“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”
sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.
——————-
the headache you wake with is devastating.
biblically so.
and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.
and fuck, suffering you are.
you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.
practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.
wait - practically? no. you did.
you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.
“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
fuck sakes.
you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.
and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.
“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.
his dog tags.
you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.
a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.
you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.
spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.
it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?
fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.
and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.
finally, you knock.
it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.
you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.
you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”
he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.
you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.
you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”
his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.
“did i?” he doesn’t move.
you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.
“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”
he still doesn’t take them.
“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”
your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”
he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”
you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.
“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.
“i-“
you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.
simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.
you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”
“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”
and there it is. here it comes.
“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”
“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.
silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.
you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.
when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”
your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.
“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”
“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”
oh god.
“shame?”
“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”
“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“
he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”
“walk me-“
earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”
“you don’t-you don’t have to-“
he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.
“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”
you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.
part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.
“look, simon-“
he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”
you blink, holding your breath.
“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”
fucking hell.
“yes.” you exhale.
“what was it.”
your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.
“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”
“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”
your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.
“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.
and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.
he doesn’t buy it.
“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”
christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.
this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.
“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”
“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”
you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”
“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”
“simon-“
he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”
it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.
clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.
“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”
it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.
“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”
his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.
his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—
“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”
your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.
“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”
your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“
“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”
you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.
“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”
“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”
something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.
“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”
his mouth is barely a breath from yours.
“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”
he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.
“fuckin hell.”
and then he’s kissing you.
no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.
“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.
you blink, dazed. “i-what?”
his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.
“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”
“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“
that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.
“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”
you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.
“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”
you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”
he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.
you fucking moan at the sight.
and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.
he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.
“oh, fuck-“
he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”
his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.
“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”
you’re panting now. shaking.
“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“
“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”
you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.
“tell me.”
“no-n-never like this—”
he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”
your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.
“simon-“ you whinge.
he cuts you off. “look at me.”
you do. barely.
“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”
you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.
it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.
“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”
you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.
“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”
you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.
when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.
“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”
you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.
the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“
he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”
you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.
you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.
“y’remember what else y’said last night?”
you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.
“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”
you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.
“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”
and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.
“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.
“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”
he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.
“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“
“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”
he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.
“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”
“fuck simon-“
“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”
it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.
it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.
he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.
“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”
he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.
you shriek, squirming with no where to go.
“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”
your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.
“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”
“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“
you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.
“mhm. messy little thing.”
he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.
“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”
you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.
“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”
“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“
“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”
you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.
“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”
another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“
“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”
a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—
“fuck—fuck.”
he lets go.
he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.
and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.
he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.
“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
Your hands grip the wheel a little tighter than necessary, eyes flicking to the rearview every few seconds. His truck looms there, steady and unhurried, headlights cutting through the dusk like he owns the road.
Like he owns this—whatever this is.
You don’t shake him. Don’t try to. By the time you pull into your driveway, the sun’s dipped low, painting everything in that bruised purple hue that makes the world feel smaller.
More intimate.
He parks behind you. Engine rumbling to a stop, then silence.
You get out first, keys jingling in your hand as you lead the way to the door. He follows without a word, boots crunching on the gravel, close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back before you even turn the knob.
Inside, the house smells like clean linen and faint vanilla from your wax warmer you forgot to turn off this morning.
Normal.
Safe.
That is.. until he steps in behind you.
The door clicks shut, and suddenly it’s not your space anymore.
It’s his.
You don’t look at him right away. Can’t.
Instead, you head to the kitchen, flipping on the light, pulling ingredients from the fridge like this is routine.
Steak—two thick cuts you’d picked up earlier, when you were hoping he’d agree.
Potatoes, butter, salt.
Simple, but real.
The kind of meal that says thank you without screaming it.
He watches from the doorway, arms crossed, filling the frame like he’s too big for it.
Grease still clings to his forearms, dark smudges against the faded ink of his tattoos, like it’s seeped into his skin.
Permanent.
You wonder, briefly, what it would feel like.
Not washing it off.
Letting it mark you too.
“You don’t have to hover..” you say, forcing lightness into your voice as you unwrap the steaks, laying them on the counter.
“Sit. Or... something.” A low sound escapes him—almost a huff. Amusement? You can’t tell.
He moves then, slow, pulling out a stool at the island. But he doesn’t sit right away. Leans against it instead, eyes on you as you season the meat, rub it down with oil and herbs.
Precise…focused.
Like you’re under inspection.
“So..” he starts, voice gravel-rough from the day. “You do this often? Cook for strangers?”
You glance up, knife pausing mid-chop on the potatoes.
His gaze is steady, unblinking.
Waiting.
“Not strangers..” you murmur, dropping the cubes into a pot of boiling water.
“And you’re not.”
He tilts his head, just slightly. “That right?”
“Yeah.”
You turn to the stove, lighting the burner under the cast iron skillet. The sizzle starts almost immediately when you add a little butter, filling the air with that rich, promising scent.
“You fixed my car. Saved me from... whatever was on the road.”
“Could’ve been worse.” he says, finally settling onto the stool. His knees brush the island’s edge, legs stretching out like he’s claiming territory.
“You alright? After.” Your back’s to him now, but you feel it—that weight in his words. Not just asking about the breakdown. Digging deeper.
You nod, even though he can’t really see it.
“Yeah. Just... shook me up.”
The steak hits the pan, searing loud and fast. You flip it once, twice, timing it careful.
Don’t want it overdone.
It needs to be perfect, for him.
He’s quiet for a beat, then— “You came looking for me quick.”
There’s no accusation in it. Just fact.
Heat creeps up your neck—not from the stove. You plate the steaks, fork the potatoes alongside, drizzle a little gravy you’d whipped up from the drippings.
Simple.
Hearty.
The kind of dinner that warms from the inside out. You slide his across the island, meeting his eyes as you do. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”
Too honest. But his mouth quirks—just the corner, barely there—and he doesn’t call you on it. Just picks up the fork, cuts into the steak like he’s testing you.
The knife slides clean through, pink center revealed. “Looks good.” he says, and takes a bite. Slow.
Deliberate.
You sit across from him, picking at your own plate, but eating feels secondary now. The air’s thicker, charged, every glance between you pulling tighter. He eats like a man who works with his hands—efficient, no waste. But his eyes... they don’t leave you. Not for long.
“So what’s this really about, dove?” he asks midway through, fork pausing. “The road. Or me?”
His fork hovers there, steak juices pooling on the plate, but he doesn’t eat. Just waits patiently..Like he’s got all night to unravel you.
