
"Hm. And your belief is that touch is one of those simple things worth valuing then. Correct?" he inquired, though you honestly weren't sure whether he was being curious or just sarcastic with you. Knowing him, you'd say it was probably the latter. But who knows. There may be a few sincere notes of curiosity mixed in there.
He pulled you into him, making you brace yourself against him with a hand to his chest. He did have a heartbeat. He was still flesh and bone, just like you. Technically. When it came down to such basic things, you often pondered just how different he really was from you. You both could bleed, you both could feel. And yet, it appeared like he was holding himself up on a plane of existence that was so far removed from you.
Wesker hummed lowly, continuing his train of thought.
"Touch... It's among the five most basic of human senses. The simplest, most primitive way for human beings to seek comfort... Connection."
As he spoke in that slow, precise delivery of his that you were subjected to many times before, his free hand came up to rest on the small of your back. The smooth baritone of his voice was so close to your ear that you had to admit it was a little bit difficult for you to focus on what he was saying at all. It made you shiver involuntarily. That said, you did not waver, even if you did need to swallow and wet your lips before speaking up.
"True... When we are first brought into this world, torn away from the warm safety of the womb, the first thing to bring us comfort is the warm touch of our mother," you murmured thoughtfully.
For a moment, you pondered whether he even had a mother. But then again, that seemed to be a stupid thought: he was brought into this world one way or another. There were only so many ways to accomplish that, after all. But he also wasn't exactly like anyone else on this Earth. You didn't really think of it before, but that sounded... kind of lonely. He seemed to parade his uniqueness as something that gave him a tremendous advantage, not a flaw or a setback, but... How would you feel if you could wield a power that nobody else in the world could comprehend or share with you?
The thought prompted you to caress the back of his hand with your thumb, almost instinctively on your part. You must have gone completely mad, feeling sympathy for a man like him when he's never once asked for it, and yet, you didn't even try to hold back the next words that fell from your lips in a soft murmur: "...Touch may be simple, but it's the one thing we crave when everything gets too much to handle on our own."
"...You speak boldly," you heard him say, a somewhat uncharacteristic pause to his words that wasn't as familiar to you as everything else about it. He certainly still didn't sound soft, or sentimental. But with someone like him, you'd catch on and cling to even the tiniest of changes, however absurd that may have been of you. "Almost as if you think you understand me."
That prompted you to raise your head. Some part of you hated that he was wearing those shades right now - you wanted to look him in the eyes. It was hard to understand him. It always was. Just as before, he stood motionless, silently maintaining eye contact with little openings for you to take. But he was still touching you. He was still holding your hand and allowing you to to touch him in turn. Impassive tone or not, that stupid calculating look of his or not, that had to mean something. Albert Wesker didn't do anything randomly.
"-Do I?" You simply mirrored upfront. With great care, your hand that was resting on his chest slowly moved up, gliding across his shoulder, tracing up the side of his neck, and ultimately coming to rest over his cheekbone. It wasn't really sensual or teasing. It was sincere on your part. He was free to either lean in or step away from you, should he only wish to.
He did not provide you with any definitive response, positive or negative, but you didn't anticipate that he would. The slow intake of breath and the subtle tense of his jaw under your fingertips was more than enough for you. Wesker was a creature of extremes. Either he showed as little as humanely possible, or it all would explode all at once like a raging volcano, no holding back at all, for better and for worse. However, this sufficed. Him letting you touch him sufficed. Him not responding to you right away more than sufficed. Instead, your question lingered in the air around you - a simple one, yes, but just as you told him, some things can be worth examining because of their simplicity, not in spite of it.
Finally, he moved, lifting his hand from the small of your back to clasp it around your wrist. It wasn't a harsh grip, nor was it to yank your hand away from his face. Just... there.
"Perhaps..." He mused thoughtfully, his voice quiet, curious. He had never looked at you like that before, as far as you could recall. You were no stranger to his curiosity: he was a scientist, after all. But the sharp gleam in his ruby eyes beneath those shades was something new. Almost like he was seeing something he hasn't noticed about you before. Although you didn't know if that was a good or a terrible thing for you, you did know that his attention caused your heart to race in your chest. He could probably feel it, too, with the pad of his thumb resting on the underside of your wrist. "Perhaps you do see more than I give you credit for."
