synopsis: You move to the countryside looking for peace, space, and a life that finally feels like your own. Instead, you find routine, watchful silence, and a neighbor who's always there before you ask.
Wc: 15.8k
CW: fem!reader, artist!reader, butcher!simon, lowkey stalker!simon if you rily squint, kinda mean!simon ( he calls you stupid but in a sexy way), slight slow burn, mention of blood, praise, rough sex, fem! masturbation, mention of breeding, unprotected sex, choking, throat-fucking, spit play, spanking, cunnilingus, analingus, brief mention phlegm, brief aftercare.
a/n: this is a reupload bc the og got labeled and i refuse to be silenced so if you read this already no you didn’t🫵🏼. Jk ily<3
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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── .✦ The devil's in the details
A life that felt like your own.
It's all you've wanted for as long as you can remember.
Growing up meant learning the rules of the real world far too early—waking up every morning just to drag yourself to a grueling job, putting up with nagging customers and insufferable bosses who never seemed to respect boundaries.
Work. Pay the bills. Tend to responsibilities.
It disturbed your soul in a way you couldn't explain to anyone else—this idea that life was just endurance, not living.
Yet you always looked ahead. You never confined yourself to the standard everyone else seemed content with—and that refusal was why you were never taken as seriously as you wanted to be.
You learned early that dreaming meant working harder than everyone else.
I wanna make things with my hands!!
You used to squeal as a child whenever someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up. The laughter that followed always left you quietly confused.
What a cutie.
Wait till she grows up.
As if you weren't standing right there. As if it really was unattainable.
As you got older, that desire only split open and spilled into everything else—into baking, painting, shaping.
Anything that lets your hands create something beautiful. Something meaningful.
Over time, you realized it wasn't just about making things. It was about the space to make them—to exist without being watched, corrected, rushed. To live somewhere quiet enough that your thoughts could finally settle.
It wasn't that you were a complete introvert. You loved people—you loved the ones who mattered. But there was always that persistent pull, that quiet urge to disappear for a while. To exist in a world that belonged only to you. You would spend days on end just imagining.
And lately, that wasn't enough anymore.
You didn't just want escape. You wanted peace. Quiet.
Which was why you took the first opportunity to leave everything behind—a small farming town in rural England, offering work in exchange for relocation. Painting homes. Restoring old businesses. Fixing what had been forgotten.
Everyone had something to say about it. Your family. Your friends. Even your professors warned you against it.
But you didn't hesitate.
You've technically been here for a week already. Long enough to learn the unfamiliar quiet by heart, to wait while the cottage was cleared and signed off and made official. This is the first time you're really standing in front of it.
Ideas crowd your mind faster than you can catch the—paint, repairs, small changes that would make it yours. Your chest tightens, heart swelling, a quiet certainty settling in.
The place is neglected. Weathered. Clearly left behind.
And yet, all you can see is possibility.
For the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is falling into place.
"Excuse me?"
You're pulled from your thoughts by the soft voice beside you. You blink, realizing the man has been standing there the entire time.
He smiles, polite but tentative. "I just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking. It's an older cottage, so...lt isn't exactly our best."
"No," you say quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "It's perfect."
Something about your response seems to catch him off guard. He clears his throat.
"Right. Then there are just a few things we should go over before we-"
A sound cuts him off.
An animalistic, sharp, distant squeal loud enough to make you flinch, the noise carrying unnaturally through the trees. You turn instinctively, scanning the hillside.
Up the slope, partially hidden by the trees, stands a barn. One you hadn't noticed before. The doors open with a loud thud.
For a split second, you don't register what you're seeing—only that something too big has stepped into the light.
Then your stomach drops.
The man fills the doorway, massive shoulders nearly scraping the frame, his silhouette swallowing what little light spills out behind him. He's enormous-not just tall, but wide, built thick and heavy like he was carved for brute force rather than grace.
He's covered in blood everywhere. Dark, soaked into his clothes, smeared across his arms, clinging in thick, ugly patches that glisten wetly in the sunlight. There's a faint metallic smell that drifts through the air, making you scrunch your nose.
To top it off, he had a skull—patterned balaclava covering the lower half of his face.
The printed grin feels out of place against the quiet countryside, against the green fields and open sky. You can't see his mouth. Can't read his expression. Just the size of him, the way he carries himself like nothing around here surprises him anymore.
Your shoulders tense on instinct.
It was straight out of a horror movie.
"Um," you let out a small laugh, more nerves than humor honestly. "Is that... normal?"
"Oh—yeah." The man beside you clears his throat.
"Yeah, that'll be Simon. Local butcher." He gives a small, awkward laugh. "Looks worse than it is."
Suddenly, you remember everything they warned you about.
A woman alone in the woods.
Right.
You watched cautiously as the man walked toward the cottage right next to the barn, slightly more hidden in the woods than yours, slightly smaller as well.
His steps are steady, boots pressing into the dirt with an easy familiarity, like he's walked this path a thousand times.
Halfway there, he slows and glances over.
Just a look - brief, assessing—the kind of look anyone might give when they notice someone new standing where no one usually does. You tell yourself that immediately.
Still, your chest tightens in an unsettling way.
Even from this distance, his attention feels heavier than it should. He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just takes you in for a moment longer than you're comfortable with.
"Don't mind him. He's a private bloke—won't be any bother."
You nod slowly as you turn, stepping back toward the cottage, the normal sounds of the countryside slowly filtering back in—though the image of him, bloodstained and broad-shouldered against the barn, stays longer than you'd like.
His view of you was completely different.
All he saw was a small figure standing out in the open.
Too small for this place.
You were dressed simply, soft neutral colors that didn't draw any immediate attention—yet somehow, you managed to draw it anyway. A long skirt brushing your ankles. A fitted tube top clinging in all the right places, bare skin catching the last of the daylight. Gold glinting faintly at your throat and wrists.
He has been watching you since the moment you arrived.
Could see you almost too clearly.
The thought settled heavy in his chest. The cottage next to his. Empty for years.
And now occupied.
His hand tightened around the handle of the front door as he went inside, the knowledge of you settling somewhere in the back of his mind.
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You wake up before the sun does.
The room is still dark, the cold from the night before still lingers stubbornly around the corners. The smell of wood and damp earth seeps into your space as you lie still beneath the covers, listening to the sound of your breathing and distant chirping of birds.
The nerves you thought you left behind start to stir low in your stomach. You barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow rest. It's funny how the waiting -the planning and the packing was easier than actually waking up inside this new life. A whole week spent imagining, filling the gaps with maybes and what-ifs, had felt gentler than this moment.
But now, lying in your own bed, on the edge of your first real day here, the anxiety creeps back into you like it never really left.
You force yourself up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the morning cold. The wooden floor bites at your bare feet as you cross the room.
You move through your room on autopilot. Pushing aside clutter and digging through your box filled with your things to wash up. You pull on a simple black crop top and black leggings—easy and practical, something you don't mind making a mess out of. You fix your hair the way you always do before big jobs, muscle memory taking over as you gather your tools, hand steady despite the tight, resistant pull in your chest.
Your first job is a simple mural for a little flower shop in town.
You'd already been introduced earlier in the week.
Names, faces, smiles. Florence, the owner, had shown you the wall, fingers dusted with soil, excitement bright in her eyes. They'd given you free rein over the design, only asking that you keep to a preferred color palette.
"Okay," you mutter to yourself, crouching by your supplies. "One, two, three-"
You line the cans up on the floor. Reds. Yellows. Whites. Count them twice. Then again.
"Four."
You tap each lid as you go, checking them off in your head like that'll keep your nerves in place. Everything's been ready since last night. Packed. Repacked. Adjusted.
You're stalling. You know you are.
Keys cold in your palm, you stand by the door longer than necessary. Your hand rests on the handle. You inhale once before stepping out.
A loud, wet huff greets you immediately.
You freeze.
Right behind you—way too close—is a dog. If you could actually call it that.
He doesn't look very friendly. Honestly, you can't even process whether or not he is friendly by the way he stands there.
He's massive—thick-chested, broad, and you're pretty sure you saw veins popping out of his shoulders, only reinforcing how strong this dog could be. His paws dig heavy into the dirt at the bottom of your porch. Drool clings to the sides of its mouth, slipping free as it stares at you.
And for a fleeting second, the image of yesterday resurfaced. Barn doors, and a blood covered man standing in the middle of the field.
Your heart jumps straight into your throat.
You lift your hand instinctively, bending just slightly at the knees before you can stop yourself.
"Oh-okay," you breathe. "This is... fine."
"Hi," you try, softer. "Hey, puppy."
The dog doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side.
You glance around, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. No neighbors. No cars. Just you and the beast blocking your path.
The distant sound of a truck came before you could react, stopping abruptly in front of you.
"Oi," the voice is rough and hoarsed.
"Mate. What'd I tell you?" He reaches over and pushes the door open from the inside.
The dog perking up instantly before running toward him obediently, tail wagging like nothing just happened.
It's only then you realized who it is. Who's standing in front of your door.
The butcher straight out of a slasher movie.
"You botherin' this bunny?" he asks the dog while scratching the back of his ears, happily wiggling his short tail.
Bunny?
"No bunny, just me," you laugh awkwardly before you step down off the porch, forcing yourself to stand straight even though your grip tightens on your bags.