You set your own fork down, the clink too loud in the quiet kitchen. Your plate’s barely touched—appetite gone, replaced by that low hum in your veins. The one that started back at the shop and hasn’t let up since.
“Both..” you admit, voice softer than you mean it to be. “It was... empty. The breakdown. Like the world just stopped, and you were the only thing that didn’t.”
He nods, slow, like he gets it. Like he’s been there himself—stuck in the nothing, waiting for something real to pull him out. “Lot of roads like that..” he says, finally cutting another piece. But he doesn’t lift it to his mouth. “You drive ‘em long enough, they all start to look the same. Except when they don’t.”
His eyes meet yours again, dark and steady. No games. Just truth, hanging there between the steam rising from the potatoes. “And this one didn’t.” you finish for him, because you feel it too.
That pull. Inevitable, like he said.
He takes the bite then, chewing thoughtfully. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s loaded. Every second building on the last, until you’re hyper-aware of the way his throat works when he swallows, the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the grease—God, the grease—still etched into the lines of his knuckles like war paint.
You shift in your seat, thighs pressing together without meaning to.
It’s ridiculous. Dirty hands shouldn’t do this to you. Shouldn’t make your mind wander to places where clean doesn’t matter. Where you imagine those fingers—rough, stained, unapologetic—trailing over skin. Smearing.
Claiming.
“You’re staring.” he says, not looking up from his plate. But there’s a edge to it now. Heat floods your face. You drop your gaze to the counter, tracing the grain of the wood like it’ll save you. “Sorry. Just... thinking.”
“About?”
Don’t say it.
Don’t.
But the words come anyway, quieter this time. “Your hands.” He pauses. Fork down. Head tilting just enough to draw your eyes back up.
“That so.” It’s not a question. He leans forward, elbows on the island, forearms flexing under the rolled sleeves of his shirt. The grease is more visible up close—blackish streaks, ingrained, like it’s part of him. Mechanic’s mark. Proof of the work. The grit.
You swallow, mouth dry despite the dinner. “They’re... dirty. From the shop.” A low chuckle rumbles out of him, but it’s not light. It’s dark. Almost.. hungry.
“Yeah. Haven’t washed up proper yet. Figured you invited me as is.”
“As is..” you echo, and there’s something reckless in it. In the way you hold his gaze now, not shying away.
“I don’t mind.” His brows lift, just a fraction. Interest sharpening. “Don’t mind.”
“No.” Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. “I... like it.”
The air shifts. Thickens. The plates forgotten, the food cooling. He doesn’t move yet—just watches, like he’s weighing it.
You, and the invitation you surely didn’t mean to extend so plainly.
Then he does. He pushes back from the stool, slow and deliberate, rounding the island without a sound. Boots silent on the tile until they stop right behind you. Close.
Too close.
His heat seeps through your shirt, his breath ghosting the back of your neck as he leans in, one hand bracing the counter beside your hip. “You want dirty, dove?” he murmurs, voice rough as sandpaper. Low. Meant to sink into you. Your breath hitches. You don’t turn. Don’t dare. But your body leans back, just an inch, testing.
“Yeah.” you breathe. “I do.” His free hand comes up then, fingers grazing your jaw. Calloused and warm.
The faint tang of motor oil hits you, sharp and real, as he tilts your face toward him. You see it up close.. the grease, the stains, smudged across his skin like he doesn’t give a damn.
Like it’s earned.
He doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. Just traces his thumb over your lower lip, slow, pressing just enough to part them. Leaving a faint mark.
You taste it—bitter, metallic, alive. “Careful what you ask for.” he warns, but there’s no real threat in it. Just heat.
His thumb presses deeper, slipping just inside your mouth, and you don’t pull away. You taste the grit more fully now—oil and sweat and metal, a flavor that shouldn’t stir you but does.. it coils low in your belly, turning want into ache.
You close your lips around it, tentative, then bolder. Sucking lightly. His breath stutters—just once, barely audible—but you feel it in the way his grip tightens on the counter. The wood creaks under his fingers.
“Good girl..” he mutters, voice dropping an octave, rougher than the engine he must’ve been working on all day. He pulls his thumb free, trailing it down your chin, leaving a wet, dark smear. Marking you already, making your heart hammers.
You turn fully, stool scraping the floor as you face him. He’s close—towering over you, broad shoulders blocking the light from the overhead bulb, casting his face in shadow. Those eyes, though... they burn. Fixed on you like prey he’s decided to keep.
“Simon..” you whisper, because saying his name feels like giving in. Like sealing it. His hand slides to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there—heavy and warm, thumb brushing your pulse point. Grease transfers to your skin, faint and sticky, and oh if it doesn’t send a shiver straight down your spine.
“You sure about this?” he asks, but it’s not doubt. It’s confirmation. He’s giving you the out, even as his body crowds yours, knees parting your thighs where you sit.
You nod, fast, reaching for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer. The fabric’s worn, smells like shop and smoke, and under it, him—musk and heat and something feral.
“Yeah. I’m sure.” That’s all he needs. In one fluid motion, he’s on you—mouth crashing down, hard and claiming. No softness. No preamble. His lips are demanding, tongue sweeping in like he’s staking territory, tasting of steak and salt and a beer he must’ve had earlier.
You meet him desperately, hands fisting in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a growl from deep in his chest. He breaks the kiss first, only to trail his mouth along your jaw, down your neck. Biting—not gentle, teeth grazing skin until you gasp.
His hand at your throat slides lower, fingers splaying over your collarbone, smudging more of that grease across your chest as he yanks at the neckline of your shirt. Buttons pop. Fabric gives. Exposed. Cool air hits your skin, but his mouth follows—hot, wet, sucking a mark just above your bra. You arch into it, head falling back, but he doesn’t let you drift. The other hand grips your hip, hard enough to bruise, pulling you flush against him.
You feel him then—thick and insistent through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. It makes you bolder. Reckless. Your own hands wander, tracing the ridges of his abs under the shirt, up to his shoulders, then down. To those hands. You grab one, deliberate, bringing it to your chest. Guiding his palm over bare skin, right where the lace dips low.
“Make me dirty..” you breathe against his ear, voice breaking on the words. “Please.”
He stills for a split second—then chuckles, low and dark, the sound vibrating through you. “Filthy little thing, aren’t you?” No time for shame. He obliges, rough palm sliding under the cup, calluses scraping sensitive flesh as he palms your breast. Grease and sweat mix with your heat, slicking everything. It’s messy but real. You moan, loud and unfiltered, as his thumb circles your nipple, twisting just enough to border on pain.