And somehow, he truly didn't need to say anything else. There was no one there to see you right now, save for the full moon and the stars above, but your hands remained clasped together. He didn't need to explain that need to you. You felt it, too, after all. It was simple. But it was the same simplicity that allowed you to slowly work your way into his heart in the first place. Or... Whatever analogy of a heart he possessed. But you knew his heart could feel, however human or inhuman it might have been. His touch was your sole and irrefutable proof of that.
And it was through touch that you could communicate without saying a single word.
there’s just smth so tragic yet comforting beneath those steel colored eyes: you find a scared little boy still calling out to his mother and twin brother, afraid and alone. a shattered soul who forsook his humanity, tearing himself apart bit by bit, mourning the man who he once was.
Notes: i'll silently drop this drabble here and run awaaay @falsevacuum @morganroot92 @lawfulrogue @scarlunesstuff
image is from this post
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Zeno had no idea how touch starved he was until he met you.
At first, It's hard to believe someone would love him with no ill-intent behind it and not as a way to use him, but simply because they care. So, when he eventually loosens up around you and decides to let his guard down, Zeno allows his heart to slowly open up to you.
Gradually, small kisses turn to longer, lingering ones, either on your knuckles, lips, neck, cheeks, temple. It doesn't matter, his lips will brush, stroke and kiss each patch of your skin, any part they could get to, just so he knows you're there. His usual quick embrace turns to frequent tight hugs, desperately holding onto you like a lifeline, calmly inhaling your sweet scent, a stark contrast to the tobacco aroma stuck to his expensive clothing. His golden eyes always seem to follow your figure anytime you're around, somehow entranced by the way you make his thoughts cloud. More times than one, when you two are in public, he makes sure to protectivey keep a steady hand on your waist or lower back.
Zeno adores the pout you give him when he unexpectedly ruffles your hair, often laughing at your annoyed expression, which doesn't last long since he would rather go through hell than have you be mad at him, so he places a soft peck on your lips with an almost quiet apology, before his deft fingers thoroughly fix your messy hair. It's innocent moments like this that make him seem like a completely different man. This side of Zeno reserved only for you.
However, there are times when the urge to be as close to you as possible drives him to request certain physical intimacies, mostly for the need for comfort over pleasure, like when Zeno can't help but ask you to cockwarm him, which you delightfully agree to.
Today it feels longer than usual. Maybe because your memory blurred between the moment you walked into his dimly lit office, up until the point where you're straddling his lap right now, your skirt slightly bunched up, barely hiding the closeness of both your bodies, the way his full lengh is buried deep inside you.
Zeno is focused on his work, tranquilly reading a pile of documents he has little to no interest in. His hands aren't even touching you, yet you silently crave for them to roam your body. It's intoxicating, having to stay still like this, aching for any type of friction. Your eyes blink, your head nuzzles deeper into his chest, already dazed. The delicious feeling of him stretching you out is purely maddening as your walls tightly clench around Zeno's throbbing cock. You wanted to do this for him, you wanted to be patient, but he makes it so difficult.
"Sweetheart, stay still, please.", he whisprrs, his deep, velvety voice going straight to your core, and he can feel it.
Zeno knows how sensitive you can become in a position like this. He can't deny dragging out your pleasure is one of his favorite things. Allthough he likes to pretend hs isn't affected by the way your pussy perfectly wraps around him, his composure teeters on the edge of breaking nearly betrays him. Unexpectedly, Zeno's self control briefly falters the second his ears pick up the smallest whimper coming from you and his breath hitches, a blazing heat suddenly washes all over him, his cock excitedly twitches inside you.
"Fuck, Zeno.", you mewl, fingernails digging into his shoulder, your hips weakily thrust forward, the familiar tingle of his cockhead hitting that sweet spot inside causing a breathy moan to fall from your lips, back arching.
"How impatient you are.", a low growl escapes him. Zeno sharply inhales, his voice softens. "Baby, please. I still have a lot of work to do.", his tone deepens. "I promise there is a reward for you afterwards."
Roughly biting your lower lip, you try to steady your erratic breathing, the pounding of your heart. You try to fight the urge to rub your clit, knowing it would only lead to punishment and no satisfying reward. You close your eyes, mind attempting to linger on the pleasant pressure buildimg in your aching core. Even when you feel his length swell up inside you, you eagerly resist the impulse to selfishly stimulate yourself.
Hazily, your eyes travel upward, looking up at him with a lust-filled gaze.
"Okay, fine.", you give him a sly smile. "But hurry up or I won't last long."
"Brat.", Zeno huffs out a laugh, a smirk painted on his lips.
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!!!
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── .✦ 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.
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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.
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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."
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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."
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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.
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"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.