He huffs, something close to a chuckle. "Right."
"Sorry about him," he adds.
"He likes to wander."
"You sure about that?" you ask, looking at the dog.
"Because he looked like he wasn't planning on leaving."
His lips twitches, eyes glinting with amusement.
"Saw you movin' your things yesterday," he says. "The place's been empty for a long time."
"Yeah," you reply quickly. "Feels a little weird, but I'll make it a home."
"Takes time," he shrugs, watching you for a second longer than necessary.
"You heading into town?" he asks, pointing at your bags in hand.
You blink. "Yeah. I was just—"
"Hop in," he says, nodding toward the passenger seat.
"I'll take you."
You hesitate, words catching. "You don't have to—"
"Already going," he replies simply.
You pause for a moment, eyes lingering down the road, wondering whether or not you should climb into this stranger's truck. The bark of the dog breaks your thoughts, deciding to climb in anyway. The smell hits you all at once—raw meat, metallic and heavy, softened slightly by the clean interior and a faint pine-scented freshener.
Large freezers are secured in the back.
The dog squeezes itself between the two of you, panting proudly. Still massive. Just... not focused on you anymore.
cute, you think.
"Simon,"' he introduces himself.
“Y/n."
The car ride is silent, tires crunching over gravel as the hills roll out around you. Fields stretch wide and open, cows grazing lazily, sheep dotting the landscape like pale stones. Trees sway gently in the breeze.
You watch it all pass, mesmerized. Though your thoughts are running wild, thoughts going back to the sellers words.
Private bloke
Not private enough clearly.
Your gaze shifts from outside to his truck, trying to catch a glimpse at the man.
Simon drives easily, his hand on the wheel completely scarred, you wondered if he got it from his line of work or something else, the other holds a cigarette out the window. He looks different like this—clean, relaxed, almost ordinary. He looks handsome. In a rough, rugged way.
"Need somethin'?" he asks, eyes still on the road.
"Sorry," you say quickly, eyes snapping away "Just— thinking."
"Didnt scare you too much yesterday, did i?" he asks, looking at you briefly. "You seem slightly jumpy,"
Your neck snaps almost instantly toward his hard face.
"No of course not!" You reply hurriedly,
He hums in understanding.
The truck slows outside the shop, gravel crunching under the tires.
"This good?" he asks.
You nod, already reaching for the door. "Yeah. Thank you."
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then gives a short nod.
"I'll be back," he states.
You hesitate, but smile anyway. Shutting the door with a loud thud.
You can feel his eyes on you until the bell above the shop door rings and the world shifts back into place.
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The day goes by quicker than you expect.
One moment you're unpacking your things, the next you're moving on instinct alone. You work mindlessly— sketching, painting, letting your hands take over where your thoughts would only get in the way. People drift past on the sidewalk, slowing as they pass, curious eyes gazing at your art. A few linger. Most keep walking. You trade small smiles, nods of acknowledgement.
"Lovely," some say as they walk past.
It brings you back to before, when this was only just a distant dream.
At some point, you stop paying attention to the time.
By the time the sun begins to sink, warm light stretching long across the street, you finally step back.
The mural sits before you—unfinished, but already alive.
You begin packing up your supplies. Brushes rinsed.
Papers stacked. Movements slow, trying everything to not break the spell of the day just yet.
"Alright, Miss Florence," you call out as you step inside, setting your things down on the shop's counter.
"I'll be back around the same time tomorrow."
"Of course, love," she says easily, looking up from where she's standing. "The mural's coming along quite nicely. I'm impressed."
You smile at that, a quiet swell of pride warming your chest.
As you turn to say your goodbyes, her hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder.
"Is everything alright, love?" she asks, concern written plainly across her face.
You pause, staring at her, head tilting slightly in confusion. "Of course," you say. "Why?"
She doesn't answer right away-just nods toward the door, past the front window.
You follow her gaze.
A small sound of surprise slips from you at the sight of the red pickup truck parked outside. The big dog hangs halfway out the open window, tongue lolling as he pants happily. And leaning back against the hood is the man himself—somehow larger than he'd been in your memory. Smoke curls lazily around him, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
"He's been waiting out there a while," she says, careful.
"Oh, we live on the same road. He's just doing me a favor." You smile reassuringly.
That doesn't ease her expression the way you expect it to.
"Why?" you ask, lowering your voice without thinking.
"What about him?"
"Oh—nothing," she says. "He's just a private man, is all.
We were a bit surprised seeing you come out of his truck... and now."
"That's all?" you press, eyes flickering towards the truck.
She pauses long enough that you lift your brows.
"Not much to him, really," she says finally.
"He's been up there longer than most people remember. Bought that land years back. Kept it when no one else wanted it."
"He's the butcher, though, right?" you ask, still trying to understand the wariness.
"He is. But it's odd," she admits. "He doesn't hire out.
Doesn't expand. Doesn't sell beyond what he needs to." She presses her lips together.
"Most folks around here like things that grow, y'know? But he stays exactly the same."
You wait for more. It doesn't come - and the lack of it frustrates you more than anything she's said.
Someone near the counter clears their throat. Another voice adds, quieter, "Never missed a delivery, though."
Florence nods in agreement. "Meat's always clean. Always fresh."
You let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So... he's just serious about his work?"
She clicks her tongue.
"He's particular," she says. "About his space. His time."
"And people?"
She doesn't answer right away.
"He doesn't come into town unless there's a reason," she says instead.
"And he doesn't wait around for nothing."
You glance back toward the window, toward where the truck had been.
"Oh," you say softly.
Florence squeezes your arm once before letting go.
"Just... take care, love."
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On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.
"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"
You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."
"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.
"More curious than anything."
She hums, unconvinced but listening.
"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."
"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.
"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."
Her eyes soften at that, just a little.
"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.
You pause, then shrug.
"Not really. New place. New sounds."
You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."
She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."
"Mom—"
"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."
"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeah—but not in a scary way."
There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."
Her gaze sharpens immediately.
"About?"
"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."
"That doesn't make you uneasy?"
You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.
She doesn't look convinced.
"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back
"A ride?" she repeats.
You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.
"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, truly”
She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."
"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."
She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.
"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."
You nod.
"I will."
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You're not sure when it became a routine.
At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.
Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.
You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.
"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.
You did it again the next morning.
And the one after that.
Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.
Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.
"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.
You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.
By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.
Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.
And maybe it did—except some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.
No freezers. No crates. Nothing.
You noticed it once.
Twice.
Then you stopped looking.
It was true what everyone said about him—he was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.
He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.
On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.
But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.
It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.
Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"
You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare you—it made the softness feel deliberate.
It was.... pleasant.
Comforting even.
Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.
"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.
"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.
They nod toward the window.
Outside, the red truck waits.
"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.
the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.
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"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.
"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.
"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.
"Don't know what you mean," he hums.
You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."
He glances over for half a second. "Different?"
"Mmhm." You nod.
He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.
"Have you eaten?"
You click your tongue.
"No."
The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.
This wasn't part of the routine.
You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.
"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"
You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.
You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.
It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.
He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.
And you do.
When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.
You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.
Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.
"Stay," he says—low and firm by the door.
"Simon—he doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.
Shadow listens anyway.
Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.
Not just heat—the kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.
Yours doesn't try to hide you.
There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.
It smells like you.
Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.
His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.
The kitchen's small. He isn't.
He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.
You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.
This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.
The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.
You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.
"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.
"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"
"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.
He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.
You lean back against the counter, watching.
The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.
It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.
You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.
"That smells amazing," you beam.
He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.
He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.
You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.
He stares at you—openly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.
"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.
You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."
It slips out softer than you mean it.
For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.
"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.
"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.
"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."
You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.
Between the shop and... everything else."
"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."
That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,
"Don't like going into town much."
You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."
You meant it as a joke-only half truth.
He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.
The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.
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The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.
Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about it—grass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.
The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.
You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.
You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.
Every area except one.
You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.
The closer you got, the clearer it became.
Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.
The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.
You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.
For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.
Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.
You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.
"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.
All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.
"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."
Today, though?
Today, you wanted that angle.
Simon be damned.
You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.
You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.
You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.
You looked like a lost bunny.
The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.
He paused what he was doing and just stared.
You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.
Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.
Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.
Then you showed up.
He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmth—your laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.
And yet.
You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.
He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.
By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.
Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.
You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.
He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.
"Can I help you."
You startled—not badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.
You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.
Your pulse jumped—he could see it—but you held his gaze anyway.
"Just….. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."
He meant it.
Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.
"I didn't walk in, though, did I."
Silence settled between you —thick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.
He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.
He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.
He stayed like that—half-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.
The contrast caught you off guard.
He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.
Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.
Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.
This—this—was the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yes—but framed by something gentle. Something alive.
The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.
"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.
"Now?"
"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.
Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.
"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.
"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.
"Fine,” he said. "I'll do it."
You stopped short and turned back to him.
"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"
He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.
You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.
The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift out—wood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.
He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.
You looked at him properly then.
The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.
You noticed things you hadn't before.
The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.
He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.
You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.
Brutal. Masculine.
Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.
"You alright, bunny?" he asked.
You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.
"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.
As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.
You were about to apologize when he spoke.
"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."
You blinked-then laughed again.