“Like that?” he rasps, teeth nipping your earlobe. His free hand works your jeans open, zipper rasping loud in the quiet. “Want me to ruin you proper?”
“Yes.” you gasp, hips bucking as his fingers dip inside, finding you wet—too wet already. He groans, deep and guttural, two fingers pushing in without warning.
Thick, Stretching.
The grease makes it slide easier, but the burn... God, the burn. He works you slow at first—deliberate thrusts, thumb grinding against your clit in time with his mouth on your neck. Everywhere he touches leaves a trace—dark streaks on pale skin, blooming bruises under his grip.
You’re a blank clean canvas, and he’s painting you with filth.
Your hands scramble for his belt, fumbling, but he bats them away with a grunt. “Not yet, dove. Gonna take care of you with these fingers first.” The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder—igniting everything. You nod, frantic, nails digging into his shoulders as his fingers curl inside you, hitting that magic spot.
It's not gentle, not sweet. He's rough, thumb pressing hard on your clit, circling with intent, like he's trying to wring every sound out of you. And you give them freely—whimpers turning to moans, body rocking into his hand. The counter digs into your back, but you don't care. All that matters is the stretch, the slick slide of his fingers, coated now in you and that faint residue of oil that makes everything feel filthier.
His palm grinds against you with every thrust, smearing more of him onto your thighs, your hips, until you're marked inside and out. "Look at you..” he growls, mouth back at your ear, breath hot and ragged. "Taking it so well. Greedy little cunt, gripping like it never wants to let go."
His free hand pins your wrist to the counter, not letting you touch him, not letting you rush it. He's in control—utterly, completely—and the realization only makes you wetter. You feel it drip down his fingers, the mess of it all, and he chuckles again, low and approving.
"Come on, dove. Let me feel it. Soak my hand. Make it mine."
The command unravels you. Pressure builds, tight and unrelenting, until it snaps—hard. You cry out, back arching, thighs trembling around his wrist as waves crash through you. It's intense, blinding, your walls fluttering around his fingers, pulling him deeper. He doesn't stop, doesn't ease up—fucks you through it, drawing out every pulse until you're gasping, oversensitive and spent. Only then does he pull free, slow and deliberate.
You watch, dazed, as he brings his hand up—glistening with you, streaked with the dark remnants of his day. His eyes lock on yours, challenging, as he sucks two fingers clean. Tasting you mixed with the grit. His gaze darkens further, pupils blown wide. "Fuck..” he mutters, voice wrecked. "Taste even better than you look, all ruined."
You can't speak, can’t think. You Just reach for him again, tugging at his belt with shaking hands. This time, he lets you—watches, amused, as you fumble the buckle open, yank the zipper down. He's hard—painfully so—straining against the fabric of his boxers, and when you free him—thick, heavy, veins prominent under flushed skin—he groans, head tipping back for the first time. Your hand wraps around him, stroking tentative at first, then firmer. He's hot, velvet over steel, precome slicking your palm. But you want more. Want the dirt on him too. You guide his hand—the clean one this time—to your throat, then smear it yourself against his length, mixing it all. He snaps then. No more patience. Grabs your hips, spins you around in one rough motion, bending you over the island.
The edge bites into your stomach, plates clattering to the floor—steak forgotten, potatoes splattering to the floor, Irrelevant. His body covers yours, weight pressing you down, one hand fisting your hair to arch your neck. The other lines himself up, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock, dragging through the mess he's made of you.
“Gonna fuck you now..” he warns, though it's not really a warning. More a promise.
“Hard. Deep. Gonna make you scream.." You push back, desperate. "Please, Simon—" He thrusts in without mercy—one brutal slide that bottoms out, filling you completely. You cry out, the stretch bordering on too much, but it's perfect.
He stills for a heartbeat, letting you adjust, buried to the hilt, his grease-streaked chest pressing against your back through his shirt. Then he moves. Pulls out slow, almost all the way, before slamming back in. Setting a punishing rhythm—deep, relentless, the slap of skin echoing in the kitchen. His hand in your hair tightens, the other gripping your hip, fingers digging in, leaving crescent marks that you'll feel tomorrow.
You brace against the counter, meeting every thrust, the angle hitting deep, sparking aftershocks from your first orgasm. It's filthy—sweat-slick, the air thick with the scent of sex and oil and half-eaten dinner. His grunts punctuate each drive, low and animalistic, like he's been holding this back since the road. "Feel that?" he rasps, leaning down to bite your shoulder—hard enough to break skin, copper tang on his tongue. "All mine now. This pretty little thing—taking my cock like it was made for it. Greedy. Filthy."
His words brand you hotter than his thrusts, each one driving deeper, splitting you open. You can feel the grease from his hands everywhere—smeared on your hips where he grips, streaking your thighs from earlier, even a faint trace on your neck from when he marked your skin. It's all him, invading you, claiming every inch of your body and mind.
You love it.
Crave it.
The messiness makes it real, strips away the pretense until there's just raw need.
"Simon—fuck—" Your voice breaks on a moan as he angles his hips, hitting that spot inside relentlessly. The counter's cold under your palms, the floor is now a mess, but none of it matters. You're lost in the rhythm, in the way he fills you, stretches you, owns you with every brutal snap.
He growls low, hand leaving your hair to wrap around your front, fingers finding your clit again—slick, swollen. He rubs firm circles, matching the pace of his hips, not letting you come down from the edge. "That's it. Come for me again. Milk my cock, dove. Show me how bad you wanted this."
The pressure coils tight, impossibly fast after the first, his touch and words shattering you all over. It hits like a storm—waves crashing, body seizing around him, pulling him deeper as you scream his name. Vision blurring, every nerve alight with the intensity of it. You're clenching, fluttering, soaked and trembling, and he doesn't stop—fucks you through it, groaning as your walls grip him even tighter.
"Fuck—yes—" His voice cracks, control fraying at the edges. One hand slams down beside yours on the counter, the other digging bruises into your hip as his thrusts turn erratic, deeper, chasing his own release. You feel him swell inside you, hot and heavy, and then he breaks—burying himself to the hilt with a guttural roar, spilling deep. Pulse after pulse, filling you, marking you from the inside out. His weight slumps over you, breath ragged against your shoulder, grease-smeared chest heaving against your back.
For a long moment, there's nothing but the aftermath—the wet slide as he softens and pulls out, a trickle of him leaking down your thigh, mixing with everything else.
Dirty.
Ruined.
Exactly what you wanted.
He doesn't move right away. Just stays there, half-draped over you, lips brushing the bite mark on your shoulder in something almost tender.
