non-apocalyptic world where everything's alright and there's no nasty walkers around. where daryl lives in a little creaky cabin with his younger, sweetheart girlfriend in the middle of nowhere ngghhh.
you wake up before him almost every morning, and quietly pull one of his button-downs over your tiny pink sleep shorts before padding barefoot across the creaky floorboards to make coffee. and then he'll slowly wake up after you and go smoke a cigarette beside you through the cracked kitchen window. and its always cold in that damp woodsy way, so he'll grab a blanket or a big jacket and wrap it around you as the morning fog rolls in.
the age difference is obvious in the strangest little ways. you're always leaving old magazines and sweet lip balms all over the cabin while he leaves hunting knives on counters and muddy boots by the door. and there's always animals wandering by, like possums and deer!
and you're constantly horny, always feining over daryl in some way. you're in a tiny lace camisole while he's gutting fish, and you're just watching, rubbing your thighs at his focused expression. or maybe when he's shaving in the bathroom and you're sitting on the tiny countertop swinging your legs back and forth, tugging him closer once he's finished.
sometimes you'll be in the woods, probably barefoot, wandering with daryl and you get extremely needy out of nowhere. and he just eyes you before pushing you up against a tree and shoving your cami up above your tits and attaching his mouth to one while you wrap your legs around his waist with soft moans, only the birds and bugs able to hear.
trailer park. dubcon/noncon. creepy socially inept simon. kitchen sex. predatory behavior. tattoo sleeves simon is canon. thumb sucking. breeding kink-ish. pulling the panties to the side is hotter than taking it off. all characters are 18+. DDNE.
You're pretty sure the dad you babysit for is a creep. Alternatively, he hates your guts, wearing a perpetual, nasty scowl as his eyes drop to your skirt's hem, replying only in wordless grunts. Of course, you're a self-respecting girl. You don't stand for any disrespect. You stick your nose up a little and keep away from him unless absolutely necessary, because the pay is good and Simon can't fire you because you're good at your job. At least, that's why you think Mr Riley hasn't fired you yet.
He owns a caravan on the edge of town, totally off-the-grid. Military guy sensibilities. Simon does what he does to keep his daughter safe, and you don't ask questions. It's a nice enough unit and bigger than the whole world when you're a 3ft tall three-year-old.
Your friends urge you to find another job the more they hear about this burly brute with tattoo sleeves you work for in the middle of nowhere, but at the end of another moping phone call, you find a 40% bonus tucked into the envelope with your pay and your fate is sealed.
The thought of him overhearing your qualmsâand worse, compensating you for itâmakes you feel bad, so you start to work extra hard. Leaving a plate for him from the meals you make for Beth, accompanied by sticky notes; seeing him out the door, etc... all in hopes you'll get tipped. Okay, maybe a conscience isn't the only reason for your good behaviorâthe financial incentives are great too. The tips keep coming, and your doe eyes only get sweeter. To you, it's good customer service, no flirtations involved. You're a professional, after all.
Simon, famously, is bad with social cues and sees more than there is in your hard work. Doesn't register that the extra sweet 'Good morning, Mr Riley,' and happy-faces drawn in honey on his pancakes only come with payments, not for his mean mug. It starts with casual touches: a hand on your shoulder while you chop Beth's veggies into bite-sized pieces, on your waist in passing. I mean, you're practically a hired wife at this point, so what's the trouble, right? You'd be the perfect mother for Beth.
âBeth's been calling you her Mummy,â he says it one day, all casual-like, hands busy with unlacing his boots. The lights are off save for a small lamp in the kitchen while you pack your laptop and charger into a slouchy shoulder-bag, the air humming with Beth's absence. You fuss with the zipper, the mechanism staggering. Simon pretends not to notice.
âI keep telling her not to--â A breathy laugh slips past your lipsâa nervous sounding thing. Your face burns up against all reason and you can't place your finger on what it is about that remark that makes you feel defensive. Surely you wouldn't think twice if somebody else said it, but a strange implication seeps in through the cracks of his noncommittal demeanor. There's always something just slightly off, slightly off-kilter when it comes to him. This is wrong, you think, before anything has happened.
âNowt to worry about.â He shakes his head dismissively and you fancy that he's almost good at pretending to be a normal person. A real person as opposed to a ghost. The leathery couch squeaks under him as he hauls his weight off, unfolding to his full height.
The zipper finally gives when Simon stops in front of you. Your lips part to say somethingâannounce your departure, maybeâbefore his long fingers tilt your chin up slightly. âYou'd be a great mother,â Simon says, evenly, like he's measuring the wordsâor rather, you. It's the first solid piece of praise he's given you thus far, and it disarms you just a bit after all the stonewalling you've been subject to.
As if sensing the casual shift in the air, Simon capitalizes with an off handed question: âEver thought about it?â
âAbout what? Having my own? Erm, no.â You wave your hands like the notion is ridiculous, laughing awkwardly. You're living on a babysitter's wages and busy getting your degree, a child has no part in the equation.
The way Simon eyes you says he has a different idea entirely. It feels wrong, knowing you have your whole life ahead of you, but he can vividly picture you barefoot and pregnant under that same sundress.
âI love working with kids, but I don't think I'll have a baby any time soon,â you ramble, sounding distracted as you back up against the counter. You know it's unreasonable, but a part of you would rather people-please than be downright rude, a smile tugging at your lips as you watch his hands warily.
You ignore the red alerts, telling yourself maybeâjust maybeâyou're wrong, and Simon is simply a well-meaning, harmless dad. But that's how you ended up here in the first place; you never let yourself truly read into the way he looked at you, never let it dissuade you from working hard, until now. You even stopped complaining to your friends weeks ago.
âHuh.â Simon nods in consideration, pretending to think for a moment. Your feet remain rooted to the spot as Simon's hands find the hem of your dress, teasing it upwards slightly.
âStop-â Your hand shoots to his wrist as the air hits your thighs, neither pulling nor pushing. Your soft fingers look insignificant next to his arm, pearly manicure to tattoo ink.
âCalm yer tits.â A wry laugh stirs the top of your hair, his shoulders crowding you against the countertop. âBeth's fast asleep.â
You can think up a few other reasons why this is bad business, though you have a feeling they won't hold up well.
Your hand goes slack against his as he reaches up your dress, a shiver rippling up your spine. âWe shouldn't-â You stumble against his chest as Simon languidly cups your ass, the heady scent soaked into his shirt flooding your senses until it blurs with the shameful pounding of your heart. âI don't...â Want this.
âYou're a little bird, ain't ya?â You meet his heavy-lidded gaze with bated breath as his fingers hook under your chin again, his thumb creeping to the edge of your mouth. The absence of warmth when his hand slips from beneath your dress leaves you almost wondering, before he cups your tits through the flimsy fabric in spite of your shock. âSpook easy.â
âCan feel your heart goin' like mad, y'know?â
For the first time, he speaks more than he listens. Grabs more than he hears your stubborn whines, his fingers stuffing your mouth, before his hands soon find other work. Insistent and cajoling. His meaty palms roam wherever they landâthumbs dragging over the hardened peaks of your nipples through your dress, one hand sliding down to hitch your leg around his waist. The dull throb behind his fly is a demanding ache, a gnawing hunger that makes Simon feel impossibly patient after months of watching you frolic around his home without ever tasting you.
Simon lets out a guttural rasp over you as your writhing body presses against his hard-on, teasing him through rough denim. âBloody hell.â He turns you by the waist and presses you against the countertop with a finality that draws a startled squeak from your throat. The noise dies at once. His daughter is asleep down the hall; the last thing you need is to make a scene. You swallow whatever words rise to your tongue, acutely aware of every sound in the trailer, jaw tightening as the counter edge nudges uncomfortably against your hipbones.
You blanch at the thick, hard bulge poking your backside, teething at your thumb nail skittishly. A sickening shudder rolls through you as his hips press forwards with a groan above you, lazily rocking you against the countertop.
âDon't make a sound.â
He'd been more action than words for the better part of the last couple minutes, but his voice seems enough to raise the fine hairs on your nape.
âYessir...â The words slur together as you slip your thumb between your lips, pink-cheeked. The little bob of your head is all Simon needs before he's freeing his cock from the zipper of his jeans.
The ascent of the thin cotton fabric feels impossibly heavy as he lifts the dress up your hips and settles it around your waist. The pad of his thumb traces your slit through the gusset of your panties, moisture darkening the fabric, before he hooks his fingers through the leg holes and bares your cunt to his eyes.
He clicks his tongue to himself meaningfully and tilts his head as if sizing you up while you suckle on your thumb under him, legs dangling over the edge of the kitchen counter. A sight for sore eyes deserves appreciation, and Simon has only ever known one way to show itâone that'd leave you sore come morning.
âNot so flighty now, eh?â Heat skims the edge of your ear as he speaks in a low drawl, and you almost miss the hitch in his breath when he pushes inch-by-inch into the heat of your cunt. âWho's a good girl?â
Your brows bunch together with exertion at the tight stretch as you peek back at him, all hapless with your lips puckered around your own thumb. You hesitantly slip your thumb from your mouth to speak, the words feeling dumb and embarrassing. âI-I am,â you mumble between soft whimpers sheepishly.
âYeah. You are.â Humiliation curdles low in your stomach at the sound of his amusement, a slick string of arousal dripping down your center. âLittle bird stops complainin' soon as she feels this big dick. You love it, don't you? Just need a paci to shut you up.â
Simon's fingers knead into your flesh with an ease that feels strangely intrusive, as though they have no business being so familiar with you. His calloused palm cracks against the swell of your ass before he bottoms out, your toes curling into the cool tiles as he fills you up. The counter's edge bites into your hips as he pulls back, almost all the way out, before slamming home without any give. Your palms scrabble against the laminate, searching for purchase as he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust knocking the breath from your lungs in short, punched-out gasps.
He's effectively everywhere. One hand splays across your lower back, pinning you down, while the other finds your hair, gathering it at the nape of your neck in a secure grip, enough to keep you exactly where he wants you.
âThat's it,â he rasps, the words carried over the slap of skin on skin echoing through the kitchen's shadows. âTake it.â
Your knees wobble under you, but his grip on your hip tightens like a vice, holding you up, holding you open. The wet sound of him fucking into you fills the kitchenâobscene and rhythmic, drowning out your own muffled whimpers.
He leans over you, chest hot against your back, mouth brushing your ear.
âThought you could get away from me, little bird. Where you gonna go now?â
â wah wah y/n in a sundress ... y/n with manicured nails ... yes IK i've seen every tumblr post making fun of the cliches but this is what you get when the author (me) likes those things!! crucify me đ at least she's independent and educated!!
NOT PROOFREAD! i hatee the super rushed ending. also oops i realized i accidentally described reader as pink-cheeked in this, i usually avoid appearance descriptions but icba to edit it anymore. >_<
it was risky, you knew, but something about him just enthralled you. sitting at the other end of the bar on a saturday night, you spotted a big brute of a man dwarfing a glass of amber liquid. with a mask pulled up onto his crooked nose, it exposed the scarred skin of his chin and jaw, and chapped, rough lips. something about the way his dark eyes scanned the room made your thighs quiver and your belly ache.
simon didn't look your way to know your eyes were on him, burning into the skin of his lower face and thick neck that bobbed with every sip of alcohol. you were a curious little bunny that couldn't help but be captivated by his wolfish appearance, and it was going to get you bitten.
you were sad when the man didn't look your way. he appeared alone and refused to pay mind to anyone except the bartender. you wondered how long he'd linger as the bar started emptying old customers and flooding with new ones. the population never staggered, and in fact, only increased with happy hour. how long was the man going to sit in that very seat?
it was hard for him not to look your way, the knowledge that your attention kept returning to him gnawing at his brain until he couldn't help a glance when he was sure your gaze was fixed elsewhere. god, you were so pretty and completely oblivious to the fact he'd been shadowing you for months, but he'd caught your attention now. how long was it going to take for you to bite?
you weren't sure how much time had passed, but the man downed his drink, left a large bill on the bar, got up and left without a word. this was your charge. mirroring his actions with your own, smaller bill, you left with a fleeting glance to the patrons around you. you didn't dare risk losing sight of your newfound interest, but he wasn't hard to lose.
simon heard you stumble out the door behind him. you were clumsy, didn't bother hiding the loud clacks of your heels against the pavement, but he didn't give away that he knew. he played along, had to make sure his prey felt in control when in reality, he was the one twisting you like the puppet you were. he tugged on his helmet, flung a leg over his sports bike and turned it on. the question was, did he want to lose you, or give you what you wanted?
seeing him wrap his thick thighs around the gas tank only caused the throb in your pussy to intensify, his sharp, dark eyes that lured you in hidden behind the visor. you went to your own car, turning it on in time just as he pulled out of the parking lot. naturally, you followed, keeping what you thought was a non suspicious amount of distance between him and you.
but simon noticed. he had a keen eye when it came to you, and he laughed underneath his helmet that his little rabbit was the one chasing him, not the other way around. regardless, he led you through winding streets and back roads until he can to a stop in front of an isolated cabin. if his bunny had any brain, you'd have realized he led you to the middle of nowhere.
but when you were tunnel visioned on the object of your desire, you lost sight of everything else. you wanted him, or at least to watch him to see what he got up to. an interesting looking man had to have a life that reflected that, right? you parked your car just down the street when you noticed he took a turn into a driveway far between others.
he swiftly turned off the bike, leaving his helmet on for protectionâthats what he told himself, but little old you couldn't harm him if you tried. you were a little bunny compared to him. he hid around the side of his house, near one of the big windows that would tempt you to look inside. he was grateful he had remote control lights.
you crept with what felt like light feet, noticing the lights had been switched on. now where was he? you snuck up to that same window he knew you would peer into, standing on your tiptoes and hands curling around the windowsill for one peek.
but a scream fell silent on your lips when a hand tugged your waist into a hard, warm chest with another on your mouth. heavy breaths moved against your back with a shocking hardness pressed to your ass.
the vampire armand distracting his newfound human âcompanionâ after each beg of the passing of the dark gift with a kiss, sliding his hand down to their beautiful throat, unmarked, sliding his thumb over their pulse point and the slight jump of his fingers that come with it. he tells them about the perils of immortality and how companionship is poisoned once you become each otherâs forever. tells them how the now is much more valuable when itâs temporary.
he does think of it. watching over you as you sleep, how easy it would be to drain you of your succulent blood, feast on you as you turn cold before he finally grants it to you and ends the ritual with his torn wrist to your gasping lips. make you his forever. but he just as easily passes the thought when he hears your heartbeat slow as you fall deeper into your slumber, your jumbled thoughts becoming dreams harmonizing with each breath that passes through your warm body.
and he does contemplate it in the moment. you sit on his thighs, arms hooked under his as he cages you, scratching your nails against his shoulders and whimpering and panting as he rolls his hips up to meet your weakening rhythm of grinds â whining when he pulls your hair from your neck and buries himself in it, dragging his tongue against your pulse and scraping his teeth at your soft skin. he bites, fangs not bared and not deep enough to puncture in any way but he truly considers it for a moment and he pulls back, slips his hands downwards to press at the bottom of your spine and deepen the arch in your back and reach further inside you, slowing his pace to test you and allow himself to clear his head. he wouldnât turn you out of lust, wouldnât bring unto you what was done to him, even as he reads the disappointment in your mind.
perhaps he should plan it, were it ever to happen, which it wonât, armandâs not impulsive. but he doesnât always.. make the correct decision. and when it comes to sentimentality, he is weak.