"Can I?" you asked again.
This time, he stayed still.
You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.
The contrast—him and the delicate bloom resting there—felt almost cinematic.
"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.
"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.
"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.
He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.
"Because you look like one."
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head—but you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.
You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.
Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.
"You got a boyfriend?"
Your hand stilled mid-line.
"Why the sudden question?"
"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."
You laughed at that.
"No," you said. "I don't."
He hummed in acknowledgement.
Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.
"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"
"Mmm. Couple years."
You click your tongue.
"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."
He shrugged.
"You can allow whatever you want."
You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The sounds around you settle into something easy— the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.
He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.
"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"
You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.
"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."
"People included?"
"Especially people," you admit.
He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like this—not in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.
"You any good?" he asks.
You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."
"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."
You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.
You go back to drawing.
Time slips by without either of you noticing.
The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.
Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.
"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.
"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."
You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.
"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.
The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.
You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.
"I think that's enough," you say softly.
Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.
You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.
You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.
"Here."
He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.
That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.
Then, quietly, "You see a lot."
"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.
He nods once.
"Thank you," he says.
The words hang steady.
"Of course!" You smile softly.
The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."
"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.
"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.
"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.
Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.
His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.
A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.
The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.
You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small things—a loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.
Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.
Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.
A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.
He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coats—or leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.
"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.
You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.
"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"
you reply plainly—ignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.
He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's close—close enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.
His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.
"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.
You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.
"I can handle a little cold," you tease.
You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.
Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.
It's one of those nights.
The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.
You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.
But moments like this don't let you.
They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.
It makes your cunt ache.
Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.
You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.
You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.
The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.
Fuck.
Your left hand drifts down without thinking—first over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.
Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.
You picture his hands on you—large, rough—teasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.
You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.
You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.
His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.
Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.
Your thighs squeeze together.
You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.
Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.
A moan slips free.
"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.
Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?
Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.
The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.
"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourself—naked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.
"Si-"
Boom.
The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.
You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.
"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.
Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.
"Y/N!"
The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.
You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.
You don't stop to think—just move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.
The power's out.
When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.
"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"
“I—yeah” you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power just…went out."
"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."
"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"
"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.
This place isn't insulated well enough for it."
You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentials—your charger, a hoodie, shoes—moving through your space with unsettling familiarity.
"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."
"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."
You don't argue after that.
The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.
Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.
When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.
You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.
He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.
The warmth hits you immediately.
The house smells like him—burnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.
And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.
It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing there—framed, dusted, given a place—feels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.
"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."
"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."
The words hit harder than they should.
Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."
"I would never," he says, without hesitation.
Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.
"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.
You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.
Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.
"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"
He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"
"Keep it around for storms." He adds
You blink. "Of course you do."
He almost smiles.
The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.
"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."
He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.
"You don't have to—"
"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."
You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."
"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.
You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this before—like this is normal.
"You're quiet," he says after a while.
"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"
He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.
"No," he says. "Just noticing."
You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.
"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.
And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.
"Tea's good for you,"
The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.
The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.
"You're shaking," he says softly.
"I'm not," you lie automatically.
He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.
"Come here," he murmurs.
It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.
You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.
This is new for the both of you.
Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.
His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.
You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "I— I need a second."
He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.
You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.
The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.
You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.
"You don't have to run," he says gently.
You glance over your shoulder—and that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.
The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.
He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.
Your hand comes up on instinct—flat against his chest.
He stops immediately.
"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.
His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.
"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."
A beat passes.
Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.
"It's not," he says.
His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.
His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.
You don't.
The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.
His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.
You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.
"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you again—rougher now.
Hungrier.
As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomach—until it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.
"Fuck, bunny—you're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.
He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.
You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.
"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.
"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.
"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.
His expression doesn't change.
"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.
"Oh my….. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.
Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.
"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."
Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.
You can't imagine what you must look like right now.
You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourself—messy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.
The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.
"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.
His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.
Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.
He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skin—soft words, grounding words—until your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.
"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.
Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.
"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.
"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."
His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.
No pictures. Exactly what you expected.
He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.
"Like what you see?" he teases.
"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.
His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.
The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.
Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on you—his warmth. You need it.
"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."
Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.
His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.
Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.
You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.
"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.
He inhales deeply.
You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.
His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.
"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.
"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.
"Need you."
Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.
"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."
You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.
True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bites—taking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.
Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.
"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.
"Please."
He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.
You instinctively try to close your legs, face burning— but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.
"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.
"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.
He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.
His tongue slips out, presses flat against you—covering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.
The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.
You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth—warm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.
He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.
He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rush—just works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.
Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.
You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.
He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.
One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.
"Oh my god, Simon—"
They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.
Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.
"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."
It hits you in waves—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.
The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.
He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.
"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.
"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.
Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.
It's huge.
So thick it barely holds itself upright.
Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-
Would this even fit inside you?
But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.
Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your still—sensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.
The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.
You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.
"You think you can take it, bunny?"
Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.
"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.
Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.
He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precum—then taps it there. Hard.
"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.
"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."
For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.
"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediately—too full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.
No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.
"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.
His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.
Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.
"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.
Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.
He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and out—whines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.
Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.
"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."
You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.
He looks nothing like you feel.
He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.
Then warmth—unexpected.
You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.
"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.
You almost wish you hadn't.
It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywher—high, deep, overwhelming.
He hasn't looked away once.
"Almost in, baby," he tells you.
Then he stops. All the way in.
You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this full—like there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.
Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.
Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.
Letting the shock fade.
"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.
You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.
When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.
Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.
He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.
You're growing desperate. All the pent—up tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.
You want him. So bad.
"You can be rougher-ah,"
"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."
His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.
"I do!" you say breathless.
You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.
And you don't want him to.
"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.
His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward again—harder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.
"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.
Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.
Something flips inside him.
He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.
All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.
Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.
You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.
"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."
The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.
With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.
"Simiiimon-ah—ah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.
"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' good一fuck.”
He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.
You don't hear him.
You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.
The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.
"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."
You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.
He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.
"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"
"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasure—coming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.
"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissed—out face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.
Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.
"You're-ah-being—mean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.
The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.
Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.
"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.
It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.
You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.
As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.
"Ah—" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.
"Bend over."
His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.
"C'mon, bunny," he says, slapping your ass impatiently. "Bend over."
"M'gonna breed this fuckin' cunt," he mutters.
His hands grip your waist, putting you exactly where he wants you—on your knees, tits pressed into the bed, ass up just like he's imagined too many times before.
And you. You're just a cock-drunk, drooling mess. You can't even form words. Just cries and whines spilling out of you.
Music to his ears.
Fuel to his aching cock.
He positions himself behind you, a heavy hand coming down on your ass. The sharp sound echoes through the room, followed by your broken cry.
"Sii-"
His thrusts are messy—messier than before.
Desperate. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you harder, deeper. You chant his name like it's the only word you know.
Your body starts to betray you first. Your legs tremble, knees threatening to give out as the rhythm stutters, breaks, turns reckless. You can't keep up anymore—can't tell where one movement ends and the next begins. Every nerve feels lit, stretched thin, buzzing too loud inside your skin. Your breath comes apart in your chest, sharp little gasps you can't control, like your body already knows what's coming before your mind does.
You're right there—so close it hurts. The need swells until it feels unbearable, like pressure behind your ribs, behind your eyes. Your grip tightens, fingers clawing uselessly at his pillow.
"Fuuuuck, baby!" he nearly yells, hips snapping animalistically, your whole body jolting with every thrust.
"Fuckfuckfuck-" you scream, loud and unfiltered, grateful there aren't neighbors close enough to hear.
The pressure builds again-and just before you can release, he pulls out.
You sob at the emptiness, looking back at him. "No! — please.
He smirks, gripping his cock, a white ring of your slick at the base before he leans down, spreading your ass. Both holes are on display. You can't stop him even if you wanted to.
He spits directly on your asshole before burying his tongue there, licking and slurping like a man starved.
From your clit to your ass, messy and obscene. His hand pumps his cock as he eats you, smacking and pinching your ass, tongue pushing deep enough to make you cry into the pillow.
"Please—want your cock, Simon," you beg, pushing back into his mouth without thinking.
“Yeah, baby,” he mocks, voice pitched higher. “You want this fat cock in your tummy?”
His fist tangles in your hair, jerking your head back until your neck strains, eyes lifting to meet him looming over you.
"Yes, please," your voice is horsed, neck straining with veins popping out. Chin wet and you're panting like a dog.
It made Simons cock impossibly harder.
He sinks into you again-no pause, no waiting. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you without restraint, the bed squeaking so loud you're sure it'll break. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair harder, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch.
"This is what you wanted huh baby," he pants, hips never faltering, yet they get sloppy. His end is nearing.
He knows it by the way his balls tighten. Still dripping a sticky mess of both of you.
Then everything disappears.
Your vision blurs as you cum all over his cock again—no warning, no buildup.
You don't even know how many orgasms you've had.
This last one knocks you out completely.
You collapse onto the bed when he finally lets go, lying there motionless, drool slipping from your mouth as he uses your body for his pleasure.
"Fuck, bunny," he laughs. "Came so fast."
He doesn't give you time to recover.
He hauls you back up onto your hands and knees, positioning himself at the edge of the bed-your face level with his throbbing cock. Every twitch sends a bead of precum sliding down the angry red tip, already mixed with your cum.