Almost.
"Mine..”he murmurs, voice wrecked, possessive. Like the word was always true, from that empty road onward.
You turn your head, catching his gaze—dark, satisfied, with that same flicker of knowing. Acceptance settles heavier now, in the quiet, with the scent of sex and steak still lingering in the air.
You now realize, you didn't find him.
You found home.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
@oathoflightning tagging you because you’ve BEEN waiting <3
18+ only / all characters are 18+. corruption kink. tummy bulge. squirting. previous. | masterlist.
Simon Riley who says 'sorry' over and over while fucking innocent!reader, as though a crime were taking place as he hovers over your body.
It certainly feels like one: his big, bearish hands pinning your knees open while he carves inside of you with his mean, girthy dick, and a pair of adoring, wet eyes staring back at him making his chest pinch with guilt—and yet, makes his cockhead leak precum. This is an atrocity. Milky moonlit rays cloak the bedroom in a weak glow that don't quite reach his hulking, shadowy silhouette atop of you; a beast poised to strike. I'm sorry, he says at the ladylike bashfulness written across your face, at the panic that slowly but surely descends upon it when you realize that the danger your family tells you to steer clear of has already made its way to you, your breath growing short as you tussle with him shyly. Fruitlessly. You're powerless to stop him, and you think blissfully that that absolves you of responsibility for breaking your parents' rules.
'Sorry, sweetheart, I couldn't help myself,' he breathes out shakily, hardly able to look—at the naked expanse of your skin right beneath his fingertips, far too pristine for the likes of him. But he does look. He looks, morals be damned, with the hunger of a starved man. Nothing more, nothing less, because flowery words or elaborate metaphors aren't quite apt for a feeling so simple-minded and unembellished—so base as the appetite you stir within him.
He feels the bulge rise under his palm as he bottoms out, watches the outline of his dick through your soft belly in twisted fascination. It feels like going to the moon and staking a flag. It feels like he's taken estate over you, within you, squeezing his body into the tight space. Forcing it to fit. He wants to make a home right here, where his palm presses down upon, making your shaky thighs squeeze around him. Quivers going through your legs like a bowstring—the tension snapping in a messy release that sprays the sheets under your hips, trickling down your inner thighs. The embarrassment in your cherubic face does little to deter him, his palm steady in place as you feel his shaft sawing inside you, curved and thick. It feels like he's molding you to his cock; he feels like you're milking him.
Apologizing doesn't make him a better man by any means. It speaks less of a moral man than of a sick pervert who merely can't control himself. (A victim of his own desires, that’s all. There’s even a kind of indulgence in the effort—like a masturbatory pat on the back, that he tried and failed, sadly, to stay away from the pretty little thing—her, sweet and ruinous—)
He's sorry, he says, and the wrongness of it makes his dick even harder. If he had nothing to be sorry for, perhaps it wouldn't feel quite as transfixing.
𖧁୧ hi there ! gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here, they make a huge difference! ♡
Orcs have long since raided and pillaged throughout the lands, taking captives and slaves with them. You’re an elf from a long-lasting lineage of healers.
Once the chief of the tribe - Korek - found out, he plucked you from the labour quarters of the stronghold and took you for his own, to heal his scars. Yet when he found out your magic was based on happiness and using it was draining you of yours, he had to find another way to keep you happy and healthy during the healing sessions.
CW: slavery, enemies to lovers, nsfw/smut, cowgirl, breeding, a bit of rough sex, Korek being soft
Word Count: 5962
-
Sitting on the log - wet, damp grass beneath your feet - your hands hold onto those of your kin.
Her elven ears, once beautifully adorned with silver and jewels, now drooped low, tears in her eyes from the pain.
“It’s okay.” Your voice was a soft whisper, quiet and assuring as you shifted closer. Breathing out steadily, you felt the warm flow of magic gently coursing through your veins and to your muscles. A low glow appeared on the palms of your hands as it slowly fused through your skin before flowing into hers.
On her hands, the callouses and roughened skin slowly faded, melding back into her palms until no evidence remained of the days’ work.
“Thank you, milady.”
Hearing the whispered words, you smiled gently, squeezing her hands. “Of course.”
While the two of you softly spoke as the fire roared, just outside the circle of light a figure stood.
Leaned into a tree, Korek surveyed the scene. Walking by, the sudden, strangely coloured glow had caught his eye, a curiosity piqued in the broad, intimidating chief. The raid on the elven settlement had been over a month ago. Yet it seemed none of his men had realised what they had in their midst.
Pushing himself off the tree, he began to walk over, leaves crunching under his heavy, leather boots in the autumn air.
Instantly noticing, you whipped your head around, the girl beside you shrinking. Being approached usually meant more work. Yet when you noticed you didn’t just have a regular orc in front of you, your stomach dropped.
For a moment, you stared at the chief as he stared back, your heart hammering in your chest. Then, he crouched down on one knee and roughly grabbed your wrist, turning your hand around until your palm was skyward, his other hand gripping your fingers to keep it open.
“You have magic.” He didn’t ask, he stated and you swallowed nervously.
“Y-Yes.”
“What family are you from?” He asked, a slight hint of an accent in his common tongue speak.
His question however caught you off guard, an uncanny intelligence in his eyes as he stared directly at you. His green skin was illuminated from the side by the fire pit, casting a contrast in the prominent features of his face. Every elven magic came from a prominent family; lineage determining whether you had magic and what kind.
“Lireaya.” You mumbled and the chief tilted his head.
“Healing magic?” It was a question now and you nodded, unable to speak, while your hand was still in his hold. For a moment you saw him think, his dark eyes flitting between yours before his grip tightened. “A Lireayan should not work hard labour.”
“What-?” You didn’t have any time to react before he let go of your hand, one of his reaching up and gripping onto the metal shackle around your neck, the backs of his fingers pressed against your throat as he pulled you to your feet. Briefly, you glanced at your kin, her fearful and confused expression mirroring yours before the chief began to walk, dragging you with him.
In a blur he led you through the camp, several orcs glancing up as their chief passed with you in tow, curiosity in some while others just shrugged and moved on.
Finding your feet, you quickly walked with the large orc, the collar-like shackle no longer constricting. Yet it didn’t take long before Korek stopped, letting go of the metal to instead unfasten the tent flap in front of him.
Throwing it open, he turned back and looked at you, motioning his head for you to go in first and shakily, you did.
Stepping inside, you were greeted with a spacious, minimally decorated space. Large fur bedding at the back with numerous pillows, chests to the left and right for storage while weapons hung on the fortified walls of the tent. To your left a large table stood at the front of the tent with papers and scrolls on top, while a fireplace sat in the middle with an opening for smoke at the top of the pointed roof.