Honey and Hemlock. part 1. Sacred Secrets. cult leader john price x psychology student reader tw: dead dove do not eat. weird asf price, dubcon, slow horror, extremely manipulative price. no mentions of y/n. female anatomy. drugging. non-consensual photographs. smut.
Your return to John's sacred ground, was it a surprising name? The words had risen in your mind unbidden and you hadn't pushed them away. Because, to be fair it made sense, although they sounded a bit unhinged but you still remembered that he was a cult leader. An odd culty name for an odd cult leader.
The next morning arrived with a sky the colour of old pearls. The air was soft yellow and it made everything feel almost dreamy, but you still remembered where and what for you were going to. You had driven the familiar road with a new kind of restlessness humming beneath your skin, you could definitely tell that it was different from what you were feeling yesterday. It was something brighter, you were more comfortable now that you were aware of the place and its people. So you were a little excited now, maybe you shouldnât be? I mean, it was obvious, what kind of adequate person would feel excited to visit a cult?
Genuinely, unexpectedly, almost embarrassingly excited to film this place and its inhabitants. You had spent the night charging batteries and cleaning lenses and telling yourself it was just good research practice. But the mirror had caught you smiling as you packed your bag, and you had looked away quickly, as if caught at something shameful.
Now, as the gate came into view, that excitement curdled slightly. Because it was a crystal clear fact that were waiting for you and you would be lying if you said that it didnât make you at least a little bit happy.
All of them, the residents, were lined both sides of the gravel path, standing still as statues, their faces turned toward your car like flowers toward the sun. Dozens of them. Men and women, young and not so, dressed in simple clothes in muted colours. You have noticed before that their style was early 70s, their entire personalities and places were. You couldnât really understand why, how could they be in the past when the world kept going ahead of them? But anyway, every single one of them was smiling. Despite the slight creepiness of the moment, you could tell that they meant the smile. They were completely genuine and for some reason it was both comforting and completely unsettling at the same time. Knowing where they were, who they were with and how they lived, they were absolutely happy.
A thought occurred in your head, you couldnât help but think that at least one person would sell them with their behaviour. Maybe theyâd be acting happy and you could capture it. But so far, not a soul, interesting, you thought. Just a line of people who looked genuinely, bewilderingly happy to see you.
A young woman broke from the formation and approached. She was effortlessly pretty, freckled face, hair pulled back in a simple braid, hands beautiful but they sold how much she worked the earth. And it was evident that she was most likely your age. In fact, they were people of different ages but what was interesting is that there was definitely a pattern there. No one past 30 when it came to women, but even then you could tell that those were the fewest.
âDear sisterâ she said as she took your hand, you didnât notice an involuntary smile that appeared on your face at the thought of how much she resembled the sun with her warmth. âthank you for returning to us.â As you would later learn, her name was Jill. And the moment you looked a little closer into her face, the thought that youâd seen her face before didnât leave you.
"We are so glad," she continued, her eyes bright and steady on yours, "that Brother John was able to attract such an interesting person to our home. Well, attract was one way to put it, honestly the word landed strangely. As if your presence here had nothing to do with your own choices and everything to do with a force you couldn't name, you did not like the implication but you decided to leave it and only smiled in return.
"I'm just here to film," you heard yourself say, and the words sounded thin even to your own ears.
"Of course you are," she said, and her agreement was so warm, so immediate, so utterly without irony that you almost believed her. She looked very much excited to film as if there was absolutely nothing to hide in here and it wasnât a cult but just a simple farm where everyone lived happily. That thought made you sigh.
"We'll show you everything," she added, finally releasing your hand. "Brother John said we should answer all your questions." She turned and gestured toward the path that led deeper into the compound."Shall we, dear sister?" You were a little dumbfounded when she called you that. To say the least because âdear sister?â As if you were a part of their..whatever they thought this was. But no, you werenât, so her little name for you sent the shivers down your spine. You were not her sister. You were not anyone's sister here. You were a researcher with a camera and a deadline, and a car that still had a full tank of gas, parked outside a gate that remained open behind you.
"Yes," you said, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. "Of course, if you want to. Iâd appreciate that.â And so you followed her down the path. Behind you, the residents walked in different directions, getting back to their business. A soft rustle of footsteps on gravel, a low murmur of voices, the occasional laugh that sounded genuine enough to break your heart. You knew how the cult psychology worked but nevertheless, whenever doing research or actually visiting cults, you always wished that deep in their hearts they understood that all of this was wrong. That they werenât there willingly.
The path curved, the cabin disappeared behind a stand of trees. And somewhere ahead, though you couldn't see him, you felt John watching. So there he is. Your hand closed in a fist at your subconscious excitement of seeing him again. No, no excitement, remember who this is and remember where you are. You canât consume the hemlock, it is deadly and poisonous.
Jill, did in fact show you around, barns first, there were around five of them, which impressed you, especially because they were sturdy and well-maintained, their wooden walls weathered to a soft silver grey color. Cows, goats, two chestnut colored horses. Their cattle was quite impressive knowing that all of this was made from scratch and on an open field that had only flowers and soil. Jill explained the feeding schedule, the milking rotation, the way the community shared every task equally while you held your camera, filming everything around you. Surprisingly, Jill and other passing members of the community felt very comfortable around the camera. Very active, calm and friendly. It was something that you paid attention to, it wasnât your first time interviewing the cult members, usually those people were quite shy and almost uncomfortable in front of the camera, giving how private their lives were. And how much isolated they were from the rest of the world. However, in this case, these factors did not affect the behaviour of these people. Why, you thought. And something was nagging you to try and find out.
"No one works alone," she said, âBrother John always encourages us to share the chores and work together. He says the Lord appreciates our unity.â You wanted to snort because you could bet your on the fact that âBrotherâ John didnât do anything at all here while they worked their butts off here. Classic. It felt strange to hear her explanation, because it made perfect sense to you, nevertheless. So far, there was nothing dark or unusual that you could point out and that made you thoughtful.
Then she showed you the gardens. they were vast and green and meticulously tended, rows of vegetables stretching toward a horizon you hadn't expected to find here, there were potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, and many more things. A group of residents knelt in the soil, their hands dark with earth, and they looked up as you passed - smiling, always smiling - before returning to their work.
"We grow almost everything we eat," Jill said "Brother John says there's dignity in feeding yourself. He says it's the first freedom." You didnât understand the implication behind the âfirst freedom.â You were unsure and debated whether you should ask her.
âFirst freedom?â you asked. After all, you had a right to ask questions, thatâs why you were here. Jill stopped walking and turned towards the camera. You noticed how she was smiling again as she was thinking of a better way to explain the meaning. And youâd be lying if you said that the fact that she was always smiling didnât make you slightly uncomfortable.
âBrother John says that there are different freedoms. There are only a few most important ones, so you can count them.â she said crossing her arms on her chest âThe first freedom is labour. We work and we contribute. The second freedom is giving the messenger of God the power to decide for ourselves. Because the outside world always demanded that we make choices, decide fast. It is tiring and it chains us to the cruel rules of this world.â The urge to roll your eyes was strong but you stopped yourself in time. You couldnât even count how many times you have heard this âpreaching.â
âAnd the messenger of God is John?â you asked looking at Jill through the camera lens. She simply nodded smiling yet again. âAnd what are the other freedoms?â
âLove, of course,â she said and laughed. Her laughter was so airy and bubbly that for a second you agreed with her. âWe reach the peak of love through Brother John, he brings us closer to God when he makes love with us.â You were shocked and absolutely not surprised at all at the same time. This was also classic when it came to cults. However, for some reason you believed that John didnât really let anyone near him in that way. And it almost disappointed you that it turned otherwise.
The field beyond the gardens was small but fertile, golden with late summer wheat that swayed in a breeze you hadn't noticed until you saw it move. An artificial lake, carefully dug and cleverly placed, glittered at the edge of the property. Its surface was still as glass, and a wooden dock extended a few feet into the water.
Several wooden rotundas dotted the landscape, open structures with curved benches and flowering vines climbing their supports. They looked like something from a storybook. You wondered if it all was for the show. But it also looked so natural that eventually the question disappeared on its own from your head.
The small wooden houses were clustered together, each one slightly different from its neighbour, each with a chair on the porch. âHow many people live here?" you asked. "Forty seven," Jill replied with a small smile âOne man lives with one woman, itâs our rule.â interesting rule, you thought. But you didnât comment on it, moving forward. Interesting but not unusual. There were so many questions but so little answers. As it always was with cults.
And then you saw it, the church. It stood apart from the other buildings, at the end of a path lined with stones. It was quite simple, wooden, like everything else, but slightly taller. Its steeple rose toward the sky like a finger pointing somewhere you couldn't follow. Glass windows and a chapel beside it, smaller but no less beautiful, with a door that stood slightly ajar.
You stopped walking and so did Jill once she noticed. She didn't speak nor did she try to explain anything. She simply stood beside you, patient as the earth, and let your eyes and the lens of your camera explore the building. She knew that since you were a researcher, this particular piece was probably one of the most interesting ones for you, so she let you have your moment.
"Can I see inside?" you asked, and your voice came out quieter than you intended. She smiled and you could swear that her smile became even softer if that was possible. "Of course," she said "Brother John said you could go anywhere here." She didn't follow when you walked toward the chapel door. You were thankful for that because you could walk around and film in peace as much as you wanted. You pushed the door open. It swung on silent hinges, and the light inside was dim and golden and smelled of old wood and older incense. Your footsteps echoed on the floorboards. You noticed that the candles were almost completely burnt. But the place was strangely dusty and the wooden floors were sandy, dry leaves moved with the wind.
You flinched when you noticed that at the altar, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him as if in supplication stood John. He didn't turn when you entered but you immediately wanted to leave, feeling as if you were distracting and interrupting. An unwilling intruder. It was such a sacred moment, you thought.
"Donât worry," he said, still not turning. His accent curled around the words like smoke. He stood up, dusting his knees âSatisfied?â he asked waving at your camera.
âOh..um..â you hesitated, smiling weakly âYeah, sure, thank you, I have a lot of material. But as you remember, I have an interview as well, with your members.â he gave a short nod, telling you that he remembered. You were thankful that your plans were not ruined. The interview was the most important part of your research.
âSo, Jill,â you said as you adjusted yourself on the chair, âHow long have you been living here?â John said that you could interview his residents outside, a rotunda was a great choice. You could capture the view as well, he said. And it was almost amusing how he was contributing to the situation, helpful and encouraging as always.
Jill tucked her hair behind her ears as she smiled. Again. âI have been living here for about three years. Brother John and I have met in a church. The members did not really understand his ideas, but I did. I saw true freedom and love in his teachings. He is a very intelligent and kind man. He is a true messenger of God. Like Joseph Smith, you know.â Joseph Smith, what a great comparison, you thought. A controversial person whoâs teachings you find odd compared to another controversial person whoâs teachings you find odd.
âIn what way?â you asked her. It surprised you how hesitant she looked for a moment. Didnât she just say that? She had to know what she meant then. It was odd how long it took for her to continue. âI mean..John is..umâŠâ she didnât have the time to finish because John called Jill. What a timing, you thought, as if he heard everything but how could he? He wasnât even close enough to hear anything. Nevertheless, you nodded, letting her go.
With a sigh, you leaned back against the wood, waiting for someone else to replace Jill.
So after a few hours of interviewing you were finally done. John was the last person who asked to be interviewed. Your previous conversation left a strange, bitter taste in your mouth, however, you still were eager to talk to him again. So, you adjusted the tripod, taking a few notes in your notebook. John came just in time, sitting on the wooden bench like he owned it. Which, technically he did.
The men spreading was his habit, thatâs what you noticed. He always does this, manipulative move to show his authority. He looked at you with this strange gaze that made you feel like he sees through you.
âWhatâve ya got fâme this time, love?â he asked draping one arm over the wooden fence. His other hand rested on his thigh. Involuntary your eyes followed the movement which you knew he saw.
Your legs crossed as you fidgeted with your hands. âUmâŠso, Johnathan, I had a chance to have a conversation with your residents. They seem very happy. You have quite a discipline here.â He laughed like you said something absolutely stupid. But his response was only a simple nod.