"Make me cum, bunny."
"Wha-?" you mumble, still coming down from your high, vision spotting as you look up at him.
"C'mon, bunny," he groans. "You can't just leave me high and dry."
His hand comes down to grip his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your mouth waters instantly.
And then his earlier words echo in your head.
M'gonna breed you.
You whine softly and reach up, nudging his hands away so you can replace them with yours. You shuffle forward on your knees, settling in as you lean closer, both hands moving slowly up and down his shaft.
You tilt your head, staring up at him as you muster the best face you can manage, cheek brushing against the warm weight of him. You love the sounds he's making—ragged moans as he loses control.
"Want it inside," you beg.
Simon's eye twitches.
His breathing turns rough, uneven, gaze hardening as they lock onto you. For a split second, you almost wonder if you've crossed a line.
His grip snaps tight in your hair, the burn sharp enough to steal your breath. You barely have time to yelp before he's shoving his cock into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat hard.
It's sudden. Too sudden.
You choke, gagging around him as he thrusts shallow and rough, spit bubbling at your lips and dripping down onto him.
Your head rocks back and forth as you grip his thighs to steady yourself, fingers digging in.
His grip doesn't falter, using it as leverage to drive you deeper. It's brutal. Too much. The sounds you're making would make you blush under any other circumstance.
Your throat burns, gag reflex overwhelmed as you choke around him, fluids spilling from your mouth every time he pushes deeper. Your cunt gushes as he uses your throat for his own pleasure.
"Yeeeeah gimmie that—gurg, gurg—baby."
He grips the base—what you can't fully take-along with his balls, forcing it down. Your eyes widen as you physically feel the stretch of your throat around him.
You tap at his thighs hard and fast, panic spiking just before he finally releases you.
You pull back immediately, coughing, gagging as phlegm spills from your mouth. Your face is a complete mess when he grips your hair again, jerking himself fast and hard. His expression twists with pleasure and desperation, lips caught between his teeth.
Your hand slips down between your legs, rubbing at yourself as he works his cock over your face.
"M'close," he breathes, chest red and heaving, focus razor-sharp.
"Fuuuck, bunny."
Before you can say anything, you feel it—sticky ropes splashing across your face, catching in your hair, your lashes, your brows, your lips. Everywhere. It lasts longer than you expect, enough to leave you stunned.
He grips the tip, giving a final stroke before tapping your cheek and pulling away.
You look up at him as he backs off, dragging your fingers through the mess on your face and bringing them to your mouth, licking them clean.
"Don't do this to me, bunny," he groans.
You giggle softly, the sound weak and breathless, before collapsing back onto the bed. The exhaustion finally catching up on you. Every muscle feels loose, heavy, like your body forgot how to work all at once.
The mattress dips as he moves closer again, slower now.
"Easy," he murmurs, hand settling at your side to keep you from rolling awkwardly. He grabs something off the nightstand—a cloth, a shirt, whatever's closest—and gently wipes at your face, patient, thorough.
Your eyes flutter half-closed as he works, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing finally evening out. The tension from before disappearing and turning into something soft, and peaceful.
"There you go," he says softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers there for a second longer than necessary.
You hum in response, too spent to form real words.
He shifts again, sliding into the bed beside you and tugging the covers up around you, making sure you're warm. When he settles beside you, he pulls you in without asking, arm firm and grounding around your shoulders.
You melt into him easily.
For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, your head on his chest, his breathing steady beneath your ear. His hand traces slow, absent lines along your arm.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
You nod against him, eyes closed. "M'good,"
His arm tightens just a little.
"Good."
You smile to yourself, fingers drifting over the scars and dips along his chest. "Thought you said you were gonna breed me," you joke softly.
He lets out a low laugh, warm and deep, the sound vibrating through you.
"That was heat talk, bunny," he says easily. His hand slides to your waist, fingers trailing along your stretch marks.
You tilt your head, listening.
"When i do cum in your pretty pussy," he pauses, other hand reaching to drag a finger along your cheek. "It's gonna be for a reason.
Deaf!Simon Riley and the vibrations of your voice (18+)
Simon Riley has been deaf for the past few years of his life due to sudden acoustic trauma from explosions and gunfire. He never had a problem with it, in fact, he never really talked or listened to people in general when he was able to hear. The tinnitus still rings out in his head, still makes him press his pillow against his ears at night, but at least he didn’t have to listen to anything else.
It wasn’t until you came along that he wished he could hear again, but something about the simple intimacy of feeling your voice rather than hearing it made him feel like this is how it was always meant to be for him.
He liked the fact that you would still speak to him as he reads your lips, that you didn’t shy away when he would occasionally reach up to touch your cheek just to feel the vibrations of your voice. Of course, you accommodated him as well, learning how to articulate your words better for lip reading, how to use sign language, but when he would ask you to speak about anything and everything you always did.
You never fail to make his world feel loud in a space that was so consumingly quiet before.
And when it came to sex, it was never anything short of passionate. It was a different kind of intimacy you had never experienced before him.
Your back is pressed against the sheets, Simon’s chest against yours, and his face is buried in your neck as he thrusts into you deep, and hard. His hips roll against yours, spreading your legs wider, stuffing your wet pussy full of his aching cock. Every single moan falling from your lips, every last babbled word you can get out as he fucks you dumb, he drinks it all in with his lips pressed to your throat to feel the vibrations flood through his body.
He is always particular about that, rightfully so, to the point where he’ll fuck you any way you want but he needs to feel you to cum. To feel your wet, warm walls wrapped tightly around him, clenching down on his length when his tip knocks against your cervix. To feel your cries of pleasure when he angles his hips just right to brush against your sweet spot.
Your fingers tangle in the hair at his nape, tugging slightly, earning a low groan rumbling out from the depths of his chest. Your nails rake down the rough skin of his back, leaving red, angry marks in your wake. Wrapping your legs around his waist, the new angle allows him to dig deeper, leaving you a moaning mess under him.
The skin of his abdomen glides on your clit, stimulating the sensitive bundle of nerves when he thrusts in and grinds his cock on your cervix. Your nipples drag against his chest, hard and swollen, aching for his lips. You press soft kisses to his shoulder, biting ever so slightly and licking away the pain until it fades into pleasure again.
The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, molding your pussy to him, stretching you, pleasuring you, all because of him. He fills you to the brim, leaving no space inside of you empty for long, before pulling back out and doing it over and over again. Stars burst behind your eyelids when he zeros in on your sweet spot, his precision maddening, his consistent thrusts enough to bring you impossibly close to your climax.
He can feel you getting closer, can feel the frantic vibrations, can feel the way your heart speeds up when you squirm your hips under him to find more of the friction you so desperately crave. Simon gives into your body every single time, thrusting harder, pounding deeper, slamming his hips against your faster the more eager he grows to feel you cum on his cock.
Each thrust knocks the breath out of your lungs, leaving you gasping for air, each exhale turning into sounds of pleasure. His skin is warm and sweaty on yours, one hand gripping the fat of your hip, the other caging your head in, keeping you steady while he pounds into you relentlessly. His face stays buried in your neck, his lips trail up and down as he sucks and bites against the one spot he knows you like, and when your walls clamp down around him, he hits your sweet spot one more time and you’re cumming for him.
Moans rip free from your throat as your body grows rigid and your muscles draw taut underneath him. Cum gushes from your pussy, leaking out around his cock, dripping from his skin and making a mess on the sheets below. He groans, deep and low, rolling into you to drag out your high for as long as possible before he brings himself to that same sweet release.
He lifts his face from your neck, wrapping his hand around it instead, still allowing himself to feel the vibrations but settling on placing his lips against yours. Your lips move with his, finding his rhythm, moving in tandem the closer he gets and you continue to moan which he swallows greedily.
Only when your body twitches with overstimulation, only when your nails dig into the skin of his back, only then does he drive himself to the hilt and spill his seed. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out in continuous streams from his swollen, sensitive tip, hitting your cervix and leaking out around him when nothing else will fit.
His kiss turns slower while his movements come to a stop, swiping his tongue against your soft lips before pulling away with a wet pop, breaking the strings of saliva connecting the two of you. The sight of you so blissful underneath makes him feel like this is the prettiest you have ever been.
Tears stain your cheeks, your eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. Your mouth hangs open ever so slightly, drool dripping from your chin, as whimpers and whines continue to fall the more you feel his cock twitch deep inside of you. You look so raw, so vulnerable, so his. His to please, his to love, his to cherish.
Your voice may belong to everyone else, but the vibrations of your body will always belong to him.
simon ‘ghost’ riley is the only one who will stick up for price’s beloved secretary, pt.3
(part one, part two)
The burns healed well, and quickly.
A few red marks, sensitive to the touch for only a few days, then it disappeared thankfully.
However, what hasn’t disappeared, is the growing tension between yourself and the one and only Simon Riley.
I mean of course things are going to be awkward since he saw you sat in your bra—
But this feels more personal than just ‘awkwardness’.
Youve even caught him staring a few times.
It always starts the same way, that feeling of being looked at, then when you turn to face him, his gaze is immediately averted and he pretends nothing happened.
You thought it would’ve been a one time thing.. or just something that lingered for a week or two.