He brought you to his own tent.
Just as the realisation dawned, the man himself stepped in behind you, ducking slightly to fit through the opening before he let the flap fall closed behind him. Towering over you, he looked down momentarily before casting his gaze away and walking forward without a word.
All you could do was stand, looking at him as he traversed the space and to one of the larger chests on the right. There, he began to unbuckle his pauldron and chestpiece, briefly casting a glance back. “Lireayan, huh?”
Shrinking in on yourself, you watched as he lifted the leather straps over his head, baring his full chest and you quickly glanced away, the pit in your stomach worsening. Bringing you here, to his own tent, seemingly enamoured with your nobility and the undressing, it all led to one thing.
His heavy steps moved towards you and you stiffened, seeing the tips of his boots appear in your field of vision.
“When I ask a question I expect an answer.” His voice was firmer as he spoke, a hand suddenly gripping your jaw as he turned you to face him, his form slightly bent down to your height. “Answer.”
“Y-Yes.” You stammered and he narrowed his eyes, his lips shifting as he briefly gnawed his own tusk.
“Full blood?”
“N-No, sir. Distant descendant.”
Kissing his teeth, he let go of your jaw and raised back up. “But you can heal?”
You hesitated a moment, confused as to his inquiries. “Yes.”
Crossing his arms - the thick muscle straining to fit in the confined position - he glared down at you - though not necessarily *at* you, seemingly more in thought.
“Can you heal scars?” He then spoke, his brow furrowed as he stared at the shackle around your throat.
Swallowing nervously, you looked at him before deciding keeping your gaze down was probably best. “Uh, with time, yes. My magic is not that strong.”
Finally he seemed to be snapped out of his stare and his eyes shifted to yours. “With time? Like what?”
“It depends on how old the scar is and how big. But… at least a month per scar, probably?”
“Probably?”
You shrunk a bit into yourself at the harsh tone of voice. “I haven’t done it often. Maybe… once?”
At that, Korek hummed. “Very well.”
Confused, you looked up at him, finding his eyes already on you.
“You will be staying here from now on. You will sleep in my tent, eat in my tent and serve me as I please, do you understand?” His hand came out, grabbing the back of your head to force you to look at him when you tried to look away.
“B-But my kin-“ You started and he narrowed his eyes.
“What about them?”
“I was healing them Without me-“
“They would still be fine.” Korek’s eyes narrowed slightly as if waiting for you to challenge him. After a second however, he sighed. “You can still heal them. But that does not change you now belong to me, do you understand?”
Relief flooded you and you nodded. “Y-Yes.”
“Good. What is your name?”
“Y/N.”
Humming, he let go before turning and walking to the furs at the back, expecting you to follow. “You’re going to be healing my scars.”
Meekly nodding, you waddled after him, watching as he turned and let himself drop to the bedding with a sigh, sitting up.
He looked at you inquisitively, seemingly analysing your posture and disposition. “This one first.” He then tapped a burn scar on his sternum.
Swallowing heavily, you shifted to your knees beside him, gingerly bringing your hands up, as if fearful he would grab you or snap at you at any time. But he didn’t. Korek just sat there, watching you.
Shuffling a little closer, you brought your hands up, cupping them together and holding them over the scar, feeling the warm glow shift from your body and into your hands, leaving a chilly sensation in you.
“Hm.” Korek made the noise as he sat there, feeling your magic for the first time, a brow raising.
Briefly, you glanced up at him, focusing back on the scar after. With it being in the middle of his chest, and the orc being as large as he was, it wasn’t a great angle for you to heal him in. Sitting beside him on your knees, you were leaned forward, slightly hanging over his lap, your torso twisted to allow your hands comfortably on his chest. Though comfortable was a big word. And it seemed Korek noticed.
Sighing, his hands suddenly grabbed onto your waist and your eyes widened as he pulled at you, forcing you over his lap until one leg was on either side. There, he plopped you down.
“I- I-“ You stammered, too scared to protest as you felt his leather loincloth under you.
“Relax. You said it takes time. Then at least get comfortable. I won’t do anything.” Korek sighed, leaning back on his hands, bored as he looked off to the side. “Just heal, damnit.”
Your mouth dry, you just tried to swallow it back and nodded, cringing slightly as you shifted to sit more upright, your hands once again on his chest. But now a lot more comfortable.
After all, you were going to be here a while.
- - - -
For weeks this went on.
After the burn scar, he ordered you to heal one on his back, then requested a set of three on his arm.
Slowly, the two of you had started talking. Spending every single evening together with nothing else to do did tend to bring that.
You noted however that Korek was the one who initiated. You had to be focused, but Korek could have easily read a book, sharpened his things, do any activity while you were busy. Instead, he talked with you. Stories of how he got the scars. A punishment from his parents for the burn. A challenger’s cowardly attack from behind after Korek beat him for the one on his back.
Every scar had a story and Korek was not afraid to share them. And then he began asking about you. And to your surprise, you answered. Your life back in your village. How you were a little rascal when you were young, causing chaos and misfortune wherever you went - a thing that highly amused Korek, the orc more than once laughing deeply at the thought.
Slowly, you found yourself enjoying your time with the orc. Slave and master turned into friendship, Korek letting you wander the clan grounds freely, so long as you always returned at the end of the day for another healing session.
Yet with Korek getting to know you, he slowly started to notice.
Any time you healed him, you started off happily chatting about anything and everything, laughing at his stupid jokes or remarks and replying in kind. Yet after hour two, you always fell off. Getting quiet, withdrawn, no longer laughing at his remarks, nor engaging him. And on the days you’d went to heal your kin down by the lumber pits, it was even worse. You’d barely speak to him. Humming at his questions and remarks, leaving one worded answers and forced smiles.
He hated it.
And he’d be damned if he didn’t find out why. So, one day, after another session was complete and you were fast asleep in his bedding, he went out. And if there was one place he was going to get answers, it was from your kin.
- - - -
“Y/N.” Korek motioned you over. “I’d like you to heal me now.”
Placing down the little lantern you were holding - a gift from Korek not too long ago - you walked over.
“Yes?”
Wordlessly, he tapped a crude, long scar that ran from the left side of his chest down to the right by his stomach. It was a big one, one you had wondered about when he’d ask.
Kneeling before him, you looked at it and Korek playfully rolled his eyes, grabbing your waist and yanking you to him, making you straddle him.