So after a short conversation with Johnathan you didnât really learn anything new. But it was late already so John was kind enough to give you some privacy to stay the night. You stayed in one of the small houses, which was very simple inside but nonetheless cozy. You used this opportunity to check out the material. The bed was soft and warm as you sat on it, with your camera plugged to your laptop. Luckily for you, everyone was already asleep so you had all the time in the world to look through your material.
The pictures and videos were mostly the same ones, nothing too unusual. But one video caught your attention. Jill. Your eyes squinted as you looked more intently. You noticed that when Jill was replaced with another member she went straight to John since he was the one to call her. At first it looked like they were simply talking, but something caught your eye, his grip on her arm, he jolted her, making her grimace in pain. Her entire demeanour changed as she almost shrunk into herself.
A sudden sound outside made you flinch. Your head spun towards the door. Someone was outside? At this hour? Your curiosity got the best of you, so what you did next was not something unexpected, you stood up and grabbed your phone. With all the carefulness in the world, you opened the door, pursing your lips at the sound it made. Stepping outside you turned the camera on your phone on - an instinct at this point. The sound was coming from somewhere near the field.
Slowly, you walked towards the sound, it sounded like someone was digging through the soil. As you walked, your head involuntarily moved around to make sure that nobody was around to witness you eavesdropping and spying. Your steps were slow, careful, they led you behind one of the houses, so you hid, pointing the camera towards the field.
At first you didnât really see what exactly was happening, just someone digging. But your eyes slowly began to widen as they made out the whole picture. It was a pit, long and deep, for what? The answer to your question came almost immediately. With a quiet gasp, you covered your mouth with your hand. Oh.
The body came into view moments later, dragged from the shadows by the same man. She was limp between his arms, her bare feet scraping against the grass, her head lolling at an angle that told you everything you needed to know. You recognised her face. Jill. The realisation made your blood turn cold in an instant. She didnât look like herself, really. It wasnât the sunny girl you met anymore.
Strange feeling it is to see someone you were just talking this morning being thrown in a pit as if they were a sack of potatoes. Cold, blue, completely lifeless. Her eyes were open, staring somewhere in your direction, it was disturbing how you still anticipated for her to blink, or so your brain did, subconsciously. The man swung her and then she was falling, slowly, a terrible arc through the moonlight, and she landed at the bottom of the pit with a sound that would hunt you for a very long time. A wet thud, it was loud in a rather silent night, almost echoing, or maybe it was an echo in your own ears. The final punctuation of a sentence that should never have been written. But why? Why was she killed? Knowing the logic of cult leaders you also knew that she probably did something that she shouldnât have. The digger didn't hesitate, his shovel rose and fell, rose and fell, scattering soil across her still form. Dirt covered her face, her hands. The white of her nightdress turning brown and heavy. He worked with the efficiency of someone who had done this before, someone who knew exactly how much earth it took to bury a secret.
Your camera of your phone was still recording, you felt its warmth against your fingers, its tiny red light blinking like a heartbeat, as quickly as your own heart did, but you weren't watching through the lens anymore. You were watching with your own eyes, raw and unblinking, as the woman who had called you dear sister disappeared beneath the earth.
To your very luck your foot found a twig. The snap was quite barely a sound at all, but in this silence, in this dark, it cracked like a gunshot. The man stopped in his tracks, his shovel hung in the air, suspended over the half filled grave. His head turned, slow and deliberate, toward the house you were hiding behind because the sound was coming from that place. You couldn't see his face, only the dark shape of him, the broad shoulders, the way his body had gone still as a predator catching a scent.
You pressed yourself flat against the wooden wall. âShit.â you whispered, squeezing your eyes. Your heart was a fist pounding against your ribs, breath came shallow, too fast, too loud in your own ears. For some reason he didnât come to check, he only waited. And you waited, too scared to immediately walk away because now, at this very moment, staying still and as quiet as possible was the only option. The seconds stretched like wire pulled too thin. Then he turned back to the pit, he was still digging, finishing what he had started, but you knew, with a cold certainty that settled in your bones like frost, that he had heard you. But it could be anyone, right? You knew that it was impossible for him to know for sure that it was you specifically, well that was something. Slowly you began to walk away, one step at a time, your back scraping against the rough wood of the house, your feet finding the ground with impossible care. You slid sideways, toward the gap between buildings, toward the cluster of small houses where your room waited. You didn't breathe until you had rounded the corner and the digging sound had faded behind you.
You walked faster, looking over your shoulder to make sure he hadnât followed you. Your legs trembled beneath you, but you didn't stop. But you probably should have because the next thing you knew was that you bumped into something soft and solid at the same time. John stood in the path ahead of you. He was wearing a simple grey shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, his hands hung loose at his sides, face was soft, unreadable, which was nothing new, lit faintly by the moon.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked. His voice was low, gentle, wrapped in that thick British accent. You opened your mouth but closed it almost immediately. You had to make something up, make something up or get removed as an unnecessary witness.
"Y'alright?" He took a step closer. His eyes searched your face. He looked rather concerned, utterly convincing. Was he truly worried about you?
"I..uhâŠ" Your voice cracked, so you had to clear your throat. "Iâm so sorry, I thought that I didnât even get to fully enjoy the view, I couldnât sleep and so..â He smiled, the same way he did when you first arrived. "Come inside," he said, gesturing toward the cabin. "I'll make y'thea. Settle your nerves." You wanted (had to) to say no. You wanted to run to your car, drive away, never look back, but- Your feet followed him, they always did somehow, almost without asking you at all. And as you walked toward the cabin, you caught a glimpse of the field behind you, empty now, the digger gone, the pit smooth and still as if nothing had ever disturbed it. Your frown had gone unnoticed by John, thankfully.
His cabin was warm just like the first time. That was the first thing you noticed as you stepped inside, the way the already familiar heat wrapped around you like a blanket, like an embrace, it seems like his space was always in that state. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting amber shadows across the wooden walls. You saw a kettle sat on the stove, already steaming, as if he had known you would come.
"Sit," he said, gesturing toward the worn armchair by the fire. "Y'look like y've seen a ghost." You sat, your legs gave out beneath you. The chair swallowed you, soft and deep, and you stared at the flames without really seeing them. âNo, I justâŠyou startled me a little, didnât expect you to be outside at such an hour.â He moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency. The kettle whistled softly, and he poured water over the small teabag with the care of someone performing a ritual. Symbolic, you thought.
"I like to walk at night. Here," he said, pressing the warm cup into your hands. His fingers brushed yours, and lingered, just a moment. "Drink, s'good for shock." You drank, the tea was herbal, sweet, honeyed in a way that coated your throat and settled in your chest like a balm. How comforting was it, truly, like thatâs exactly what you needed after what you had just witnessed, so eventually your hands stopped shaking.
John sat across from you, not in the other armchair, but on the low wooden stool at your feet, too close for your liking, but at the same time, somehow, you didnât mind.
"Y're shaking, love," he observed, you hadn't even noticed, looking down at your hands, you still held the warm cup of tea. They were shaking, just slightly. "First night's always the hardest," he said softly. "New place, you know, new sounds. gets into y'r bones." You nodded, grateful for the excuse, he didn't ask more.
He took your hand, his thumb traced slow circles on your knuckles. "You can stay," he said quietly. "Just for tonight, let me hold y', nothin' else. I can make y'feel safe, yeah?" He rose, gently pulling you to your feet, his hand stayed wrapped around yours as he led you down the hall, past the closed doors, and into his bedroom. He decided not to close the door, leaving it open instead, just a crack. You knew that it was his nonverbal way to tell you that you could always leave any time.
"Lie down," he murmured. "I'll just hold ya." You laid on his bed, and he stretched out beside you, pulling the blanket over both of you, arm slid around your waist, drawing you close. His breath was warm against the back of your neck. You closed your eyes, letting out a tired sigh. He turned to face you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. He was like a living heater which also felt a little comforting after what you had seen. Your breathing was slightly shaky, all you could see, as your eyes were closed, was Jillâs body being thrown into the pit. You jolted, opening your eyes with a small gasp.
"Y're scared," he observed. "S'alright, s'natural. But I need y'to know somethin'." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "I've watched y'for very closely, the way y'hold y'rself, the way y'look at me when y'think I'm not payin' attention." You opened your mouth to deny it. He pressed his thumb gently against your lips, silencing you. "Don't," he murmured. "I know how scary these remote places can be. These communities.â
You couldnât deny the fact that he was telling the truth, despite yourself, he was fascinating you. His mind games, his demeanor, everything about him was interesting. Although he was a very typical cult leader, there was still something about him that made you want to dig deeper.
âAinât ya a smart girl? Came tâdo ya research.â he said, rubbing your head. âSaw somethinâ havenât ya? Curious girl.â at his words, your mouth opened as you shook your head. Did he know? âNo, I..I couldnât sleep and I..â he shushed you quietly, giving you another few comforting nods. âMy people would also see a lot at the beginninâ, love. Sâa forest and a field.â Oh. So he thought that you probably heard or saw an animal or something in the woods that were nearby that shook you so much. How odd. You squeezed your eyes for a moment, feeling sudden dizziness.
âDid ya like the tea?â he asked so quietly. His hand moved to your waist, dragging his hand under your shirt. âRelaxing, aye?â You felt that it was way too relaxing. Did he put something in it? You couldnât tell but your body was very relaxed and almost tired, for a moment you forgot everything that you saw and all you could feel were his hands on your body. He carefully pushed you onto your back, hovering over. Johnâs arms dragged up and down over your own, as he straddled your hips. âGonna help mâlittle film girl.â he said, moving his hand to the front of your shirt. A small gasp left you as he tore your shirt into half.
You didnât protest because you felt too tired to do it and because his hands were very warm and distracting. Now the visions of Jill disappeared altogether. âRight, relax, love, mâgonna take care of ya.â His words were so soft, as soft as his hands that moved under the cups of your bra. He kneaded your breasts like plushies, grumbling something under his breath. Your eyes closed at the feeling, not registering a soft, whining sound that escaped your mouth. Your mind did not acknowledge the fact that all of this was wrong, that you shouldnât be laying here in his bed. But the shock lingered, all of your plans disappeared by the horrific image of a body being buried right under everyoneâs noses.
Your back arched lazily as your weak arms sprayed above your head, while John continued. His hands then moved to your jeans, pulling them down with that ease that it felt like pulling the clothes off of a barbie doll. With each touch of his hands, your mind turned off even more. John spread your legs carefully with his knee, pushing it right into your core, his action elicited another moan from your mouth. He did it a few times before he felt the wetness through your panties. You opened your eyes, looking at his hands that were dragging them down your legs. Next thing you knew were his finger on your cunt that were spreading that wetness. They felt soft, gentle, he didnât want to rush things.
âMâgirl feels uncomfortable âere. A cult, she says.â he said, laughing quietly. His voice was raspy as always, low and warm, he wasnât mocking. Or maybe he was, you couldnât tell. You didnât care because all you cared about were his long, thick fingers that were slowly intruding into your cunt and mind. They moved slowly, savoring the feeling of wetness and warmth. He hissed at the thick juices that were coating his fingers more and more. For some unknown to you reason they felt too perfect inside, replacing every anxious thoughts, questions, deadlines, murders. Only John was left in your head and cunt.
âWeâre not a cult, dovie,â he mumbled âWeâre a home.â he unbuttoned his shirt with a free hand, tossing it aside. He didnât have the patience to pull his jeans off, taking his half hard cock out instead. âAnd ya skinâ such a good job. Makinâ ya little movie âbout us.â Johnâs hand moved over your stomach, rubbing it slowly. He moved it to your legs, lifting the limbs easily with one hand. He held them at the ankles. Your eyes lifted, squinting at the light as they gazed at your legs, your vision was foggy but you didnât care.
âMmmmâ you hummed lazily, frowning at the heaviness in your limbs. John kissed the back of your thigh, moving lower until he reached the place he wanted. Placing a few sloppy kisses to your core, he licked his wet lips, humming in satisfaction. âDelightful.â he mumbled, as he positioned the thick head of his cock against your entrance. He was thick, a little too big but he didnât care, neither did you, the wetness only made it easier for him to slip inside. Another hiss left Johnâs lips at the tightness.
âMâgirls ainât that tight anymore.â he sighed, moving slowly, in and out of you. He draped your legs over his shoulder, hugging them with one arm. And in that moment, in your eyes, John Price looked huge. Illuminated by the fire behind him, it outlined him, making his form almost glow. He rubbed your legs, fastening his rhythmic thrusts only slightly.
His gaze was almost curious, the way he squinted his eyes to get a better look at you. What was he thinking about?
You found out shortly when he reached for the bedside table. Soon, his face was replaced by an old-looking polaroid camera that was pointing at you. It was wrong, disgusting even, but could your mind register anything at this point? Aside from Kohn and the immense pleasure he was giving you - nothing. The room then filled up with the sound of a shutter as John took a picture, it was almost amusing to you how he didnât even stutter in his thrusts for once while doing all of that. Too practiced, your foggy mind thought. But you didnât have time to think about that deeply because Johnâs strong hands pushed your legs above your head, filling you up even deeper from that angle. With that your tired hands found his arms, draping over them lazily. With that he fastened his pace even more, fucking you deep into the mattress. The sleepiness was taking over you more and more each second, and something was telling you that you wouldnât remember anything soon.
The morning was quiet, calm when your eyes opened slowly as you began to finally waking up. The tiredness lingered still, making your body feel like it weighed a ton. Johnâs bedroom felt as warm as ever, but you acknowledged the fact that you were there, after all the memories of Jill and John leading you to his cabin were clear. You couldnât remember anything past the tea, maybe you fell asleep? The question lingered in your mind as you sat up, you were alone in the room, thatâs what youâd noticed first, your hand touched your forehead as the annoying pulsation of headache began nagging. Slowly, you managed to get up and look around, the room was spacious and simple, exactly what youâd expect John to have. It was a great chance for you to get nosy and see what he could be hiding behind closed doors of his bedroom.