But no,
It’s now been a whole month of small talk and awkward interactions at the coffee station.
And it’s always Simon making a comment telling you not to get it spilled on your shirt again.
Which you can’t help but laugh at, even when it gets repetitive.
It stays this way until one night..
It’s late, very late.
You decided to put in some overtime, because of course Price chose to suddenly dump a bunch of files on your desk for you to sort through—
Due fucking tomorrow.
And you’re already exhausted from a whole day of meetings with Laswell and making sure he doesn’t mess anything up.
It also turns out that on this same day, Simon was staying too.
You’re in the middle of reading, the silence in the office feels eerily comforting at this time.
But it’s interrupted by the thuds of heavy footsteps, you don’t even have to look up to know who it is.
Simon stops right in front of your desk, hands low on his hips. And his crotch right in your eye line.
Before he notices how flustered you are, your eyes dart up to meet his through the mask.
“Price has you doin’ even more work?”
His voice is hoarse, likely from yelling at recruits all day. But god is it hot..
You give him a polite smile and nod, grabbing another piece of paper from the pile as you begin to speak—
“Yeah.. I don’t know how long I’ll be here for”
Simon smirks as you roll your eyes, he knows this is the last thing you want to do on a Friday evening.
All his does his hum back, and begins to turn around to walk away.
Classic Simon.
He always does this, leaves the moment he knows you want more.
Normally you just let him leave, you’re not a chaser, right..?
Well, guess things have changed tonight. Because for some reason you find yourself calling his name before standing up from your seat.
He looks back over his shoulder,
“Do you mind helping me? There’s.. quite a lot.” You look down at the pile to try and emphasise your point.
Simon pauses for one moment, even surprised himself. But what kind of man is he if he says no to a woman who needs help?
And not just any woman— it’s you.
“mhm, sure luv”
You try to ignore the pet names, but the sudden feeling between your thighs reminds you just how much Simon affects you.
About an hour later, the files had finally been done.
At first it was quiet, sort of awkward with the underlying tension.
But now, the conversation is thankfully beginning to set off—
“.. and then I heard Soap telling Gaz about what happened in the break room last month.. yknow the coffee thing?”
Yes.. you’re rambling. But Simon doesn’t mind, not one bit.
He nods along to make sure you know he’s listening, now leaning back in his seat with arms folded loosely.
“hm… ye’ i wouldn’t forget that”
“Well anyway, then Soap began to whisper about it. I think he realised I could literally hear them clear as day.. and then Gaz started to smirk and agree with whatever was going on.”
You take a bit of a breath and continue,
“So basically, Soap thinks that there’s something going on between us.” You don’t realise how blunt that sounds until the words leave your mouth.
Simon just shrugs nonchalantly, and you’re shocked by what he says next..
“Well, he’s not exactly wrong hm?”
You genuinely have no response, which causes him to smirk once more.
When you’ve gathered your thoughts, Simon speaks before you can.
“Unless I’ve been overthinkin’ it.”
You immediately shake your head, probably too eagerly.
“No.. no, I mean. I just didn’t know that you thought it was like that.”
“Why wouldnt I?”
“Well.. you’re a bit well known for not having feelings..”
Now that causes a gruff chuckle to leave him, much to your surprise.
“I s’pose yur right.”
It’s silent after that. Not anything bad, not at all.
It’s a comfortable silence, like a break for both of you to think how to word whatever’s coming next.
“So.. what is it that you’ve been feeling exactly?” Your curiosity gets the better of you, you need to know whether he’s thinking of this in the same way that you are..
“Well, all I know is that I struggle not ta think bout you bent over this desk righ’ now.”
The wetness in your panties is even shocking you now, you don’t know what to say..
Simon is never usually this bold, but you can’t help but love it—
“I.. wow”
Next thing you know, you’re sat on top of your desk, Price’s files scattered and forgotten about, with Simon’s lips on yours.
He stands between your open legs, causing your skirt to ride up much higher then you would usually allow—
One of Simon’s large gloved hands rests at the back of you head, helping you tilt it up to meet him.
The kiss starts off slow, but you gain confidence rather quickly.
Your arms rest on his broad shoulders, and your tongue makes its way to his.
Simon’s other hand moves down your waist to quickly scoop under your ass and lift you up.
You’re taken by surprise, and as you let out a quick high pitched noise; your legs automatically wrap around his torso.
You wish that you could see his full face, but you understand his boundaries and are grateful that he’s even trusted you enough to lift it to just below his nose.
And luckily, that gives you enough space to plant long kisses along his sharp jawline and neck.
Specifically his pulse point.
His hand begins to creep underneath your blouse—
Just against your lower back and it causes an involuntary shiver.
“this alrigh’?” he mumbles quickly, and you hum in approval.
The tent in his cargos is also undeniable now, and you both know it.
But nobody wants to break apart long enough to say anything about it.
Suddenly one of the doors to the office bursts open.. but none of you are paying enough attention to hear it.
Well, Simon does. But he doesn’t want to stop.
Then a loud cough is finally what captures your attention.
You pull back and look over Simon’s shoulder to see, Captain Price.
“What happened to those files I gave to you, y/n?”
His tone is extremely authoritative, and you instantly know you’re both fucked.
always thinking about simon settled between your legs, your thighs loosely hung around his hips as he fucks you so nice and slow all while he’s smoking a cigarette.
he only removes it from his chapped lips when he leans down, smoke circling the two of you like a halo when he kisses you.
your moans are drowned out, silenced by the taste of tobacco.
when he pulls away, the cigarette gets place right back where i was before, nestled between his top and bottom lip. his hips begin the slow pace he had set before, hands possessively settled on your hips.
Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
always thinking about simon settled between your legs, your thighs loosely hung around his hips as he fucks you so nice and slow all while he’s smoking a cigarette.
he only removes it from his chapped lips when he leans down, smoke circling the two of you like a halo when he kisses you.
your moans are drowned out, silenced by the taste of tobacco.
when he pulls away, the cigarette gets place right back where i was before, nestled between his top and bottom lip. his hips begin the slow pace he had set before, hands possessively settled on your hips.
simon riley who grunts every time you shift on the bed. its late at night and you cant seem to get comfy. he lets out an annoyed huff and throws an arm over your waist. "stop moving, dove." he mumbles into your shoulder. he pulls you against his chest and gently squishes your tummy with his big hand. it never fails to amaze you how quickly you can fall asleep in his arms.
No thoughts just ghost who has zero clue how good he is in bed...
He crowds you against his bed, either unaware or uncaring of just how much strength he's slinging around. Ghost envelops you in his presence, breath hot over your skin, hips thrusting into you with a "does it feel good? Like this, right? Like this?"
Every desperate question is accompanied by a thrust right against that sweet spot inside you. He'd already spent so long stretching you open, terrified to hurt you, that all your nerves feel alight with sensation. The slick slide of his cock in and out of you leaves you breathless and clutching at the sheets.
"What? Am I doing it wrong? C'mon, love, work with me–" he groans, head tucked into your shoulder, using one large hand to push your hips into a different angle that makes your mind melt.
"Shit– si– ahh!" You try to tell him yes yes it's so good so fucking good, but all that comes out is little stuttering gasps.
"Mhhh you feel so good– christ, love– is it good? Am I doing good?" Ghost licks against your neck, almost on instinct, brows knit together because you're still not saying anything!
Your whole body draws tight, orgasm crashing over you when ghost changes tactics to grind as deeply as he can into you for a second before thrusting again. Ghost genuinely yelps, arms buckling and catching himself only a second before he crushed you, riding it out with you as he warmth floods your stomach.
"Mmhh– sorry– sorry– I know I should've waited–" ghost whines and....keeps thrusting–
"It's okay, I can keep going, yeah?" He nuzzles against you apologetic. Ghost doesn't realize you've already cum, too caught up in his own mind and not recognizing what it feels like.
He keeps thrusting, driving you both into overstimulation. You can't manage to get a word out, not between the way he saws into you with each sob, and the kisses he presses to your lips frantically.
You either have to wait for ghost to realize or to tire himself out...and...well...he's an SAS operative for a reason. You might be here all night.
You know those days where everything just goes a little wrong?
Like the coffee spilling on your pants when you pour yourself a cup, or the shoelace that continuously comes undone no matter how tight you tie it, even the pen running out of ink on the last sentence.
Yeah, today actually wasn't like that at all.
You weren't in a bad mood, the day flew by smooth as butter and everything seemed to go right for you.
And then your team happened.
Gaz misplaced some paperwork that was needed in an hour.
Soap somehow damaged weaponry and burned the skin on his hand down at the firing range and needs you to fill out a report while he goes to medical.
Price called for a meeting, but a miscommunication meant everyone ended up in different briefing rooms or offices. He left it up to you to go get the team into the right room.
The computer you were using to send files to the team got a sudden system error and IT spent so long fixing it that you missed your lunch break. Turns out one of the boys messed around with the software before you used it and didn't properly reset it. You think you know exactly who it was.
And Ghost- well, he was fine, mostly. But it was the poorly timed joke from him that caused it all to snap.
You were briefing with the men, going over the events of a past operation which had gone awry when an explosive device detonated and killed and wounded several men, both enemies and allies. The 141's next deployment was to surveil a facility that was rumoured to house the target that was thought to have been KIA. At some point during the briefing, you had said, "We know where the target would have ideally gone immediately after the explosion."