“Oh-!” Letting out the little noise of surprise, you then sent him a half-hearted glare, to which Korek just grinned in response, his tusks on full display.
Settling down, you sighed and just mapped out the scar by tracing it with your index finger. “I’m afraid this one is going to take a while.”
“You’ll hear no complaints from me.” The chief hummed cheerily, his hands still on your waist.
Raising your brow, you looked at him but then just placed your hands on his stomach, using your magic at the center of the scar to let it flow outward.
Concentrating, you didn’t see Korek’s grin softening, his gaze turning slightly melancholic as he watched you. After all, he finally understood.
It wasn’t for half an hour later before he began enacting his plan.
“And when the goats started, they wouldn’t stop.” You chuckle softly at your own story, your hands still pressed to Korek’s midriff, the orc chuckling with you, slightly jostling you from how you sat on his lap.
Just then, his hands that had been on your waist shifted, one hand slowly shaking around your waist while the other went lower, tentatively resting on the swell of your ass, making your eyes widen a bit.
“Uh, Korek?”
“Mhm?” The orc hummed, innocence in the flesh as he tilted his head, his braided hair falling down his shoulders a bit.
“What are you doing?”
The question made him huff in amusement, his arm around your waist pulling you a little closer. “Setting the record straight.” He hummed, his hand moving from your ass to tilt your chin up, breaking your concentration. “Someone hasn’t been honest with me.”
“Huh?” It wasn’t your most eloquent answer and Korek chuckled softly.
“All those times of me asking if you were okay, if the healing was too much. When were you going to tell me it does more than just tap your energy?”
At his words, you instantly felt your heart drop, your face paling as the blood drained from it. “Oh, uhm-“
Instantly seeing where you were going, Korek’s gaze hardened. “Don’t lie. And don’t deny either.” His grip on your chin loosened as he then softened his gaze again, instead holding his large hand on the side of your face, his fingers framing your elegant ears. “It takes happiness.”
It was a statement. He didn’t ask, he knew. And it made you swallow heavily before you gave the slightest of nods.
Taking a deep breath in, Korek sighed it out, pulling you closer until your hips were flush to his, making your face heat up slightly. “You damn idiot. You couldn’t even tell me yourself. I had to go out and ask.” Shaking his head, he then brought his other arm up to cup your face. “What does it do?”
Looking at him, you knew you had nowhere to go and no chance to lie. But then again… why would you? Glancing down briefly, a small squeeze of your jaw reminded you to look in his eyes and you did.
“It’s… every magic has a source.” You mumbled. “Fire comes from anger and passion. Nature comes from tranquility. And healing comes from… happiness. Using the magics saps from the source.” Your heart was hammering as you explained, fearful of his reaction. Would he get mad? Upset?
“It takes from it.” He mumbles, looking at you. “No wonder nature elves are so erratic.”
His sudden joke caught you off guard and you let out a startled little laugh, making a corner of his lips quirk up.
His right hand slipped back down to your waist, pulling you up until your chest was against his, your eye height now the same. “Why didn’t you tell me what these sessions do to you? They’re leaving you depressed.”
To that, you didn’t have an answer and Korek hummed, letting you look away for once.
“Well I can’t have you be all sad and shit, can I?” He then spoke and you looked up at him, confused.
“What do you…?”
“If it takes happiness, then all I have to do is give you happiness.” As he said that, a smirk curled onto his face.
Frowning, confusion laced through you until you felt his hips shift, his arm keeping you still as he ground slowly against you, a small gasp leaving you.
“K-Korek-?”
“Sssh.” He hushed softly, his hand shifting to the back of your neck as he nuzzled your jaw, slowly moving down to the hollow of your neck. “You can say no. But if you want it, let me help you.”
“I don’t know.” You whispered, feeling his tusks gently push against your skin, a prominent yet strangely satisfying feeling.
“Are you saying that because you don’t want it or are you nervous?” Korek’s voice was soft as he spoke, gentle.
“Nervous.”
Smiling against your skin, he hummed. “Will you let me guide you through then? You can say stop at any time.”
Swallowing heavily, you shifted your hips, shamefully feeling a building thrum in your abdomen already.
“Yes.” You whispered and Korek groaned.
“Excellent. Don’t forget to keep healing, sweetheart.” He hummed while his lips ghosted the hollow of your throat.
Letting out a shaky breath, you looked down, clumsily placing your hands back on his midriff, doing your best to focus. Just then, his hand on your waist slid down, cupping your ass as he hummed.
“Aren’t I lucky?” A kiss landed on your throat and you bit your lower lip, feeling his other hand rub the back of your neck before he let go and let it slide down. Carefully, he tested the waters, slipping his hand between your thighs and pressing gently against your crotch.
The fabric of your pants pressed into your clit and you breathed out, eyes just focused on his muscled chest, doing all you could to ignore how he started slowly rubbing, pushing gently, stimulating.
“Ah, uh-“ You whispered and Korek huffed in amusement, lifting his head from your neck to instead nose right below your ear, shifting up slightly until his lips brushed the shell of the pointed appendage.
“Can I, sweetheart?” His voice was lower than you’d ever heard it, his tusks pushing against your skin once more - almost clumsily, yet not so.
“Y-Yes.”
Humming in delight, Korek lifted his hand until he found the hem of your pants, slowly sliding his thick fingers down into it, bypassing your underwear completely and finding your mound.
“Trust me, yeah?” He hummed, pushing his hand further down until the tips of his fingers found your entrance, feeling the slight wetness already formed.
Briefly closing your eyes, you wetted your suddenly dry lips at having an orc - your supposed mortal enemy - so intimately close. His fingers were so careful, experimentally dipping the tip of one into your entrance before withdrawing as he felt you tense.
“Shh, it’s okay.” He shushed gently, bringing his hand up a bit until his middle finger - slightly coated in your slick - found your clit, starting to gently rub in small circles.
You felt your insides lurch, the stimulation unexpected.
“I know you need to focus, but can you take off your shirt for me?” Korek was so gentle in his request and you nodded, briefly lifting your hands away from his skin to take hold of your shirt, lifting it up over your head to reveal your bare torso.
Dropping your shirt to the side, you sat for a second, insecure while Korek looked down at you, his eyes lingering on your chest before his hand that was on your ass moved up to grab yours, pulling them back against his chest.
“Keep going.” He commanded gently and you nodded, earning a little bit firmer pressure to your clit in response, making you jolt.
Gently stimulating, his hand stayed buried in your pants, his green skin a stark contrast to yours. You could already feel yourself starting to heat up, making it harder to sit still on his lap, shifting every now and then, which made the stimulation worse.