You knew that you could find something that would be useful for your movie and research, so the first thing that you decided to look at was his table. It was a mess, covered in papers, documents, folders. There was nothing interesting about it, but the drawers. Oh, there you would definitely find something interesting. To your disappointment the first drawer was empty. The second had a few unopened letters and nothing else. But the third drawer caught your attention. It was empty and you wanted to close it but you heard a strange sound, as if something was inside but how if it was empty? You moved it once again, forward just slightly and it hit you, double bottom. Something was moving inside and created a sound.
You slid the wooden board forward, snapping your fingers as you nodded. Bingo. There you a few folded papers and a small, yellow envelope, it looked quite puffy, money? Probably, you wouldnât know unless you looked. So thatâs what you did. Standing up on your slightly wobbly legs, you opened the envelope, finding a pile of polaroids. They werenât anything special, just pictures of each of the members. Karen, a girl who volunteered for an interview, Ben, that helped you set your tripod, a few other faces and- Jill. It was painful to see her face and the memories of yesterdayâs events still lingered like vines around your heart. Piercing the vulnerable organ making it bleed at the thought that the young, beautiful woman was buried in somewhere in the field.
The more you looked at the picture and Jillâs face, the more the feeling that youâd seen her face before was nagging. Again. You knew her. You decided to keep the picture, sliding it into your back pocket. Something told you to keep looking, you followed your intuition, looking through the papers that were in the drawer. Those werenât just any papers, you found, those were a mission persons reports, mostly women, approximately the same age, but nothing else was in common. One report was more interesting, a woman named Jane Devine, twenty years old, short hair, blue eyes and a freckled face. Ironically, she also looked familiar, too familiar, maybe..You pulled Jillâs polaroid from your pocket, holding it beside the report and finally every puzzle fell into place. Maybe, after all, you should stay here longer?
- a.n. finally itâs here! very long, so i hope you like it! side note, i decided to add a few more tags due to the change in the plot. plot twists are coming in the next chapter, hehe. if anyone else wishes to be on the taglist just tell me đŠą
You were Shepâs daughter- not related, but he married to your mother in your pre-teen years. And as such, your moms marriage with that man created collateral damage. Anything that involves General Shepard, gets targeted; you can be targeted. No situation is outlandish when you're close to a man with so many, many enemies.
When Graves got the call from Shep to take care of his kid, he almost scoffed to himself. Not only is he a mercenary-lapdog ordeal, but a babysitter?
The things that Phillip does to see that cheque in his bank account. He even found it insulting to even receive such a job- he was a man who was a leader to more than thirty men, had a body count that can fill mass graves, and a reputation that held no mercy; but here he is, playing caretaker? It was ridiculous- however Sheperd justified it as he was going on a trip.. and may need security to check around the house. So Graves sucked his pride, knowing damn well whatever the General gave- would be a hefty wage. And what could go wrong? Nothing much can a young snotty kid do to him.
Thus, Graves is standing in front of the door. Wearing civilian clothing- with the addition of his tactical vest. His forearm leaning against the side of the door, awaiting for somebody to swing it open. Ring.
âComing!â He heard from the inside of the door- a person in a hurry to clean things around. He raises his eyebrow, hearing the shuffles behind the frame, and some distant mumblings. Shortly enough, the door opened. And he was not greeted by a snotty kid as he expected, or some recluse teenage boy- but rather.. you. You, who was a pretty young thing with big pupils and a smile. With cotton buds in between your painted toes, and some eye strips under your eyes. You, who wore a cute and confused expression that made your lips press into a âoâ, dainty hands pressing against the door knob, and your head tilting to look at him. You, who almost made the man clear his throat a little.
Did Graves have a case of dementia? How could he forget that Shep has a daughter? Of course, Shep has you. He remembers when you were just little, pigtails and overalls covered in dirt and sand. And now here you are, standing in front of him- almost able to reach the height where his eyes could see.
âOh.. hello.â You coughed, almost to clear the tension and the straight confusion.. âI thought it was gonna be the usual security guards.. w..who are you?â
âPhillip Graves. I think you wouldaâ seen me before- but you were too young to remember. Iâm one of the best security your daddy has, mâam.â He grinned and winked, the blonde holding out his hand for you to shake. To his surprise, you gave him a side glance, not returning the favour of pleasantries.
âDonât call me mâam.. Thatâs just weird..â If he wasnât amused by your response, he wouldâve scolded you. Wondering to himself, why do kids these days have no respect? But of course, you were Shepâs daughter, and as much as he wanted to tattle you off and point your finger at you- there was no use.
âOh. Oh of course.â He puts his hand in a mock surrender, and laughs it off. âThatâs alrightâ.. Whatever you say darlinâ.â You then look back at him, almost with a grimace, however you clearly were giggling. Rolling your eyes. âDonât call me that either.â
He snorts. âOh then what else do I call ya? Hm? Brat? Is that what youâd rather have?â Whatever sass you gave him, he can give it back to you and serve it on a silver plate. Anything to shut you down quickly. You huffed, brushing it aside- ignoring his words that hung around like a bait for a fish in the water. You then go back to residing on the couch, continuing to paint your toenails, while you resume the cheesy movie you were watching.
âI just donât understand.. Why are you even here? I can manage myself. Iâm not a child.â You complained, while Phillip adjusted himself to the large living room. His tactical vest and dark clothing sticking out as a sore thumb in such a spacious, marble expensive home. He chuckles a little, shaking his head- âI could ask yer daddy the same damn thingâ. Asking me to play.. babysitter. I reckon that heâs paranoid.â He makes a faux pitied look.
âNow I'm stuck with you, pretty girl.â He says, tilting his head down and crouching a little to look at you, while you painted your toes. A pink hue ran across your face, but itâs quickly pushed away by your eyes rolling away- hiding any whisper or recognition that acknowledges how his words get to you. âYeah, yeah.. Well- make yourself comfortable. Get a beer or something.. You wonât be of much use.â He laughs, his head rolling- amused by your banter.
âAh youâre witty aintchaâ? Alright baby, I'll go âget a beerâ and be useless.â He ruffles your hair, making you yelp out a small exclaimed hey, warning him to not mess the hair you worked so hard to dry after you took a shower. Although he clearly didnât care, shrugging off your concern as he went to the kitchen, searching to find that beer you mentioned. While he strolls around to the kitchen, he canât help but look at you. You were a curious thing. Feisty and rude. Maybe he was too used to his shadows coming to his beck and call, no matter what he asks them- but you were grinding his nerves. Yeah, he can admit- you being pretty and all, but that mouth of yours? It needs better teaching. But of course, he canât do that, after all, he doesn't want Shep putting a gun to his head.
Quickly breaking his thoughts- he comes back to the living room. Popping the cap, and the reek of alcohol quickly spreads around the air. You look at the glass bottle, clear yellow bubbling fizz within his fingerless gloved hand. He notices your eyes lingering on it, his mouth half-smirking. âOh, you wanna try some?â You scoff, shaking your head. âNo.. ew. Beer is gross.â He hums at your response as he takes a chug of it.
âOh, of course you say that! I bet yer ass only drinks fruity cocktails.. those girly pink drinks filled with nothing but sugarâ. Right?â He comments- the taunt grating your ears. And heâs right, you do drink those fruity cocktails- but his condescending words make you wanna chug a bottle of hennessy or vodka to prove him wrong. The room was brought to silence, before you strike back at him with a stern look. âGive me that.â
He looks at you with a deep grin, a raised eyebrow. âAh, change of heart, sweetie? Awww.. donât tell me ya feel offended- I was just playinâ around.â He held up his arms, a motion of surrender and playful teasing. You groaned, taking the beer bottle from his hands- and soon enough you took a chug of it.
âOh, sweetheart.. Slow down a lilâ, there!â But you refused and instead finished the bottle- wiping your mouth with the sleeve of your bathrobe. You look back at him with a smug smile- however that was shortly cut off when the wave of alcohol hits your system. Which leads to you coughing a bit. He snorts. Shaking his head, almost looking at you like a child not getting a cookie from a jar. âWhaddya think you were going for..? Hm? Just wanna prove a point?â
âYeah.. I mean. Itâs not bad.â You mumbled, although a clear lie. He can see your face scrunching up, squirming at the bitter liquid that tasted like bile within your throat. It was awful, but you didnât want this asshole to beat over you. However.. you do feel the flush on your cheeks becoming apparent. And as you try to focus on painting your toes- your motor functions become a bit sloppy, leading a groan to slip out your mouth. Graves took notice of this, and laughed even more.
âNext time sugarâ.. stick to your cocktails.â
You gave him a hard stare, and stuck your tongue out, a gesture for him to shut the hell up- but he only chuckled. Just shrugging his shoulders, and placing himself right beside you on the couch- which you were going to protest against, but his body was close to yours and you canât help but look at him. His face has a stubble, a scar on his cheek; almost as if he has this boyish look to him- if it werenât for his greying blond hair. Plus, he smells like wood, gunpowder and liquor, an all masculine scent that you took notice of. While you were too busy analyzing him, you didnât realize his blue eyes were on you too.
âWhat is it, honey? You see something you like?â You turned your head, going back to looking down at your nail polish in embarrassment. âNo..no of course not..â He raises his eyebrow at that.
âOh really? You lookinâ at me like you got a crush.â You laughed, shaking your head at that incredulous idea. âA crush on you? Youâre too old.â
He rolled his eyes. âWatch your mouth. I ainât young, but I tell you this sweetie- I got the stamina to seem like one.â He mentions, looking at you with a knowing grin. You processed his words, not knowing if that was a way to boast himself and stroke his ego, or some dirty innuendo that he can-
Buzz. A phone rings in his pocket- to which he immediately picks up. He sees the caller ID, âAh. Yer dad is callinâ. Iâll be right back, sweetie.â Getting up from the couch, and going to the other room to take the call privately. You let out a breath that you didnât know you were holding. What the fuck is going on with your head? First, looking at him like a creep, and now, you were wondering if his stamina means in action or in bed. It must be the beer. It has to be the beer. Because dear god, you donât even wanna think about the idea of hooking up with this asshole.
And as your thoughts ramble, he soon comes back into the room. He crosses his arms, his head looking down at you. âShep called. He told me to take you to bed.â
âW-what? Iâm not a baby. I donât need to be coddled-â He shushes you, his finger in a motion for you to be quiet. âAh, ah. His rules. He told me you got that habit of sneaking out. So Iâm betting this teaches you a lesson.â
You scoffed, almost stunned. âIâm a grown adult, I can do whatever-â Before you continue your words, he quickly handles you- holding you up into a princess carry. Manhandling you as if you were some bag of potatoes or a disobedient toddler. âPut. Me. Down.
âWhat? Canât hear yaâ.â He says, as you argue him through the whole way when going up the stairs. You tried to push him off, or use your fists to pound against his chest to let you down to the floor- but he never abides. Just continuing to carry you, whistling like he wasnât bothered at all. And he wasnât. Which pissed you off.
He opens your room. He then lets out a soft laugh at your room. It was cute, and definitely decorated, âAwâ cute room ya got there, princess. Why would you wanna sneak out when you got somethinâ like this?â He drops you onto your silk sheets, and you sit up, glancing at him with annoyance. âBecause.. Iâm not some caged bird. I want to go out.â
âGo out and do what?â He chides. âTo go partying off, while yerâ Daddy is worrying like hell. Missy, I think itâs best if you stay home. And anyways.. you got company-â he motions, gesturing a finger at himself âMe.â
You scoffed, âLike that helps.â He laughs, and a wry smile can be seen on his face. He then takes your laptop off your desk, and puts you on your lap. âWell, we can still watch whatever you were watchinâ down the living room.â
He sits beside you, and as much as you want to act out- that beer you drank hastily made you a little dizzy. You open up the laptop, and continue to watch the show. As the minutes pass on, your eyes slowly flutter; losing interest in the screen and makes you fall slack against his shoulder. He raises his eyebrow, and shuts off the device, putting it away. He pulls away from you, (which admittedly, he didnât want to) and tugs the blanket over you. Before he could move out of the comforter, his hands caressed your cheek, looking at your soft face as you slept.
He makes a little smile, and leaves you be. Turning off the light before he closes the door.
âNight darlinâ.â
âââââââââ
Youâve been good as of late. Well, too good. For the last 2 weeks, while Graves was supervising you when the general was gone- you were suspiciously compliant. And so one night, when he picked up his phone, your step-dad yelled out and barked orders for him to find you- he was not surprised. Graves have been through many bombs. He knows how it ticks, and you were the same. Like a bomb, you were bound to explode and act out sooner or later. The fact that you didnât do this earlier, was the only thing that shocked him. And on Shep's orders, he gets into his military truck and starts to drive as if he was catching down the next target.
That target was you. And you were all out in the rural area, away from the city. What the fuck were you there for? Maybe to make it more difficult for him to find you, to catch him off guard and make it less likely for your fun to be ruined- which he finds funny. Donât you know that he finds everything, and everyone? On the field, nobody can escape death, taxes, or him. He would laugh, if he wasnât so damn annoyed. You interrupted his poker game with his shadows- and now he has to play hunter for a girl who couldnât listen.
Eventually he pulls up. What would be a 1 hour drive was just in 20 minutes- thanks to his shadows talking in his earpiece, helping him find the fastest way to the location. He parks a bit far, just so heâs hidden away from partygoers that could alert you of his presence.
As he cracks his knuckles, he groans- and opens the truck door. His combat boots touch the mud beneath him, his heels close to sinking in with the earth. When he comes closer, he hears loud music to which he wasnât familiar with at all. Is this what young people listen to? He couldnât understand a single damn word with all the people screaming and laughing like hyenas. While he walks closer to the area, he can smell the weed, the alcohol, the vapes.. hell, even the puke. Other partygoers took notice of him, but they were too drunk out of their asses to even care or say anything. To which, helps him to ease into the gates of the backyard easier.