Ghost mumbled out a half-assed, "Everywhere."
That was it. The last straw.
Before any of the men knew what had happened, the coffee mug was on the floor, dark liquid staining the carpet, knocked over from the slam of your hand on the table. You’re yelling so loud there’s a ringing in their ears. Each sentence from your mouth was getting louder and louder, more anger and passion behind it the longer you go on.
These four men, the large and deadly beasts they are, sat silent and wide-eyed as they got their asses chewed out like toddlers.
You were over it, you were tired of bullshit and the wrangling and the fixing and the messing around. You loved these boys dearly but they were grown, and they needed to start acting like it. At least, that's the point you were trying to get into their heads as some passerbys in the hallway stopped to watch the special forces unit getting schooled.
With some undignified apologies and a run to grab you a new coffee, the team lets you carry on with the meeting. And if they seemed a little rushed to gear up and load onto the plane for the mission, you certainly didn't mind.
Ok but have you thought about Gaz being a huuuuuge cat person
Like they flock to him, they love him and he loves them.
He respects their boundaries and lets them make the first move to come sit on his lap and he will have them purring with one little scratch on the chin.
He likes dogs, sure, he enjoys a good game of fetch, but when a tiny fluffball kitten curls up snuggling in his arm right between his bicep and his peck, suddenly he no longer needs to get up and do anything else for the foreseeable future.
And if he owned a cat(s) himself he would go ALL OUT
Like his walls are covered in tunnels and shelves and walkways for the cat to run up and down on, and he has a billion toys in every room, and he only buys the best food on the market. He would ask his 60 year old neighbor Eleanor to watch his baby when he’s deployed because she has a nice quiet, calm home and she owned cats before and she’s the only one the cat will tolerate. Only the best for his child.
Soap is the type of man to be seduced by a beautiful voice, I just know it. Music is one of the ways to his heart. When finds a pretty bird who sings at the bar a few nights a week, he makes the decision that her songs are just meant for his ears alone, and he lets himself be serenaded by this siren on the regular.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
John MacTavish was not an alcoholic.
However, he found himself to be a regular, as of late, at the dingy, humid bar called the Owl's Nest. There was nothing exceptional about this bar– in fact, it was quite awful; the undusted and half-empty shelves lining the wall, bulbs so close to burning out that the lights may as well be turned off, and the smell of decades of smoke and sticky alcohol that had seeped into the splintered wood.
Only about four other patrons are in the bar at the maximum, at least on the nights Johnny has been there. It’s a dark building sitting about a mile off the main road that takes him to the base he is stationed on. There really isn’t much around other than a small town of about ten thousand people, along with an old dam and reservoir that hasn’t been more than half full for twenty-odd years. Safe to say this place isn’t a dream vacation spot.
“What’s your poison?” The bartender asked him when he sat down that fateful night. It was pouring rain. He didn’t really want to go out in that weather but something pulled him into that bar, whether it was the call of a strong whiskey to sit nicely in his hand or the headache that was brewing on base if he didn’t get some new scenery.
He watched the fifty year old man polish a glass as he eyes Johnny up and down.
“Wha’ever kills me tha fastest”
“Double scotch, then.”
Johnny grumbled an affirmative reply and the drink was set down in front of him. His eyes moved to the old television broadcasting some channel he’d never seen before. Nothing else really stuck out to him. There were pool tables, a stage with various worn-down instruments and a microphone, a dart board on the wall, and eclectic decor strung up on the walls with no real theme.
The quiet noises of the mellow bar help slow Johnny’s mind, allowing him to take a deep breath and relax his muscles. Not that the chronic ache in his shoulders will ever go away. Some younger boys, no older than 18, took up some of the instruments on the small stage and began making some of the worst noise Johnny had ever heard.
Suddenly the door swung open. In came this little bird. A young woman, most likely in her late 20s, dark hair, gold jewelry, some sort of vanilla floral perfume. Poor thing is drenched, he observed.
She didn’t give much of a glance around the room before heading over to the stage. She was messing with some of the equipment on the side, though one of the boys messing with the chords that ran across the platform was giving her grief.
Johnny kept his eyes on the back of her head, not yet having seen her face. She shoo'd the boys off the stage as she hooked up the microphone.
"That's the little songbird that comes in here 'bout once a week. You're in for a treat, mate, she's got a voice that'll have you jumping ship," the bartender said behind him with a slight chuckle.
He only glanced back at him long enough to reply with a grumble, "Songbird, eh?"
His drink suddenly became the most interesting thing in the room to him as the girl faced the nearly empty room. Her eyes landed almost immediately on Johnny and she took a moment of pause before announcing the name of the song she was going sing.
He wasn't paying much attention to what it was, as even her speaking voice had his eyes back on her in a moment. As the music echoed lowly through the bar, only a couple patrons glanced over to acknowledge her. It seemed like they were used to her here.
And when she started to sing, boy, was he lost in it. Was he in the bar? Was he alone? Was he even on Earth? He couldn't tell you. Wouldn't have been able to look away unless someone turned his head the other way. The song wasn't loud or belty, it was smooth and silky and like a lullaby. He would rather drink it over the scotch any day.
It was a few songs she sang, each a little different than the last, each a little more intoxicating than the last. It was during the bridge of the final one that he decided he would be back next week. And the next. And the one after that.
As he was walking back to his quarters later that night, his Lieutenant passed him and asked, "How was the pub?"
Johnny's answer was simply, "Shite." The rest of the team knew that if even Johnny, the man who would drink a watered-down whiskey from a shoe, thought the bar was awful, it wouldn't be on their radar. But the Owl's Nest was Johnny's new favorite spot.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
this was going to be a lot longer but i'm gonna do a series instead me thinkssss lmk if you like it
Ghost is not what the captain would call a gentle man. Everything about him carries weight. His presence, his stare, his skills, his callsign, his reputation. But most of all, his voice. Price has heard Ghost in all sorts of situations, from enemy interrogations to dropping some of the most driest sarcasm to ever grace his comms.
Ghost's voice, like the rest of him, is rough. Like the sound comes from mortar-blasted boulders grinding against each other in his chest and not vocal chords. When Ghost speaks, everything sounds like an ultimatum.
But that's what happens in the military. Show him a man surrounded by other soldiers that doesn't develop some obnoxiously loud, deep vocal affect and Price will eat his hat.
Which is why, when you, the new medic transfer on base, are tasked with administering this year's flu jabs he notices it almost immediately.
"Sleeve up, please, Lieutenant," you tell him. Ghost is sat in the little plastic chair in front of you with his arm fully exposed before you finish.
"Busy day, yeah?" Price nearly chokes when Ghost asks you that.
It wasn't just the fact that he was making conversation, but it was the sound of him. If Price wasn't looking directly at him when he said it, he would have thought there was someone hidden behind his Lt.
But no. It was him, speaking without prompt to you in a tone of voice that Price didn't even think the man was physically capable of.
The boulders in his chest are silent. His voice having moved from them up to some higher register. Like the years of chain smoking and yelling over weapons fire is an inconvenience for once. Ghost even clears his throat when you turn away from him for a moment. Subdued. Soft.
Ghost. Soft. Hell has frozen over.
"It always is," you reply oblivious to the anomaly in front of you, a little smile on your face as you swipe Ghost's bicep with a little disinfectant wipe.
Price watches how Ghost never takes his eyes off of you as you do your work with the same fascination as watching a dog wearing pants walk on its hind legs.
It quickly becomes apparent that this is not an isolated case.
One morning some time later has Ghost walking with him to his office going over upcoming itineraries. Both of them have their minds on the looming, still unconfirmed, deployment. When you turn the corner into the hallway with a stack of files in your hand, Price swears he sees the lights brighten a little bit just from how Ghost perks up.
"Mornin', ma'am." And all of the sudden his hardened veteran, skull mask wearing, second in command is gone and replaced by two meters of tender puppy-dog eyes and velvety voice. He's pretty sure if Ghost had a tail it'd be wagging.
"Good morning, Lieutenant. How many times do I have to tell you you don't have to call me that?"
"At least one more," Ghost all but purrs.
Price feels like he's witnessing something that should be behind an age verification.
You roll your eyes and pat his shoulder as you pass, disappearing down the hallway without a glance behind you. If you did, you would've seen how Ghost's head turned to watch you go.
The other time occurred when you weren't even around to hear it.
It was classified as a training incident only because of its proximity to the grounds. Very little surprises Price anymore, so he didn't bat an eye when he saw a soldier drive up in a humvee, get out, and then just dumbly watch the vehicle creep backwards, gaining speed until it crashed into a nearby prefab.
The car was fine, of course, but those inside the prefab when it made contact weren't so lucky, especially anyone in the falling radius of the shelves and full crates held inside. It was nothing short of a miracle that no one got flattened.
The soldier responsible was getting torn a new one while someone else called for medical support, just to make sure no one was dying or anything. The worst Price could see from here was some bumps and bruises, someone holding a hand to their bleeding head.
"What is it now?" Price asked as he stepped up beside Ghost who lingered from a distance.