Korek meanwhile, seemed to be enjoying every second. His free hand came up, gently cupping one of your breasts as he then leaned down, starting to press kisses from your sternum down to the valley of your chest, his hand squeezing the pliable tissue, making a soft whimper leave you when he simultaneously pressed your clit.
“That’s it, sweetheart.” He praised, kissing to the side, his tusk digging into your breast until he found your nipple where he latched on, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over it while he rubbed your clit.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you pressed your hands tighter into his torso. Because you had to focus, the sensations were so much more defined and a pressure began building in your stomach.
“Mhm.” Humming happily, Korek suddenly pushed his chin forward, his tusks digging into your breast, holding it up so his free hand could move to your other breast, cupping it before his thumb flicked over your nipple, his mouth never stopping either.
“K-Korek!” You gasped in both surprise and pleasure, the orc suppressing a grin in favour of focusing on his ministrations.
Wordlessly, he kept going, his finger on your clit providing steady pressure as he laved attention to your chest.
Panting slightly, the heat you usually transferred into your hands suddenly felt like it was burning all throughout you, the pressure in your abdomen building and building.
Sensing your restlessness, Korek kept going, groaning softly as you arched your back, pushing his face further into your chest.
“Ngh- I’m- ah!” You gasped as you felt your pussy clench before wave after wave ripples through you as you came, stifling a moan of pleasure as Korek kept swirling his finger on your clit, guiding you through the orgasm.
Panting when it subsided, Korek pulled back, looking down at you. “Mhm. It’s working.”
At that, it took a second as you looked up at him. “What?”
“Your magic swelled, sweetheart.” He grinned as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, before trailing kisses down your jaw and to the hollow of your throat.
“M-More?” You flushed.
“Well we’re not even halfway into our usual healing session. So yes.” Korek grinned, his hand once on your breast now working your pants open, leaving his hand more room as he slid it down, testing your entrance, feeling how slick it was now. “Look at that.” He grinned into your skin. Carefully, he pushed a single, thick finger in.
Biting your lip, you clenched your hands on his chest and Korek chuckled.
“Easy, sweetheart. I’ll take it slow.” Carefully, he started to move, pushing the digit in before pulling out a little, slowly starting to get you used to the motion and sensation. “Feel good?”
Nervously, you nodded yes and Korek hummed. “Is it your first time or is it me that’s making you nervous?”
You swallowed anxiously. “You.”
Gently, Korek lifted his head to look at you, a soft look in his eyes. “But you trust me?”
“I do.”
Something flashed in his eyes and his free hand came up, cupping the side of your face as he slowly leaned in. “Good.” There, he kissed you.
Your eyes closing, you felt his lips on yours, supple yet overwhelming, his mouth enveloping yours as if it belonged, all the while he slowly pushed in a second finger, making you whimper.
His tusks framed your face, his lips starting to move on yours as he cradled your head, his hand in your pants moving gently. Everything was so soft, so careful. As if he was silently screaming ‘you’re safe, don’t be nervous’. And by god did it work.
You felt yourself completely melt into him, pushing back into the kiss, giving the orc chief the confidence to push his tongue into your mouth, his fingers starting to scissor inside you, moving up and down, just barely shy of audibly squelching from how wet you were.
Slowly, that heat started back up, Korek groaning softly in delight as he prepared you, his hand pulling your head even closer before shifting to grab a fistful of your ass.
Pulling back from the kiss, you panted, opening your eyes to see him already looking at you, his dark eyes shifting over your face, mapping it out as you breathed against each other’s lips. And so you did the same. Cataloguing him, his features, his differences from you.
The purist elves scoffed at even the slightest hint of green, yet here you were, actively inviting it in. His skin, rougher and so different from yours feeling perfect as he let his fingertips trace your spine.
“Korek-?” You panted softly and he hummed, never stopping his hand’s slow thrusts. “Is this okay?” You whispered and Korek’s eyes softened, having followed your train of thought from your expressions.
“It is more than okay.” He assured, his free hand caressing the side of your ears, gently tracing one of your ears. “We orcs don’t have the stipulations you do.”
“But-“
A third finger was pushed into you to shut you up. “In fact many here would cheer if I knock you up tonight. Pretty sure they have bets.” He chuckled and your eyes widened.
“K-Knock me-?! Korek!” He laughed at your exclamation, easing his three fingers into you, finding you taking them well despite the way your expression faltered at the feeling.
“Hush now. I won’t aim for it. Tonight is to help you after all.” He grinned and you sent him a grimacing look, trying to stay composed as he began thrusting his fingers.
“It’s starting to feel less and less like that.” You panted and Korek’s grin cracked just a bit wider.
“I’m not saying I am not getting immense joy out of it either.”
Pushing his fingers all the way into you, he groaned softly as he scissored them, kissing your chin, your jaw, then your lips. “You think you’re ready for me, sweetheart?” He hummed and your breath hitched, your cunt clenching around his digits, making the orc chief groan. “God, please say yes.”
Frowning, you looked at him and Korek chuckled a little huskily, pulling his fingers out of you as he then grabbed your hips, pulling your hips into his, letting you feel just how much he’d been holding back, waiting.
Gasping, his bulge pressed against your core, hard and eager.
“I’ll make you feel so good.” He groaned and you let out a shaky breath, your now empty pussy clenching.
Waiting, Korek looked at you and you wetted your lips, an action that instantly drew his attention, his lips almost curling back in a satisfied growl before he focused back on your eyes.
You hesitated only a moment longer. You had come this far. Weeks in his captivity and not once did you feel threatened or lesser. In fact, you’d never felt more revered and respected.
“Yes.”
That was all Korek needed and within moments, he’d tossed his loincloth aside and undressed you, putting you back on his lap, his cock in between you, hard and straining.
Looking down, your focus on healing broke as you saw it. Large, thick and making you realise you might be way over your head. But Korek then lifted your chin to him.
“Hey, it’s okay. I wouldn’t hurt you, remember? I made sure you’re ready.” He spoke gently and you nodded. Nervous, but assured.
Sending you a small smile, Korek then grabbed the base of his shaft, urging you to sit up on your knees as he aligned it with your entrance. There, he shifted his hands to hold your hips, looking at you as he paused.
“We’ll take it slow.” He spoke gently, helping you as he carefully pulled you down, pushing his hips up as he entered until the tip popped in.
Your hands gripped his shoulders, completely forgetting you were supposed to be healing as you held on, feeling the stretch. While it wasn’t painful, it was still a lot and you could feel how thick he really was.