It was a spacious backyard. A pool with glow-in-the-dark sticks and crappy party banners. Confetti against the grass, a table with bottles and bottles of tequila, and a plethora of red solo cups. And many, many youngsters. Rowdy, loud- annoying. He sees these two lovebirds making out and devouring each other in front of everybody- which he gives second looks to. Thank god he went to the marines early. Makes him feel better that he wasnât a fuckinâ fool when he was young.
But he wasnât here to stare and mock at these kids. No, he was here to find you, and where the hell were you anyways-
âCâmon, take another shot.â A girl called out- and he hears your familiar laugh following it, which makes an automatic reaction in his stomach. He turned his head, and there you were. What the fuck where you wearing? Denim shorts, and a red bikini. Whatâs worse is that the other guys in the party.. were looking at you.
Were you trying to kill him?
He narrows his eyes, to focus from afar. There, your hand holding an alcoholic lemonade and the other hand busy with a shot of vodka. You take the shot, and chug the can- which you crushed when it was fully empty. You made a shit-eating grin to your friends who crowd around you, and soon you dived right into the pool, a splash coming in waves. He could feel his face being greeted with droplets. Groaning, he wipes the water off, and steps forward.
When you break the surface of water, and have your head out of the air- your eyes widen at the sight of him. He grimaced. âMiss. Get yerâ fuckin ass here.â Phillip shouts out.
You then immediately swam to the edge of the pool, pulling yourself up. The wet hair strands framing your face, as you gave him an awkward look.
âIs that your boyfriend or dad?â A friend asked, which you gave a glare back for them to shut up. A sigh escapes your lips, and you make an awkward smile. âHeyy.. Graves. Joining the party?â He responds with silence. Which is really scary- if you have to admit. Usually, the only emotions he expresses is a smug smile, or a condescending chuckle. This was not the usual. You then gulped, and then pointed to a random thing. âLook, a terrorist!â He takes a look, seeing nothing. He snarls. Why did he fall for that?
You moved quickly, trying to run away but the wet pavement slowed your steps. Heâs faster- and grabs your wrist. Tightening to the point where it pulls you back to his hardened chest. He handles you with ease, and picks you up, putting your body against his shoulder, carrying you as if you were some cattle. You look to your friends, almost begging for help- but they could only wave, and give you a small smile, while his hands gripped your thighs. No chance of you slithering away.
And so, in your resignation, you ended up in the truck. The drive was quiet. For the first time you didnât wanna bother him- the vein protruding from his jaw clenching together is a sign that you need to shut up. It was a loud silence, except for the occasional squeak of your seat due to it still being wet from your clothes. He takes notice of this, and pulls a blanket from the back seat, throwing it over to you while his hand is on the steering wheel.
As you went through the gates and arrived home, you finally spoke up when stepping into your foyer. âUh.. sorry.â
âSorry?â He raises his eyebrow. âThatâs a first.â His body now striding toward you, crossing his arms and looking down at you. âBut that ainât gonna be enough, sugar.â
You look to the side, and back to his eyes. âIs it because I sneaked out?â
He pauses, and tsked. âYes.. and you beinâ fuckin stupid.â He motions his hands, gesturing to your attire beneath the blanket you were holding onto. âDrinking. Wearing this scarp of fuckinâ fabric. And most of all, makinâ me interrupt my poker game for your antics.â
Before you say something- he puts his hand up, telling you to keep your silence until heâs done talking. Pointing his middle digit at you. Talking to you like a stern overbearing father. âWhat the hell were you thinkinâ? Runninâ around and wearinâ something like that. Where all guys can see. And not just that, drinking and swimming. Are you trynaâ drown?â He says, face coming closer to yours- you see the subtle anger in his eyes. However, when hearing your nervous hitch of breath - he takes a deep breath, groaning and putting his hand over his face; toning his temper down. A pause presumes you two, until he finally looks up to you.
âYou make my goddamn blood pressure high.â He utters, with a growl in his tone.
âI donât know how daddy general allows you to be such a brat- but I'm tellinâ ya, it ends now.â Putting his hand around your cheeks, puckering it up to the point you look like a pufferfish. It was humiliating.. And yet thereâs a funny heat pooling in your lower stomach.
âI oughtaâ teach you a lesson.â
Whether it was the alcohol, or the second-hand weed intake- you finally let out a giggle at his (dramatic) words. And your inhibition is so slow and unaware, you canât help but bat your eyes and give him a coy smile. Those fingers wrapped around your skin- now being interacted with the tip of your tongue. His calloused thumb feeling the wet muscle of yours. Graves then realizes this, and indulges for a moment, parting your pink lips- his eyes narrow when you suck them off. His only response to this was him pulling your body over, and grabbing you up the stairs. âEh.. What are you doing?â A squeal left out your mouth.
While you started questioning where your whereabouts will be- he answers it silently by opening your bedroom door. Making you sit down on that silk bed of yours.
âYou think I was bluffinâ? Hm?â Phillip chides, his eyes crinkling- and he already knew you were gonna respond with some smartass backhand comment, so he did what he finally needed to do;
To shut your mouth.
By slamming his lips against yours.
And sure enough it worked. While he parts your lips- he made sure you couldnât utter a single word. No. He wanted to make you only utter incomprehensible little whimpers and pants, which you were doing right now. Kissing him back with a tentative eagerness- all the while he sheds his vest, his gear, now forgotten on the floor. His rough hands came to maneuver around, tracing at your back- he played with the ribbons of your bikini. Nipping your lips for a short moment, he breaks the kiss- to look at the red fabric you wore.
âSlutty outfit, darlinâ. Who are you tryna impress? Some college boy who donât fuck right?â Growling, shaking his head. âYou gonna let some stupid fool hook up with you, before I could ever give you a reason to start actinâ straight?â He then had his other hand gripping your denim short-clad ass, his palm squeezing it; almost to prove a dominance over you while still moving his mouth on yours. When you feel him groping one of your ass cheeks- you immediately bite his lip a little- which his head retracts. Feeling the small bit of blood trickling down.
âFuckinâ shit. Why you gotta be such a brat?â You laugh, giggling at his angerâ âOh so you think this is funny, hm, sugar?â
âWell letâs see if youâll keep laughinâ.â His hand slipped away from your back, and immediately went down the area between your legs. His hands rubbing friction over your covered pussy- immediately feeling the folds, your clit that dared to peek out. You squeak, and he smirks, you could protest and call for him to get offâ but then again, is that what you want? When he hovers over you, cages you down against the bed, his blue eyes focused on the heat of your sex as quietly grunts; do you even wish for this to stop? When his hand starts to unbuckle your shorts, and pull it down- setting it aside, do you want him to stop the feeling of his crotch against your panties?
Probably not. And there it was, the crack of the facade seeping in. It didnât help that he pressed his clothed bulge against your panties, kissing your neck, âFor such a little brat- you got the prettiest fuckinâ body, honey. If we were in a different scenario, where you were being a good girl, I wouldâve treated you so well.â
He then shows a sharp toothed grin. âItâs too bad, ainât it, babydoll?â The grinding stops, leaving you to gasp a little- wishing he continued to touch you more. However, he does fulfill your wishes- just not in the way you imagine and wanted; because his form of touching you- was his palm striking down against your pussy. You yelped, your eyes welling up. He continued to slap it again, and you couldnât help but to buck your hips a little at the rough, sharp sensation. âHaâ Graves! That hurts.â
âAww..â He mimics your expression, a fake pout. âIt hurts baby?â He slaps your pussy again, âIt hurts doesn't it?â and again. He clicks his tongue. âWell sweetheart, I guess you just gotta take it, hm?â His head leaned downwards, his nose brushing against yours as you start to whine increasingly louder. His eyes crinkle, as he sees your desperate gasps- and for a moment, decides heâll indulge. Slipping down your panties, he puts a digit inside your heat- making your face contort into a relieved expression. The feeling of something finally inside of you was exhilarating. Yet, he strokes your walls in such a slow motion, you canât help but wriggle a little. He notices this and laughs. âWhy so restless, cutie? Ainât it good enough for you?â
You immediately shake your head. âNo! It isnât, Graves.. Move your hand faster.â He rolled his eyes, a smirk on his face- âYou orderinâ me around again baby.? I donât think thatâs how it works. Ask politely or I pull my fingers out of this wet fuckinâ pussy.â
Will you really be giving up your ego for this? âIâd rather-â Before you could speak, he then strokes into the spongy part of your hole, and you immediately crumble. Saying goodbye to your dignity, you caved in. âPlease.. please Graves. I need this, please.. Please go faster.â A proud sigh escapes from his mouth, and he goes at it. His middle and index fingers, scissoring and thrusting in and out- he puts his other hand, and puts it against your lower abdomen. You let out a loud high-pitched yell, your hands gripping onto the sheets- while you could feel the pressure of his hand pressing onto that lower belly thatâs connected to your filled pussy. You drool a little, the slick of your hole coming to splatter aroundâ he looks back at you, an obnoxious chuckle leaving his mouth. âAw, is it so good, baby? You feelinâ good? A little dumb?
Nodding, your eyes look back to him- glassy and hazy. He snickers, amused at the sight; and just at the cusp of him fulfilling the itch inside of you- he pulls out his fingers. You wouldâve whined and demanded him to go back- but he beat you to it, by slapping your clit once again. The pain jolts your body, making you arch your back. âY-youâre being mean.â You whimpered.
âOh, Iâm being mean? Am I? Sweetie, youâre just a fuckinâ crybaby.â He hums, tapping your cheek- to gesture to you that you have to keep eye contact on him. âYou need to learn how to take it,â He slaps your ass, the red handprint leaving a mark on your skin. âLearn how to listen, learn how to take orders.â Another spank, his palm hitting the same area. Tears flood your eyes, and the only thing you can utter is a pathetic groan. He then turns your body around- making you face him, his fist grabbing a chunk of your hair to look at him. He clicks his tongue, âSay.. maybe Iâll give you what you want- If you suck my cock well. Hm? How boutâ it?â
With your head filled with nothing but an aching need to be fulfilled, you immediately nodded your head. Your hands, shaking and trembling while it nears itself closer to his zipper. You pull the zip down, and immediately you are greeted with a bump, straining against the underwear with pre-cum. Taking a deep breath, you take it out; your eyes widen when greeted with a cock that your hand can barely fit around. His eyes darted to your expression, a cruel smirk on his face- amused by your reaction. Not only are you stroking his cock, but youâre stroking his already inflated-ego. And that pisses you off and makes you want to bite his dick, but that wanting core of yours beg to differ. Resignation passes you, and you put a tentative lick against his undershaft. He immediately grips the sheets of the bed.
âAtta girl.â His cock has this musk taste to it- it wasnât exactly salty, but it was definitely masculine. Everything about him was masculine. With the way his war-scarred hands start to caress your hair, with his hooded eyes that hints of confidence, with his thighs that strained against the black denim of his jeans- it was all signs of how this man could break you. Snap you into two. Bruise you, and mark you like a spotted fruit. He then inhales, shaking his head. âMhm. Licking it like a kitten, ainâtcha? But.. If Iâm being honest baby.. that ainât doinâ it for me. So you best work that throat of yours, sweetie.â
Those were the words that you last heard before he pushed your head, down, down, against his cock. Which had your nose hitting his salt and peppered pubes, your hands held purchase against his thighs. You would find this demeaning, if it wasnât so hot to find the man hovering over you, grunting, snarling from your wet cavern. âFuuuck.. Thatâs it baby, thatâs it, thatâs it.â He moves his hips slowly, nudging against your cheek- making a bulge. His cock scraping the top of your mouth, the bridge of your tongue. His hand helping to bob your head, he makes a snarky grin. âNow.. This is a better use of your mouth, hm? You canât talk back to me, canât ya? Not with my fuckinâ cock pistoning in your mouth.â
He laughs, and when he pulls your head to the tip, and quickly pushes you down to his base- you make a muffled squeal. âCock got your tongue, baby?â The man rasped out, having the time of his life- seeing you put into your place. Seeing you put in a position where he would stroke himself during lonely nights. Seeing you teared up and quiet, where he would wish for in every moment you teased, taunted, and giggled at him. And seeing this made into a reality, was enough to make him grip your hair, and make you go at it faster.
However, he still gives you mercy for a few seconds. He lets you pull your mouth out- strands connecting to his tip and veins, before he goes back to fucking your throat. Thrusting your mouth, him having to insist you to breathe through your nose.
Push, pull. Up, down. It was a haze of pure lust. He increasingly pants louder, and your hands that hold tight against his clothed thighs were feeling the shake, the movement. A sign of his impending climax. His fist holding your locks, tighter than ever.
âF-fuck. Gonna cum.â He breathed out. âGonna cum. Gonna fuckinâ bust my load down your pretty throat. Can you take it baby? Can you?â His sentence ends on a questioning, yet needy tone. He looks straight at you, and you look back at him. For the first time in a while, you nodded your head, listening to his orders. Understanding. Obeying. Eyes wide and teary, and a cute face willing to take cum inside.
And that was enough to put him over the edge. His cum now escaping from his tip.
âFuck! S-shit. Thatâs it. Such a good girl, baby. Such a good fuckinâ girl. Taking my cum. Swallowing it. I knew you could do it. I knew you could and obey.â
When the ropes of cum were fully drained out, he pulled himself out of your mouth. He gazes down. You were coughing, but you swallowed it all.
âGood job, baby.â He whispers. He then pulls you up from your knees. âSo proud of you.â Kissing your cheek, and rubbing your back. And you allowed yourself to bask in his praise, however there was still one thing that was ignored, and neglected.
Which was the feeling between your legs.
The feeling of your thighs glistening with wetness and sticking together. That pooling heat was enough for you to grind against the air- wishing for something, someone, to fulfill it. And of course, he noticed.