"Bloody idiot kept it in neutral, not park," Ghost tells him, arms crossed. "Didn't use the—" The moment you pop into view, medic bag in tow, Ghost's voice shifts like a switch had been flipped and all of the sudden that rolling thunder tone is gone like it was never there to begin with, "—parking brake. Hopefully it won't be a mistake made twice."
Price registers the words in his subconscious, but most of his attention is still on the fact that you had Ghost switching up mid sentence. And you weren't even within earshot. Just the fact that you were in his eyesight had Ghost lowering his voice, lightening his pitch.
He watches you flit around, grabbing the bleeding person and setting them down to start cleaning them up. All of his attention on you. Price is pretty sure that an ant wouldn't be able to crawl within 50 feet of you without Ghost knowing.
Part of Price wants to nip this in the bud, take Ghost aside and tell him to drop it. All of them know what being in this task force means. Having a distraction like this has a higher chance of being a hindrance than a benefit. If there ever comes a time where any of the 141 are in a situation where his sacrifice is non-negotiable, there cannot be hesitation. All of them know this.
But when the captain looks over at Ghost, he doesn't think about sacrifice. He doesn't see a muzzled war dog whose leash is held in Price's firm grip.
For the first time in a long time, Price recalls a young man with dark brown eyes that had seen too much too young, hair so blond it’s almost white, and the strongest sense of loyalty he's ever seen in a fellow soldier.
Price would never describe Ghost as a gentle man. Never a sweet man. But he starts to think that maybe Simon is.
The wind carved through the abandoned industrial district like a blade.
Cold. Bitter. The kind of cold that didn’t just brush against your skin but wormed its way deeper—through fabric, through gloves, through bone—until your fingers felt stiff and your breath fogged the inside of your scarf.
The city had once been a port hub. You could still see the bones of it if you looked hard enough.
Rusting cranes loomed like skeletons against the night sky. Empty rail lines disappeared into crumbling warehouses. Floodlights flickered over rows of abandoned shipping containers that had been left to rot where they sat years ago.
No one maintained this place anymore.
Which made it perfect.
Perfect for a weapons broker who thought disappearing into the cracks of a dying city would make him untouchable.
Perfect for Task Force 141 to come and prove him wrong.
Captain John Price had chosen the rooftop himself.
From the cracked concrete overlook, the team had a clean view into the courtyard below—a narrow basin of broken pavement and stacked containers where their target was scheduled to meet a buyer in less than five minutes.
Price crouched behind a rusted ventilation unit near the roof’s edge, binoculars raised to his eyes. His breath curled into the cold air as he scanned the courtyard for the hundredth time.
Nothing yet.
Soap sat nearby with his rifle resting across his knees, one boot hooked against a raised lip of concrete. Even bundled in tactical gear, the Scot somehow managed to look relaxed.
Gaz stood near the stairwell access door, rifle slung forward, eyes sweeping the rooftop perimeter. Always watching the angles. Always the quiet professional.
And Ghost—
Ghost lay prone at the edge of the roof.
Still as a shadow.
His long rifle rested against the concrete lip, the matte-black barrel barely visible against the darkness. The scope cut the world down to a single controlled circle of vision.
Everything outside of that circle stopped existing.
Distance: 412 meters.
Wind: light cross-breeze from the northeast.
Elevation: adjusted.
Ghost’s breathing was slow. Deliberate.
Every inhale measured.
Every exhale controlled.
Years of training had stripped the process down to instinct. There was no rush in him. No hesitation. No doubt.
Just calm calculation.
Below, the courtyard floodlights flickered.
A pair of headlights swept across the cracked pavement as a black sedan rolled through the open gate and came to a stop near the center of the yard.
Ghost adjusted the scope half a millimeter.
Doors opened.
Men stepped out.
Two bodyguards first.
Big men. Heavy coats. Weapons under their jackets, though not well hidden.
They scanned the area with the kind of lazy caution that came from believing you were already safe.
Ghost had seen better security guarding convenience stores.
Then the back door opened.
Aleksy Voronin stepped out.
The weapons broker looked exactly like the photos.
Broad shoulders. Thick neck. Black wool coat draped over expensive clothes. The kind of man who had built a fortune selling death to whoever paid the highest price.
He stepped beneath one of the broken floodlights and pulled a phone from his pocket.
Ghost tracked him smoothly through the scope.
Centered.
Perfect.
Voronin lifted the phone to his ear and started speaking.
Ghost’s finger settled against the trigger.
“Target confirmed,” Ghost murmured into the comms, voice low and gravelly beneath his mask. “Ready to take the shot.”
Price’s voice came back a moment later.
“Copy that. Take it when you’re ready.”
Soap leaned slightly closer beside him, peering down into the courtyard without lifting his own rifle.
“Clean shot, Lt..” he muttered.
Gaz shifted his stance near the door, continuing his quiet sweep of the rooftop behind them.
Everything was still.
No alarms.
No unexpected movement.
No complications.
The kind of setup snipers waited their entire careers for.
Ghost exhaled slowly.
The world narrowed inside the scope.
Voronin’s head filled the crosshair.
His finger began tightening on the trigger.
Then—
CRACK.
The sound shattered the night.
Sharp. Violent. Echoing off the empty warehouses.
But it hadn’t come from Ghost’s rifle.
In the scope, Voronin’s head snapped backward violently and the man collapsed like someone had cut his strings.
The phone flew from his hand as he hit the ground.
Ghost froze.
For half a second, the image in his scope didn’t make sense.
The target was already down.
He hadn’t fired.
Soap jerked upright beside him.
“The hell—?”
Below, one of the bodyguards shouted something in Russian and reached for his weapon.
Gaz’s voice cut sharply through the comms.
“Target down!”
Price lowered his binoculars slowly.
Ghost pulled back from the scope, irritation already starting to simmer under the mask.
Someone had taken the shot.
Not a stray round.
Not a lucky hit.
The precision of that shot had been deliberate.
Professional.
Ghost’s jaw tightened.
“Who the bloody hell—”
CRACK.
Another shot rang out.
One of the bodyguards stumbled mid-step before collapsing onto the pavement.
CRACK.
The second guard dropped moments later.
Three shots.
Three kills.
Each one clean.
Each one controlled.
Soap let out a low whistle.
“Well… someone’s eager.”
Ghost’s irritation sharpened into something colder.
This wasn’t random interference.
Whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing.
Price straightened slowly, scanning the surrounding rooftops with his binoculars.
“Did Laswell say anything about another unit?” he asked.
“Negative.” Gaz replied immediately.
Ghost was already back on the scope.
He began sweeping the surrounding buildings.
One rooftop.
Nothing.
Another.
Empty.
Then—
Three buildings over.
Movement.
The silhouette appeared along the edge of a distant rooftop.
Tall enough to be visible against the pale glow of the moon.
Ghost adjusted the scope.
The figure came into focus.
A rifle hung loosely over one shoulder.
The posture wasn’t hurried.
Wasn’t tense.
Whoever it was stood there like they had all the time in the world.
Then the figure stepped forward.
Moonlight caught their face.
Ghost blinked once.
A woman.
She stood at the edge of the rooftop like she owned the skyline.
One boot rested casually against the ledge. The rifle hung across her back with the easy familiarity of someone who knew it well.
Even from this distance, Ghost could tell she was looking directly at them.
Not searching.
Not guessing.
Looking.
Right.
At.
Them.
Then—
You lifted a hand.
And gave a casual salute.
Soap burst out laughing.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Ghost felt irritation settle deep into his chest.
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Twenty minutes later, the team regrouped in a narrow alley a few blocks from the kill site.
The air smelled like rusted metal, damp concrete, and diesel fuel that had soaked into the ground years ago.
A single flickering streetlight buzzed above them.
Price leaned against a brick wall and lit a cigar, the flame briefly illuminating the lines of his face before he snapped the lighter shut.
Smoke curled slowly into the cold night air.
Ghost stood nearby with his arms crossed over his chest.
Silent.
Unmoving.
Annoyed.
Soap, on the other hand, looked like he was having the time of his life.
“Think she’s single?” he asked casually.
Ghost didn’t respond.
Gaz snorted under his breath.
“Soap…”
“What?” Soap grinned. “Professional curiosity.”
Ghost’s stare through the skull mask was flat enough to kill.
Footsteps echoed from the mouth of the alley.
All four men turned.
You walked in like you belonged there.
No hesitation.
No nervous glance over your shoulder.
Just an easy, confident stride that carried you straight toward them.
You were younger than Ghost had expected.
Late twenties maybe.
Your tactical gear actually fit properly… something Ghost noticed immediately. No loose straps. No awkward bulk. Everything sat exactly where it should.
A rifle rested across your back.
A pistol holstered neatly at your hip.
And not a single mark on you suggested you’d just eliminated three armed men from half a kilometer away.
You stopped a few feet from the group.
Your gaze moved calmly across each of them.
Price.
Soap.
Gaz.
Then Ghost.
Your eyes lingered on the skull mask for half a second longer than the others.
Curiosity.
Recognition.
Then you smiled.
“Task Force 141.”
Price exhaled a slow stream of cigar smoke.
“And you are?”
You extended a hand casually.
“Laswell’s temporary attachment.”
Soap blinked.
“Attachment?”
“Yeah.” You shrugged lightly. “She figured you boys might need the help.”