“That’s it.” Korek groaned, letting his head fall back a bit, eyes closed as slowly, he pushed you down a bit further, a guttural noise leaving him while you gasped, squeezing his shoulders.
At the squeeze, he stopped, letting you adjust a bit, your pussy clenching him tight, making him huff a bit in delight.
“Just like that.” He praised, waiting until you loosened before he pushed further. And further, letting out a restrained little breath, working you down until he had you fully seated on his cock.
Clinging to him, you whined quietly, your head pushed into his neck and Korek smiled, wrapping his arms around you as he held you, feeling your tight walls all around him, making him breathe out.
“I hope this makes you happy cause *fuck* it makes me happy.” All he got was a little whine and he carefully pulled back, looking at you. “You okay?”
At that, you nodded and Korek smiled, leaning down as he tilted your head, one hand gently on your throat as he kissed you, slowly rolling his hips.
A jolt rushed through you and you gasped against him, making a surge of pride rush through Korek as he then grabbed your hands in his, gently leading them down to press against the scar crossing his midriff.
“Go ahead, sweetheart. Heal me.” He hummed against your lips while still rolling his hips.
Nodding, you panted as you tried to focus, struggling a moment before finally managing to channel your energy enough, whimpering as that focus amplified the sensation.
Never had you felt so full, almost as if you couldn’t breathe, only for Korek to prove you wrong as his hands landed on your hips, carefully lifting you and making you gasp before he pulled you back down.
It was slow at first, giving you a chance to get used to it, for your slick to coat his entire length. But slowly, he started picking up the pace, his grunts starting to become a little audible.
Whimpering as he pulled you down, you attempted to lift yourself to help him, straining your legs to sit up on your knees before lowering back down, but Korek then let out almost a growl, harshly pulling you down and making a startled moan leave you.
“No. Focus on healing. Let me do this.” He commanded, his head leaning forward until he was against your throat, finding your sweet spot where he bit down.
Clenching around him, Korek groaned and started to speed up a bit, sucking and marking while he did.
There wasn’t much you could do, letting him lead as he slowly fucked up into you, little moans leaving you every time he bottomed out, filling you to the brim.
Your walls were tight, every vein on his cock sliding past the ridges making the orc breathe heavily, pleasure curling through his gut.
One arm around your waist, he used the other to brace himself on the furs, holding you against him as he started to speed up a bit, rocking his hips up into you.
Stifling a moan, you pushed your hands harder against him, unable to brace yourself, just relying on him as he pumped into you.
“So demure.” Korek huffed, only to slam his mouth to yours, his tongue invading past your lips as he fucked you, his hips starting to piston in earnest as he began to chase pleasure, knowing you could take it now.
Unable to keep your mouth shut, moans rippled out of you, swallowed instantly by Korek as he grunted back against you, his cock coated in your slick, pumping in and out, filling you over and over again, the head rubbing against your walls in a way that made you see stars.
Pulling back for breath, you gasped, only for Korek to yank you down right that moment, slamming all the way into you and ripping a moan from your throat.
Embarrassed, you whimpered while he kept going, desperate to get more noises like that out of you.
Fucking into you, his balls repeatedly hit against your ass, creating a wet slapping noise inside the tent to accompany your noises of pleasure, of which Korek was a large part, grunting and groaning against you.
Everything was hot, a sheen of sweat starting to appear on your skin as you felt the pleasure build. “K-Korek-“ You gasped, not knowing what else to do or say and the orc groaned, proud to have you call his name.
“That’s it. Tell me how good you’re feeling.” He grunted, his shallow, fast thrusts making way for rough and deep as he pulled you down every time he thrusted up.
“Good-“ You whimpered out, leaning forward to bury your head against his neck, your hands still to his chest as you moaned, every thrust making the pleasure grow like a wave.
“Yea?”
“Ngh-!” Your pleasured noise has Korek grinning, his own body getting slick with sweat, the sensation of your magic coursing into him working to make everything feel even hotter.
The scent of your wetness, your panting, your moaning, your sweaty skin to his, everything. Grunting, Korek, felt his desire and pleasure build into a tight knot in his abdomen. He knew he said he wouldn’t aim for it-
“Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up so good.” It slipped out before he could help it, his mouth right by your ear as he nuzzled his tusks into you, a moan leaving you as your nails dug into his stomach.
“Korek, I’m gonna-“ You gasped and the orc groaned.
“Go ahead. Come on, show me how good it feels!”
Whimpering, you couldn’t help it, his constant barrage, his cock hitting deep and filling you so completely, you felt the knot in your stomach tense tighter and tighter.
Even though he didn’t want it, you began to bounce with his thrusts, moaning with every thrust in, gasping when he pulled out, just trying to get enough air in as you threw your head back, eyes closed and back arched. “Please!” You cried out and Korek growled, biting into your shoulder and slamming you down into him.
Crying out a moan, your orgasm washed over you, your walls squeezing tight around Korek, the orc gasping a strained moan as he fucked through it into you, his teeth clamping tighter, his tusks digging into your skin as with a few more thrusts, he followed you over the edge.
Moaning into your flesh, he yanked you down onto his lap, burying his cock as deep as it can go as he spilled his seed. Ropes of white shot into you, his balls convulsing as he filled you up, your cervix quickly overflowing, pushing his cum out past the seal of him being inside you, the frothy white dripping down his balls.
Panting, he held you there, a few aftershocks rocking through him as you held on for dear life.
Letting go of his bite, his arms tightly around your waist, he held your sweaty body against his own, his face buried in your neck until he pulled back a bit and huffed out a husky laugh. “Unbelievable. We found the hack to unlimited magic.”
“Korek!” You slapped his arm while the orc bellowed a laugh.
He was certain he was going to continue this strategy. After all, healing had never felt so good.
I think it might be easier for me to list the things I DON'T like about bellybuttons to be honest: they're just such fascinating little creatures 🤭
I love em big and open, I love em small and dainty; I love em bare, I love em adorned; I love how sensitive they can be (ticklish or erogenous, it doesn't matter); I love their position on the midline of the abdomen, right at the core of the person, nestled amid an expanse of beautiful tummy; I love how secretly they can be kept, I love how they can be accidently revealed, and I love how they can be used to tease by the more exhibitionistically-minded; I love when the words are spoken, I love when they're looked at, I love to know the person is thinking about it; I love absent-minded play, and I love laser-focus attention...
but I think my #1 favourite thing about them is that moment, that one electric moment of soft panic in a 'Lee's brain when they realise something is about to happen to their bellybutton, and that they have no choice but to watch as it does.
does that answer your question?
im literally just a lil hampter @justahampter - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