Not without a catch though, as he took this opportunity as a lesson to be learned. When you were focused moving your pussy against something- he caught you off-handed, tipping your chin to look up at him. âDâya need somethin?â
In any other moment.. you wouldâve stuck your tongue at him, or rolled your eyes. Retort back with a comment. However, this moment was different. You needed him. His help. His hands, his cock, his body. Him.
Letting out a shaky sigh, you nodded. âY..yeah. I need uhm..â You paused, your face looking to the side, retracting your thought, but he didnât let you get away from his intense gaze- âNeed what?â
âNeed.. you.â The words leaving your mouth. But he chuckles, shaking his head. âAw sweetheart, I canât hear a damn thing. Better speak up, or Iâll just leave you be for the night-â
You shake your head, âOk, ok! I need you Phillip! Please.. I need you, I need you to touch me and m-make me..â He raises his eyebrow, waiting for you to finish your sentence. âCum. Make me feel good.. Please.â
A laugh from him can be heard- almost confirming to you It was hopeless. And so you believe heâll just leave you helpless and lonely. Youâll just call it a night-
But soon his hands quickly interlock with yours and youâre against the cushions of your bed. Kissing your ears, your neck, your collarbone, all the while he takes his shirt off. His cock jotting out, and laying against your stomach while he finally has his torsosâ bare skin against yours.
âYou gonna be good?â He pants, his lips close to your ear. âU-uh huh..â
âYou gonnaâ let me use your pussy?â Tapping your cheek, making your eyes flutter. You pout your lip. âUh huh.â
âYou gonna take it well?â You nod sweetly, and that was enough to make him sheath inside of you. The feeling of his girth, dragging across your hole, had you arching your back. âA-awh..!â
He grimaced, holding your head- your cheek can feel the steel dog tag that dangled around his neck. âThatâs it. Oh honey.. Tight hole you got here, baby.â He lazily grins, half-grunting and half-chuckling. Keeping eye contact, while your eyes wander and roll back from his slow grinding. âI betcha donât have a boy fuckinâ you this well, hm?â
You whine, and nod. You open your eyes. âN..noo⊠they can never make me cum.â
He makes a faux-pout, a âawwâ escapes from his lips. âThatâs so sad sweetie. Well lemme help you out, yeah? You justâ ffuck, be a good girl and wrap your legs around me.â He says, and you took his orders. Wrapping around your thighs against his waist, to which- you were greeted with an influx of thrusts. All of which made you yelp and keen. Crying under him, while he mutters praises and curses under his breath. Your hands then wrap around his back, fingernails digging into his fair-tan skin. And you couldnât help but buck back, leaning into his cock stretching you full and making you see stars- his tip nudging your cervix which made you moan out.
âI-Imm⊠Gonâ cum!â The words that fell out of your mouth fumbled- however Graves still responded, adhering to your pleas, your wishes. He makes sure he hits the back of your hole. He made sure his veins were caressing the gummy walls of your pussy. You yelp, legs and feet bouncing a little through each harsh sticky slam against you.
âFuck. Thatâs right.. You go ahead and cum for me, baby.â He groans, his head tilted back from the tightness that coated his shaft. You felt better than he could imagine. You felt better than any fist or hand that stroked his cock.
And at his command, you spasm. Creaming around his shaft, a ring of white surrounds at the base of his cock. You held tight, holding your arms around his neck. However..
He was still hard.
He was still moving.
And you realized that, when he slams into you right after your climax. You whine, a choked cry, â.. A-awh! Too sensitive!â He sighs, and presses another kiss against your cheek. âI know, baby. Shh.. I know. I just- shit- I needa.. I need to cum too.â
He huffs, and although the ache of overstimulation dares to make you pass out. You take it. You listened to him. And you bite your lips, your eyes staring back to him, with haze. His cock fills you so well, you canât help but have your words slip. ââŠDaddy.â
He immediately pulls his head up. Gazing at you, with a stunned expression. âWhatchaâ say, baby?â You shake your head no, feeling the embarrassment creep in- âOh.. donât give me that, you were doing so good. Repeat what you said.â
He thrusts into you, coaxing you to continue your words, your sentences. With his tip hitting the g-spot, you drooled, âD-daddy.! A-awhh.. I said.. I said that.. It just feels too good.â The admission hangs in the air, and he pauses. You thought he stopped.
But he didnât. Because he hooks your legs up, pushing them until it hits your bouncing chest. His hips moving at a fast pace, as he grunts, hovering over you. âThat's right baby. Fuck! You gonnaâ take it from daddy. Take it good for me.â He had your head nodding, while you made a keening whine. âYou're gonna take my load, babydoll. Let my cum fill you up-â
He pants, âlet me breed the fuck outta you. You're gonna be my pretty lilâ slut, alright? Youâre doinâ so well for daddy.â He hushed your screams by his deep kisses, devouring you whole, all the while your cunt was pooling with wet cream, staining the bed. His hips stutter for a moment, and his lips left yours. You gaze at him, whining, pleading, moaning- thanking him. âT-thank you.. Thank you! A-awh, daddy, pleasee.. Iâll be good for you, I promise.â
He smiles, âI know youâll be.. F-fuck. Baby, you gonna let me cum inside?â You respond with your legs tightening around his neck. Almost eager, locking him to keep inside. âS-shit. Thatâs it.. Iâll cum deep in you. And you better fuckinâ cream around me, sugar.â He thrusts, continually while you both reach your peak. âThatâs, thatâs it. Cum for me, cum for me. Câmon baby, câmon baby, câmon-â
And your eyes reach the stars. Sparkles exploding inside your womb, as you felt him filling you up, rooting his fluids inside of you. He groans, hips shaking and trembling as he catches his breath. âFu-fuck.. Stay with me baby. Still cumminâ He whispers, holding you close, as your sweat-slicked bodies, were cradled in the night. Your eyes flutter, and soon it fades to black.
âââââââââââ
You woke up. Shifting around, you then feel his arms around you. You're face to face with him, and his eyes slowly open. âMornin, sugar.â
You mumbled out a good morning, although a bit hoarsely- did you really overdo it last night? You couldnât tell, but judging from the strewn clothes and.. the stains, you knew that you were definitely in a state. But you moved your sore body, and soon blew the hair that covered his face.
âFor fucks sakes. I fucked you silly and youâre still giving me shit?â He groans, but it ends with an amused chuckle. Shaking his head, his words holding no anger.
âGraves, where are you? And whereâs my daughter?â A man downstairs called. Your eyes widened, and Phillip immediately stilled for a moment. âAw, fuck.â
âSo much for a security guard.â You mumble, and he quickly pinches your ear.
âYouâre gonna be the fuckinâ death of me sweetheart.â
you shuffle into the kitchen barefoot, dragginâ your feet, wearinâ that soft pink nightgown with the lace trim that he definitely bought you. it barely covers your thighs, and your hairâs a mess, but youâre lookinâ at him like heâs the only man on earth who can give you what you really want.
âphillip,â you say, voice all breathy and sweet, leaninâ against the counter like you didnât spend the whole night sendinâ him baby tiktoks with captions like âweâd be such cute parents omgâ.
he doesnât even look up from his coffee. just sips it slow and mutters, âlord have mercy. you startinâ this shit again?â
you pout immediately, fingers twistinâ in the hem of your nightgown. âi want a baby,â you whine, cominâ up behind him and wrappinâ your arms around his waist. âplease, phillip. just one. a tiny one. theyâre so cute and squishyââ
âyou talkinâ about a baby or a loafâa bread?â he scoffs, settinâ his mug down with a thud. âgirl, you donât even know how to spell pediatrician.â
âdo too!â you snap, even though you absolutely donât.
he turns around and lifts you right up onto the counter like you weigh nothinâ, starinâ you down with that smug grin of his. âlemme get this straight. you want me to put a baby in you⊠when you still cry when the waffle burns in the toaster?â
you cross your arms. âiâm emotional.â
âyouâre helpless,â he says, pokinâ your thigh. âbut cute. real cute. you keep begginâ like that, i might just give you another puppy.â
âi donât want another puppy!â you huff, brows all furrowed. âi want your baby! i wanna waddle around in cute lil overalls and make you rub my feet!â
he laughsâreally laughsâlike youâre the funniest damn thing heâs ever seen. âjesus christ, baby. the only thing you should be waddlinâ in is a nice lacy bra, not a diaper bag.â
you slap his chest but youâre gigglinâ too, leaninâ into his touch when he brushes your hair out of your face.
âhow âbout this,â he says, drawl slow and cruelly sweet. âyou keep that puppy alive for one more month without tryinâ to feed it chocolate or paint its claws pink, then weâll talk about you havinâ a kid.â
you blink. âwaitâyou fed it chocolate!â
âdetails,â he mutters, liftinâ you off the counter with one arm. âcâmon, sugar. letâs get you dressed âfore you flash the mailman again.â
synopsis: You move to the countryside looking for peace, space, and a life that finally feels like your own. Instead, you find routine, watchful silence, and a neighbor who's always there before you ask.
Wc: 15.8k
CW: fem!reader, artist!reader, butcher!simon, lowkey stalker!simon if you rily squint, kinda mean!simon ( he calls you stupid but in a sexy way), slight slow burn, mention of blood, praise, rough sex, fem! masturbation, mention of breeding, unprotected sex, choking, throat-fucking, spit play, spanking, cunnilingus, analingus, brief mention phlegm, brief aftercare.
a/n: this is a reupload bc the og got labeled and i refuse to be silenced so if you read this already no you didnâtđ«”đŒ. Jk ily<3
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
â âąâ â°âââœàŒâŸâââ±â âąâ
ââ .⊠The devil's in the details
A life that felt like your own.
It's all you've wanted for as long as you can remember.
Growing up meant learning the rules of the real world far too earlyâwaking up every morning just to drag yourself to a grueling job, putting up with nagging customers and insufferable bosses who never seemed to respect boundaries.
Work. Pay the bills. Tend to responsibilities.
It disturbed your soul in a way you couldn't explain to anyone elseâthis idea that life was just endurance, not living.
Yet you always looked ahead. You never confined yourself to the standard everyone else seemed content withâand that refusal was why you were never taken as seriously as you wanted to be.
You learned early that dreaming meant working harder than everyone else.
I wanna make things with my hands!!
You used to squeal as a child whenever someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up. The laughter that followed always left you quietly confused.
What a cutie.
Wait till she grows up.
As if you weren't standing right there. As if it really was unattainable.
As you got older, that desire only split open and spilled into everything elseâinto baking, painting, shaping.
Anything that lets your hands create something beautiful. Something meaningful.
Over time, you realized it wasn't just about making things. It was about the space to make themâto exist without being watched, corrected, rushed. To live somewhere quiet enough that your thoughts could finally settle.
It wasn't that you were a complete introvert. You loved peopleâyou loved the ones who mattered. But there was always that persistent pull, that quiet urge to disappear for a while. To exist in a world that belonged only to you. You would spend days on end just imagining.
And lately, that wasn't enough anymore.
You didn't just want escape. You wanted peace. Quiet.
Which was why you took the first opportunity to leave everything behindâa small farming town in rural England, offering work in exchange for relocation. Painting homes. Restoring old businesses. Fixing what had been forgotten.
Everyone had something to say about it. Your family. Your friends. Even your professors warned you against it.
But you didn't hesitate.
You've technically been here for a week already. Long enough to learn the unfamiliar quiet by heart, to wait while the cottage was cleared and signed off and made official. This is the first time you're really standing in front of it.
Ideas crowd your mind faster than you can catch theâpaint, repairs, small changes that would make it yours. Your chest tightens, heart swelling, a quiet certainty settling in.
The place is neglected. Weathered. Clearly left behind.
And yet, all you can see is possibility.
For the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is falling into place.
"Excuse me?"
You're pulled from your thoughts by the soft voice beside you. You blink, realizing the man has been standing there the entire time.
He smiles, polite but tentative. "I just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking. It's an older cottage, so...lt isn't exactly our best."
"No," you say quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "It's perfect."
Something about your response seems to catch him off guard. He clears his throat.
"Right. Then there are just a few things we should go over before we-"
A sound cuts him off.
An animalistic, sharp, distant squeal loud enough to make you flinch, the noise carrying unnaturally through the trees. You turn instinctively, scanning the hillside.
Up the slope, partially hidden by the trees, stands a barn. One you hadn't noticed before. The doors open with a loud thud.
For a split second, you don't register what you're seeingâonly that something too big has stepped into the light.
Then your stomach drops.
The man fills the doorway, massive shoulders nearly scraping the frame, his silhouette swallowing what little light spills out behind him. He's enormous-not just tall, but wide, built thick and heavy like he was carved for brute force rather than grace.
He's covered in blood everywhere. Dark, soaked into his clothes, smeared across his arms, clinging in thick, ugly patches that glisten wetly in the sunlight. There's a faint metallic smell that drifts through the air, making you scrunch your nose.
To top it off, he had a skullâpatterned balaclava covering the lower half of his face.
The printed grin feels out of place against the quiet countryside, against the green fields and open sky. You can't see his mouth. Can't read his expression. Just the size of him, the way he carries himself like nothing around here surprises him anymore.
Your shoulders tense on instinct.
It was straight out of a horror movie.
"Um," you let out a small laugh, more nerves than humor honestly. "Is that... normal?"
"Ohâyeah." The man beside you clears his throat.
"Yeah, that'll be Simon. Local butcher." He gives a small, awkward laugh. "Looks worse than it is."
Suddenly, you remember everything they warned you about.
A woman alone in the woods.
Right.
You watched cautiously as the man walked toward the cottage right next to the barn, slightly more hidden in the woods than yours, slightly smaller as well.
His steps are steady, boots pressing into the dirt with an easy familiarity, like he's walked this path a thousand times.
Halfway there, he slows and glances over.
Just a look - brief, assessingâthe kind of look anyone might give when they notice someone new standing where no one usually does. You tell yourself that immediately.
Still, your chest tightens in an unsettling way.
Even from this distance, his attention feels heavier than it should. He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just takes you in for a moment longer than you're comfortable with.
"Don't mind him. He's a private blokeâwon't be any bother."
You nod slowly as you turn, stepping back toward the cottage, the normal sounds of the countryside slowly filtering back inâthough the image of him, bloodstained and broad-shouldered against the barn, stays longer than you'd like.
His view of you was completely different.
All he saw was a small figure standing out in the open.
Too small for this place.
You were dressed simply, soft neutral colors that didn't draw any immediate attentionâyet somehow, you managed to draw it anyway. A long skirt brushing your ankles. A fitted tube top clinging in all the right places, bare skin catching the last of the daylight. Gold glinting faintly at your throat and wrists.
He has been watching you since the moment you arrived.
Could see you almost too clearly.
The thought settled heavy in his chest. The cottage next to his. Empty for years.
And now occupied.
His hand tightened around the handle of the front door as he went inside, the knowledge of you settling somewhere in the back of his mind.
â âąâ â°âââœàŒâŸâââ±â âąâ
You wake up before the sun does.
The room is still dark, the cold from the night before still lingers stubbornly around the corners. The smell of wood and damp earth seeps into your space as you lie still beneath the covers, listening to the sound of your breathing and distant chirping of birds.
The nerves you thought you left behind start to stir low in your stomach. You barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow rest. It's funny how the waiting -the planning and the packing was easier than actually waking up inside this new life. A whole week spent imagining, filling the gaps with maybes and what-ifs, had felt gentler than this moment.
But now, lying in your own bed, on the edge of your first real day here, the anxiety creeps back into you like it never really left.
You force yourself up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the morning cold. The wooden floor bites at your bare feet as you cross the room.
You move through your room on autopilot. Pushing aside clutter and digging through your box filled with your things to wash up. You pull on a simple black crop top and black leggingsâeasy and practical, something you don't mind making a mess out of. You fix your hair the way you always do before big jobs, muscle memory taking over as you gather your tools, hand steady despite the tight, resistant pull in your chest.
Your first job is a simple mural for a little flower shop in town.
You'd already been introduced earlier in the week.
Names, faces, smiles. Florence, the owner, had shown you the wall, fingers dusted with soil, excitement bright in her eyes. They'd given you free rein over the design, only asking that you keep to a preferred color palette.
"Okay," you mutter to yourself, crouching by your supplies. "One, two, three-"
You line the cans up on the floor. Reds. Yellows. Whites. Count them twice. Then again.
"Four."
You tap each lid as you go, checking them off in your head like that'll keep your nerves in place. Everything's been ready since last night. Packed. Repacked. Adjusted.
You're stalling. You know you are.
Keys cold in your palm, you stand by the door longer than necessary. Your hand rests on the handle. You inhale once before stepping out.
A loud, wet huff greets you immediately.
You freeze.
Right behind youâway too closeâis a dog. If you could actually call it that.
He doesn't look very friendly. Honestly, you can't even process whether or not he is friendly by the way he stands there.
He's massiveâthick-chested, broad, and you're pretty sure you saw veins popping out of his shoulders, only reinforcing how strong this dog could be. His paws dig heavy into the dirt at the bottom of your porch. Drool clings to the sides of its mouth, slipping free as it stares at you.
And for a fleeting second, the image of yesterday resurfaced. Barn doors, and a blood covered man standing in the middle of the field.
Your heart jumps straight into your throat.
You lift your hand instinctively, bending just slightly at the knees before you can stop yourself.
"Oh-okay," you breathe. "This is... fine."
"Hi," you try, softer. "Hey, puppy."
The dog doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side.
You glance around, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. No neighbors. No cars. Just you and the beast blocking your path.
The distant sound of a truck came before you could react, stopping abruptly in front of you.
"Oi," the voice is rough and hoarsed.
"Mate. What'd I tell you?" He reaches over and pushes the door open from the inside.
The dog perking up instantly before running toward him obediently, tail wagging like nothing just happened.
It's only then you realized who it is. Who's standing in front of your door.
The butcher straight out of a slasher movie.
"You botherin' this bunny?" he asks the dog while scratching the back of his ears, happily wiggling his short tail.
Bunny?
"No bunny, just me," you laugh awkwardly before you step down off the porch, forcing yourself to stand straight even though your grip tightens on your bags.
He huffs, something close to a chuckle. "Right."
"Sorry about him," he adds.
"He likes to wander."
"You sure about that?" you ask, looking at the dog.
"Because he looked like he wasn't planning on leaving."
His lips twitches, eyes glinting with amusement.
"Saw you movin' your things yesterday," he says. "The place's been empty for a long time."
"Yeah," you reply quickly. "Feels a little weird, but I'll make it a home."
"Takes time," he shrugs, watching you for a second longer than necessary.
"You heading into town?" he asks, pointing at your bags in hand.
You blink. "Yeah. I was justâ"
"Hop in," he says, nodding toward the passenger seat.
"I'll take you."
You hesitate, words catching. "You don't have toâ"
"Already going," he replies simply.
You pause for a moment, eyes lingering down the road, wondering whether or not you should climb into this stranger's truck. The bark of the dog breaks your thoughts, deciding to climb in anyway. The smell hits you all at onceâraw meat, metallic and heavy, softened slightly by the clean interior and a faint pine-scented freshener.
Large freezers are secured in the back.
The dog squeezes itself between the two of you, panting proudly. Still massive. Just... not focused on you anymore.
cute, you think.
"Simon,"' he introduces himself.
âY/n."
The car ride is silent, tires crunching over gravel as the hills roll out around you. Fields stretch wide and open, cows grazing lazily, sheep dotting the landscape like pale stones. Trees sway gently in the breeze.
You watch it all pass, mesmerized. Though your thoughts are running wild, thoughts going back to the sellers words.
Private bloke
Not private enough clearly.
Your gaze shifts from outside to his truck, trying to catch a glimpse at the man.
Simon drives easily, his hand on the wheel completely scarred, you wondered if he got it from his line of work or something else, the other holds a cigarette out the window. He looks different like thisâclean, relaxed, almost ordinary. He looks handsome. In a rough, rugged way.
"Need somethin'?" he asks, eyes still on the road.
"Sorry," you say quickly, eyes snapping away "Justâ thinking."
"Didnt scare you too much yesterday, did i?" he asks, looking at you briefly. "You seem slightly jumpy,"
Your neck snaps almost instantly toward his hard face.
"No of course not!" You reply hurriedly,
He hums in understanding.
The truck slows outside the shop, gravel crunching under the tires.
"This good?" he asks.
You nod, already reaching for the door. "Yeah. Thank you."
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then gives a short nod.
"I'll be back," he states.
You hesitate, but smile anyway. Shutting the door with a loud thud.
You can feel his eyes on you until the bell above the shop door rings and the world shifts back into place.
â âąâ â°âââœàŒâŸâââ±â âąâ
The day goes by quicker than you expect.
One moment you're unpacking your things, the next you're moving on instinct alone. You work mindlesslyâ sketching, painting, letting your hands take over where your thoughts would only get in the way. People drift past on the sidewalk, slowing as they pass, curious eyes gazing at your art. A few linger. Most keep walking. You trade small smiles, nods of acknowledgement.
"Lovely," some say as they walk past.
It brings you back to before, when this was only just a distant dream.
At some point, you stop paying attention to the time.
By the time the sun begins to sink, warm light stretching long across the street, you finally step back.
The mural sits before youâunfinished, but already alive.
You begin packing up your supplies. Brushes rinsed.
Papers stacked. Movements slow, trying everything to not break the spell of the day just yet.
"Alright, Miss Florence," you call out as you step inside, setting your things down on the shop's counter.
"I'll be back around the same time tomorrow."
"Of course, love," she says easily, looking up from where she's standing. "The mural's coming along quite nicely. I'm impressed."
You smile at that, a quiet swell of pride warming your chest.
As you turn to say your goodbyes, her hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder.
"Is everything alright, love?" she asks, concern written plainly across her face.
You pause, staring at her, head tilting slightly in confusion. "Of course," you say. "Why?"
She doesn't answer right away-just nods toward the door, past the front window.
You follow her gaze.
A small sound of surprise slips from you at the sight of the red pickup truck parked outside. The big dog hangs halfway out the open window, tongue lolling as he pants happily. And leaning back against the hood is the man himselfâsomehow larger than he'd been in your memory. Smoke curls lazily around him, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
"He's been waiting out there a while," she says, careful.
"Oh, we live on the same road. He's just doing me a favor." You smile reassuringly.
That doesn't ease her expression the way you expect it to.
"Why?" you ask, lowering your voice without thinking.
"What about him?"
"Ohânothing," she says. "He's just a private man, is all.
We were a bit surprised seeing you come out of his truck... and now."
"That's all?" you press, eyes flickering towards the truck.
She pauses long enough that you lift your brows.
"Not much to him, really," she says finally.
"He's been up there longer than most people remember. Bought that land years back. Kept it when no one else wanted it."
"He's the butcher, though, right?" you ask, still trying to understand the wariness.
"He is. But it's odd," she admits. "He doesn't hire out.
Doesn't expand. Doesn't sell beyond what he needs to." She presses her lips together.
"Most folks around here like things that grow, y'know? But he stays exactly the same."
You wait for more. It doesn't come - and the lack of it frustrates you more than anything she's said.
Someone near the counter clears their throat. Another voice adds, quieter, "Never missed a delivery, though."
Florence nods in agreement. "Meat's always clean. Always fresh."
You let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So... he's just serious about his work?"
She clicks her tongue.
"He's particular," she says. "About his space. His time."
"And people?"
She doesn't answer right away.
"He doesn't come into town unless there's a reason," she says instead.
"And he doesn't wait around for nothing."
You glance back toward the window, toward where the truck had been.
"Oh," you say softly.
Florence squeezes your arm once before letting go.
"Just... take care, love."
â âąâ â°âââœàŒâŸâââ±â âąâ
On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.
"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"
You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."
"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.
"More curious than anything."
She hums, unconvinced but listening.
"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."
"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.
"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."
Her eyes soften at that, just a little.
"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.
You pause, then shrug.
"Not really. New place. New sounds."
You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."
She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."
"Momâ"
"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."
"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeahâbut not in a scary way."
There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."
Her gaze sharpens immediately.
"About?"
"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."
"That doesn't make you uneasy?"
You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.
She doesn't look convinced.
"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back
"A ride?" she repeats.
You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.
"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, trulyâ
She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."
"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."
She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.
"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."
You nod.
"I will."
â âąâ â°âââœàŒâŸâââ±â âąâ
You're not sure when it became a routine.
At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.
Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.
You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.
"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.
You did it again the next morning.
And the one after that.
Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.
Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.
"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.
You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.
By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.
Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.
And maybe it didâexcept some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.
No freezers. No crates. Nothing.
You noticed it once.
Twice.
Then you stopped looking.
It was true what everyone said about himâhe was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.
He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.
On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.
But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.
It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.
Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"
You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare youâit made the softness feel deliberate.
It was.... pleasant.
Comforting even.
Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.
"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.
"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.
They nod toward the window.
Outside, the red truck waits.
"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.
the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.
â âąâ â°âââœàŒâŸâââ±â âąâ
"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.
"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.
"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.
"Don't know what you mean," he hums.
You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."
He glances over for half a second. "Different?"
"Mmhm." You nod.
He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.
"Have you eaten?"
You click your tongue.
"No."
The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.
This wasn't part of the routine.
You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.
"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"
You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.
You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.
It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.
He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.
And you do.
When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.
You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.
Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.
"Stay," he saysâlow and firm by the door.
"Simonâhe doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.
Shadow listens anyway.
Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.
Not just heatâthe kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.
Yours doesn't try to hide you.
There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.
It smells like you.
Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.
His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.
The kitchen's small. He isn't.
He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.
You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.
This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.
The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.
You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.
"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.
"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"
"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.
He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.
You lean back against the counter, watching.
The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.
It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.
You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.
"That smells amazing," you beam.
He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.
He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.
You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.
He stares at youâopenly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.
"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.
You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."
It slips out softer than you mean it.
For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.
"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.
"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.
"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."
You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.
Between the shop and... everything else."
"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."
That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,
"Don't like going into town much."
You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."
You meant it as a joke-only half truth.
He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.
The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.
â âąâ â°âââœàŒâŸâââ±â âąâ
The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.
Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about itâgrass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.
The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.
You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.
You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.
Every area except one.
You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.
The closer you got, the clearer it became.
Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.
The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.
You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.
For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.
Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.
You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.
"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.
All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.
"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."
Today, though?
Today, you wanted that angle.
Simon be damned.
You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.
You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.
You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.
You looked like a lost bunny.
The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.
He paused what he was doing and just stared.
You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.
Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.
Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.
Then you showed up.
He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmthâyour laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.
And yet.
You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.
He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.
By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.
Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.
You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.
He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.
"Can I help you."
You startledânot badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.
You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.
Your pulse jumpedâhe could see itâbut you held his gaze anyway.
"JustâŠ.. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."
He meant it.
Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.
"I didn't walk in, though, did I."
Silence settled between you âthick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.
He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.
He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.
He stayed like thatâhalf-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.
The contrast caught you off guard.
He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.
Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.
Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.
Thisâthisâwas the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yesâbut framed by something gentle. Something alive.
The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.
"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.
"Now?"
"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.
Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.
"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.
"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.
"Fine,â he said. "I'll do it."
You stopped short and turned back to him.
"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"
He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.
You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.
The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift outâwood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.
He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.
You looked at him properly then.
The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.
You noticed things you hadn't before.
The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.
He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.
You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.
Brutal. Masculine.
Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.
"You alright, bunny?" he asked.
You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.
"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.
As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.
You were about to apologize when he spoke.
"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."
You blinked-then laughed again.
"Can I?" you asked again.
This time, he stayed still.
You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.
The contrastâhim and the delicate bloom resting thereâfelt almost cinematic.
"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.
"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.
"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.
He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.
"Because you look like one."
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your headâbut you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.
You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.
Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.
"You got a boyfriend?"
Your hand stilled mid-line.
"Why the sudden question?"
"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."
You laughed at that.
"No," you said. "I don't."
He hummed in acknowledgement.
Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.
"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"
"Mmm. Couple years."
You click your tongue.
"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."
He shrugged.
"You can allow whatever you want."
You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The sounds around you settle into something easyâ the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.
He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.
"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"
You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.
"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."
"People included?"
"Especially people," you admit.
He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like thisânot in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.
"You any good?" he asks.
You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."
"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."
You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.
You go back to drawing.
Time slips by without either of you noticing.
The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.
Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.
"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.
"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."
You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.
"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.
The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.
You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.
"I think that's enough," you say softly.
Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.
You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.
You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.
"Here."
He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.
That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.
Then, quietly, "You see a lot."
"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.
He nods once.
"Thank you," he says.
The words hang steady.
"Of course!" You smile softly.
The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."
"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.
"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.
"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.
Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.
His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.
â âąâ â°âââœàŒâŸâââ±â âąâ
It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.
A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.
The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.
You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small thingsâa loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.
Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.
Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.
A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.
He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coatsâor leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.
"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.
You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.
"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"
you reply plainlyâignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.
He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's closeâclose enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.
His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.
"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.
You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.
"I can handle a little cold," you tease.
You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.
Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.
It's one of those nights.
The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.
You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.
But moments like this don't let you.
They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.
It makes your cunt ache.
Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.
You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.
You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.
The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.
Fuck.
Your left hand drifts down without thinkingâfirst over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.
Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.
You picture his hands on youâlarge, roughâteasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.
You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.
You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.
His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.
Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.
Your thighs squeeze together.
You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.
Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.
A moan slips free.
"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.
Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?
Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.
The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.
"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourselfânaked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.
"Si-"
Boom.
The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.
You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.
"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.
Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.
"Y/N!"
The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.
You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.
You don't stop to thinkâjust move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.
The power's out.
When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.
"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"
âIâyeahâ you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power justâŠwent out."
"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."
"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"
"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.
This place isn't insulated well enough for it."
You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentialsâyour charger, a hoodie, shoesâmoving through your space with unsettling familiarity.
"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."
"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."
You don't argue after that.
The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.
Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.
When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.
You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.
He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.
The warmth hits you immediately.
The house smells like himâburnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.
And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.
It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing thereâframed, dusted, given a placeâfeels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.
"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."
"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."
The words hit harder than they should.
Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."
"I would never," he says, without hesitation.
Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.
"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.
You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.
Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.
"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"
He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"
"Keep it around for storms." He adds
You blink. "Of course you do."
He almost smiles.
The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.
"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."
He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.
"You don't have toâ"
"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."
You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."
"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.
You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this beforeâlike this is normal.
"You're quiet," he says after a while.
"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"
He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.
"No," he says. "Just noticing."
You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.
"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.
And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.
"Tea's good for you,"
The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.
The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.
"You're shaking," he says softly.
"I'm not," you lie automatically.
He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.
"Come here," he murmurs.
It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.
You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.
This is new for the both of you.
Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.
His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.
You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "Iâ I need a second."
He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.
You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.
The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.
You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.
"You don't have to run," he says gently.
You glance over your shoulderâand that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.
The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.
He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.
Your hand comes up on instinctâflat against his chest.
He stops immediately.
"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.
His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.
"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."
A beat passes.
Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.
"It's not," he says.
His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.
His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.
You don't.
The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.
His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.
You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.
"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you againârougher now.
Hungrier.
As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomachâuntil it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.
"Fuck, bunnyâyou're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.
He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.
You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.
"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.
"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.
"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.
His expression doesn't change.
"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.
"Oh myâŠ.. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.
Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.
"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."
Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.
You can't imagine what you must look like right now.
You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourselfâmessy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.
The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.
"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.
His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.
Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.
He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skinâsoft words, grounding wordsâuntil your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.
"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.
Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.
"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.
"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."
His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.
No pictures. Exactly what you expected.
He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.
"Like what you see?" he teases.
"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.
His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.
The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.
Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on youâhis warmth. You need it.
"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."
Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.
His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.
Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.
You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.
"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.
He inhales deeply.
You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.
His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.
"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.
"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.
"Need you."
Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.
"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."
You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.
True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bitesâtaking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.
Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.
"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.
"Please."
He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.
You instinctively try to close your legs, face burningâ but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.
"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.
"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.
He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.
His tongue slips out, presses flat against youâcovering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.
The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.
You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouthâwarm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.
He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.
He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rushâjust works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.
Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.
You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.
He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.
One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.
"Oh my god, Simonâ"
They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.
Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.
"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."
It hits you in wavesâfast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.
The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.
He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.
"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.
"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.
Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.
It's huge.
So thick it barely holds itself upright.
Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-
Would this even fit inside you?
But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.
Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your stillâsensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.
The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.
You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.
"You think you can take it, bunny?"
Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.
"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.
Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.
He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precumâthen taps it there. Hard.
"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.
"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."
For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.
"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediatelyâtoo full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.
No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.
"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.
His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.
Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.
"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.
Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.
He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and outâwhines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.
Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.
"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."
You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.
He looks nothing like you feel.
He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.
Then warmthâunexpected.
You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.
"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.
You almost wish you hadn't.
It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywherâhigh, deep, overwhelming.
He hasn't looked away once.
"Almost in, baby," he tells you.
Then he stops. All the way in.
You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this fullâlike there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.
Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.
Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.
Letting the shock fade.
"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.
You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.
When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.
Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.
He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.
You're growing desperate. All the pentâup tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.
You want him. So bad.
"You can be rougher-ah,"
"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."
His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.
"I do!" you say breathless.
You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.
And you don't want him to.
"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.
His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward againâharder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.
"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.
Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.
Something flips inside him.
He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.
All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.
Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.
You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.
"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."
The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.
With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.
"Simiiimon-ahâah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.
"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' goodäžfuck.â
He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.
You don't hear him.
You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.
The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.
"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."
You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.
He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.
"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"
"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasureâcoming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.
"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissedâout face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.
Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.
"You're-ah-beingâmean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.
The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.
Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.
"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.
It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.
You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.
As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.
"Ahâ" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.
"Bend over."
His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.
"C'mon, bunny," he says, slapping your ass impatiently. "Bend over."
"M'gonna breed this fuckin' cunt," he mutters.
His hands grip your waist, putting you exactly where he wants youâon your knees, tits pressed into the bed, ass up just like he's imagined too many times before.
And you. You're just a cock-drunk, drooling mess. You can't even form words. Just cries and whines spilling out of you.
Music to his ears.
Fuel to his aching cock.
He positions himself behind you, a heavy hand coming down on your ass. The sharp sound echoes through the room, followed by your broken cry.
"Sii-"
His thrusts are messyâmessier than before.
Desperate. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you harder, deeper. You chant his name like it's the only word you know.
Your body starts to betray you first. Your legs tremble, knees threatening to give out as the rhythm stutters, breaks, turns reckless. You can't keep up anymoreâcan't tell where one movement ends and the next begins. Every nerve feels lit, stretched thin, buzzing too loud inside your skin. Your breath comes apart in your chest, sharp little gasps you can't control, like your body already knows what's coming before your mind does.
You're right thereâso close it hurts. The need swells until it feels unbearable, like pressure behind your ribs, behind your eyes. Your grip tightens, fingers clawing uselessly at his pillow.
"Fuuuuck, baby!" he nearly yells, hips snapping animalistically, your whole body jolting with every thrust.
"Fuckfuckfuck-" you scream, loud and unfiltered, grateful there aren't neighbors close enough to hear.
The pressure builds again-and just before you can release, he pulls out.
You sob at the emptiness, looking back at him. "No! â please.
He smirks, gripping his cock, a white ring of your slick at the base before he leans down, spreading your ass. Both holes are on display. You can't stop him even if you wanted to.
He spits directly on your asshole before burying his tongue there, licking and slurping like a man starved.
From your clit to your ass, messy and obscene. His hand pumps his cock as he eats you, smacking and pinching your ass, tongue pushing deep enough to make you cry into the pillow.
"Pleaseâwant your cock, Simon," you beg, pushing back into his mouth without thinking.
âYeah, baby,â he mocks, voice pitched higher. âYou want this fat cock in your tummy?â
His fist tangles in your hair, jerking your head back until your neck strains, eyes lifting to meet him looming over you.
"Yes, please," your voice is horsed, neck straining with veins popping out. Chin wet and you're panting like a dog.
It made Simons cock impossibly harder.
He sinks into you again-no pause, no waiting. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you without restraint, the bed squeaking so loud you're sure it'll break. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair harder, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch.
"This is what you wanted huh baby," he pants, hips never faltering, yet they get sloppy. His end is nearing.
He knows it by the way his balls tighten. Still dripping a sticky mess of both of you.
Then everything disappears.
Your vision blurs as you cum all over his cock againâno warning, no buildup.
You don't even know how many orgasms you've had.
This last one knocks you out completely.
You collapse onto the bed when he finally lets go, lying there motionless, drool slipping from your mouth as he uses your body for his pleasure.
"Fuck, bunny," he laughs. "Came so fast."
He doesn't give you time to recover.
He hauls you back up onto your hands and knees, positioning himself at the edge of the bed-your face level with his throbbing cock. Every twitch sends a bead of precum sliding down the angry red tip, already mixed with your cum.
"Make me cum, bunny."
"Wha-?" you mumble, still coming down from your high, vision spotting as you look up at him.
"C'mon, bunny," he groans. "You can't just leave me high and dry."
His hand comes down to grip his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your mouth waters instantly.
And then his earlier words echo in your head.
M'gonna breed you.
You whine softly and reach up, nudging his hands away so you can replace them with yours. You shuffle forward on your knees, settling in as you lean closer, both hands moving slowly up and down his shaft.
You tilt your head, staring up at him as you muster the best face you can manage, cheek brushing against the warm weight of him. You love the sounds he's makingâragged moans as he loses control.
"Want it inside," you beg.
Simon's eye twitches.
His breathing turns rough, uneven, gaze hardening as they lock onto you. For a split second, you almost wonder if you've crossed a line.
His grip snaps tight in your hair, the burn sharp enough to steal your breath. You barely have time to yelp before he's shoving his cock into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat hard.
It's sudden. Too sudden.
You choke, gagging around him as he thrusts shallow and rough, spit bubbling at your lips and dripping down onto him.
Your head rocks back and forth as you grip his thighs to steady yourself, fingers digging in.
His grip doesn't falter, using it as leverage to drive you deeper. It's brutal. Too much. The sounds you're making would make you blush under any other circumstance.
Your throat burns, gag reflex overwhelmed as you choke around him, fluids spilling from your mouth every time he pushes deeper. Your cunt gushes as he uses your throat for his own pleasure.
"Yeeeeah gimmie thatâgurg, gurgâbaby."
He grips the baseâwhat you can't fully take-along with his balls, forcing it down. Your eyes widen as you physically feel the stretch of your throat around him.
You tap at his thighs hard and fast, panic spiking just before he finally releases you.
You pull back immediately, coughing, gagging as phlegm spills from your mouth. Your face is a complete mess when he grips your hair again, jerking himself fast and hard. His expression twists with pleasure and desperation, lips caught between his teeth.
Your hand slips down between your legs, rubbing at yourself as he works his cock over your face.
"M'close," he breathes, chest red and heaving, focus razor-sharp.
"Fuuuck, bunny."
Before you can say anything, you feel itâsticky ropes splashing across your face, catching in your hair, your lashes, your brows, your lips. Everywhere. It lasts longer than you expect, enough to leave you stunned.
He grips the tip, giving a final stroke before tapping your cheek and pulling away.
You look up at him as he backs off, dragging your fingers through the mess on your face and bringing them to your mouth, licking them clean.
"Don't do this to me, bunny," he groans.
You giggle softly, the sound weak and breathless, before collapsing back onto the bed. The exhaustion finally catching up on you. Every muscle feels loose, heavy, like your body forgot how to work all at once.
The mattress dips as he moves closer again, slower now.
"Easy," he murmurs, hand settling at your side to keep you from rolling awkwardly. He grabs something off the nightstandâa cloth, a shirt, whatever's closestâand gently wipes at your face, patient, thorough.
Your eyes flutter half-closed as he works, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing finally evening out. The tension from before disappearing and turning into something soft, and peaceful.
"There you go," he says softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers there for a second longer than necessary.
You hum in response, too spent to form real words.
He shifts again, sliding into the bed beside you and tugging the covers up around you, making sure you're warm. When he settles beside you, he pulls you in without asking, arm firm and grounding around your shoulders.
You melt into him easily.
For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, your head on his chest, his breathing steady beneath your ear. His hand traces slow, absent lines along your arm.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
You nod against him, eyes closed. "M'good,"
His arm tightens just a little.
"Good."
You smile to yourself, fingers drifting over the scars and dips along his chest. "Thought you said you were gonna breed me," you joke softly.
He lets out a low laugh, warm and deep, the sound vibrating through you.
"That was heat talk, bunny," he says easily. His hand slides to your waist, fingers trailing along your stretch marks.
You tilt your head, listening.
"When i do cum in your pretty pussy," he pauses, other hand reaching to drag a finger along your cheek. "It's gonna be for a reason.
dating jack means there is an unspoken rule that he always parallel parks for you. it doesnât even matter what time you come home, because heâs always texting you âCall me when youâre here. Iâll park.đâ
pulling up in front of the house but heâs already in a light jog out the door, wearing his soft camo shorts and black tee, house loafers & backwards baseball cap. motioning for you to come out with his hand, a direct but gentle âget out, baby.â as he opens your door for you.
parallel parks with one hand on the wheel, veiny arm rotating it as the other hooks behind the passenger seat headrest. his jaw clenches and his sun-tanned neck straining as he looks back.
afterwards he hops out, jingling your shiny keychain and leaving a tap on your ass to signal you to head inside. âhow was your day, pumpkin?â
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