Ghost didn’t move.
Price accepted the handshake slowly.
“Funny,” he said. “Kate didn’t mention anything.”
Your grin widened slightly.
“She likes surprises.”
Your eyes drifted back to Ghost.
“And judging by the rooftop situation… I’d say the surprise worked.”
Soap completely lost it, his bark of laughter echoed down the alley.
Ghost’s voice came out flat and cold.
“You took my shot.”
You tilted your head slightly.
“Was it yours?”
“It was lined up.”
“And yet,” you said easily, “I fired first.”
Soap wheezed beside him.
Gaz looked like he was seconds away from joining in.
Ghost pushed himself away from the wall and stepped forward.
Up close, the size difference was obvious.
He was taller.
Broader.
Built like a wall of muscle and quiet violence.
Most people instinctively stepped back when Ghost closed the distance.
You didn’t.
You didn’t move an inch.
You simply looked up at him calmly.
Your eyes were sharp.
Observant.
Annoyingly steady.
“You interfered with an active operation.” Ghost said.
“I completed it.” you replied with a smile.
The silence that followed stretched just long enough to become interesting.
Behind them, Price rubbed a hand over his face.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
You glanced away from Ghost long enough to answer him.
Ghost barely registered it.
His attention was stuck on the smaller details.
The way your stance stayed balanced.
The way your shoulders never tensed.
The way you seemed completely unaffected by the towering masked operator standing two feet away from you.
Most people at least reacted to Ghost.
The mask alone did half the work.
The reputation did the rest.
You, apparently, had decided none of that mattered.
Your gaze flicked back to him.
And then a small smirk appeared.
“You looked a little slow up there, Lieutenant.”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed behind the mask.
Price sighed heavily and took another drag of his cigar.
“Well,” he muttered, smoke curling into the night air, “this should be fun.”
Ghost already hated you.
And the worst part?
You looked like you were enjoying it.
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Part one of my enemies to lovers series! <3
Comment if you’re interested In being tagged in part two!
The first time he calls you bird, it isn’t planned.
It slips out low and rough over comms, threaded between gunfire and static.
“Got eyes on the east stairwell—two hostiles,” you murmur, voice steady despite the chaos crackling through your headset. Your fingers move fast across the keyboard, pulling feeds from three separate cameras, stitching angles together in your mind like a map only you can see. “Third one lagging behind, limping. Might be wounded.”
A beat.
Then, in your ear—gravel and smoke and something almost amused.
“Christ… you see everything, don’t you, bird?”
The line goes quiet again, but the name sticks.
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Your world is small, contained.
A dim operations room buried somewhere deep in the base, humming with electricity and recycled air. The overhead lights are always too soft or too harsh—never just right—so you’ve taken to leaving only your desk lamp on. It casts a warm, golden pool over your workspace, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of permanent twilight.
Screens line the wall in front of you—six in total, each flickering with different feeds: satellite imaging, drone footage, helmet cams. One is always reserved for him.
Ghost.
Though you never call him that out loud. Not really.
To you, he’s just a voice. A presence. A constant thread in your ear during long nights and longer missions.
You know the cadence of his breathing when he’s crouched and waiting. The way his voice drops half a register when something’s wrong. The quiet, almost imperceptible hitch when he’s injured but refusing to say it.
You know him in pieces.
“Talk to me, bird,” he says one night, softer than usual.
You glance at his feed. He’s tucked behind a crumbling wall, dust coating the camera lens. There’s blood—dark and drying—on his glove.
“Two tangos left,” you reply. “One on your six, slow approach. Other’s posted near the exit.”
A pause.
Then, quieter.
“You always watchin’ me that close?”
Your fingers still for half a second before you recover.
“It’s my job.”
A faint huff of something that might be a laugh.
“Right.”
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It becomes routine.
Late hours. Your voice guiding him through shadows. His voice grounding you when the silence between updates stretches too long.
Sometimes, when the mission lulls, he talks.
Not much. Never too much.
But enough.
“You ever leave that room, bird?” he asks once.
You glance around at your little corner of the world—half-empty coffee mug, a blanket thrown over the back of your chair, a sticky note peeling off your monitor with scribbled doodles and coordinates.
“Sometimes,” you say. “I think.”
“Think?”
“It’s… easy to lose track of time in here.”
A quiet hum through the comms. Thoughtful.
“Sounds like a cage.”
You swallow, eyes flicking back to his feed.
“Not really.”
A beat.
Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him.
“Still.”
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You imagine him, sometimes.
Not the mask—that’s all anyone ever sees.
You imagine the man underneath. The lines of his face, the thoughts in his mind, the way he probably looks at a room before stepping into it.
You build him from fragments.
From silence.
From the way he says your name—rare, but it happens.
From the way he says bird—like it means something.
The first time something goes wrong, really wrong, your hands shake.
“Ghost, you need to move. Now.” Your voice is tighter than you’d like, eyes darting across the feeds. “They’ve rerouted—there’s a squad heading straight for you.”
No response.
“Ghost.”
Static.
Your chest tightens.
“Simon.”
The name slips out before you can stop it.
And suddenly—
“I’m here.”
Relief hits so hard it almost hurts.
“I lost visual,” you say quickly, forcing yourself back into focus. “Camera’s down. You’re blind to me.”
“Not blind,” he mutters. “Still got you, don’t I?”
Your throat goes dry.
You guide him anyway. Off memory, off instinct, off the rhythm you’ve built together over countless missions.
Step by step.
Breath by breath.
Until he’s out.
Safe.
They tell you later it was close.
Too close.
You stay in your chair long after the room empties, screens dimming one by one until only your desk lamp remains.
The silence is louder than gunfire.
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You don’t expect to meet him.
Handlers don’t meet operators. That’s not how this works. You’re voices, not faces. Ghosts in different ways.
So when your door opens one evening—quiet, deliberate—you don’t look up right away.
“Room’s off-limits,” you say absently, eyes still scanning reports. “You’ll need—”
You stop.
Because the room feels… different.
Heavier.
You look up slowly.
And there he is.
Filling the doorway like something pulled straight out of shadow. Broad shoulders, tactical gear, the skull mask stark in the low light. Real in a way that steals the air from your lungs.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then—
“…Bird.”
It’s quieter in person. Rougher. Real.
Your heart stutters.
“You’re not supposed to be here..” you manage.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping inside anyway, boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Got that impression.”
He looks around your space—your screens, your notes, your carefully controlled chaos.
“This where you’ve been watchin’ me from?”
You nod, suddenly very aware of how small the room is. How close he is.
“All of it,” you say. “Every mission.”
His gaze shifts back to you.
You can’t see his eyes. Not really. But you feel them.
Heavy. Intent.
“Then I figured,” he says slowly, “it’s about time I saw you back.”
Something tightens in your chest.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Wanted to.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not like before. Not like the empty kind.
This is… full.
“You’re quieter in person..” you say softly.
A faint tilt of his head.
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” You hesitate. “But less… hidden.”
A low exhale. Not quite a laugh.
“Funny..,” he murmurs. “Was gonna say the same about you.”
Your lips twitch.
“Guess we’re both a little different off comms.”
“Maybe.” He steps closer—slow, deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
Up close, he’s overwhelming. Not just in size, but in presence. Like standing too close to a storm.
But there’s something else, too.
Something familiar.
“You called me Simon.” he says quietly.
Heat rushes to your face.
“I—thought I lost you.”
A pause.
Then, softer..
“Didn’t.”
Your breath catches.
For a moment, it feels like you’re still on comms—like this is just another fragile thread of connection stretched across distance.
Except there’s no distance now.
Just him.
Just you.
Just the quiet hum of the room that’s held your voice for so long.
The maid of honor and groom's best man met briefly at Mactavish's wedding and now she's all he think's about.
tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, sexual tension, dirty thoughts & dirty talk, cigarette play, unprotected sex, pet names, slow burn.
He was over it, already tapping the bottom of his cigarette box against his palm as he walked over to the entrance of the reception.
He didn't really give anyone much more than a grunt all day, this wasn't his scene. A wedding and Simon, yeah no.
He hated these types of things, people only really had big weddings with huge cakes, a stupid dolphin ice sculpture because they wanted to prove their love was stable and worthy.
It was complete bullshit.
But. He couldn't lie seeing his friend get married to the love of his life even if that's the exact words he called Simon approximately three years ago, drunk on his couch, was nice.
If he wanted to go marry this woman and throw away money on a wedding when you can truly save it up for a nice vacation then he could go be Simons guest. Simon would just judge from where he stood.
He let out a breath of the cigarette between his lips, a hint of the tabaco left on his tongue. He turned his head to the side.
Simons eyes glanced over the reception as John danced with his bride, the only others I knew watched from the sidelines. Kyle, Alejandro, Rudy, and Price.
He put out his cigarette, thinking that maybe he should join them, maybe he should watch his friends first dance with his wife.
As he tried to make it over, there was no spot he could stand without his sight being covered. he groaned, his eyes glancing over to any possible places to where he could stand and see.
Then he saw it, it was a balcony that sat at the perfect angle. He walked over to the building before quickly making it up to the balcony.
It was hotter up here, he grunted to himself as he tried to fix his tie, he watched as John dipped and kissed his bride the people who watched and stood around them both gave them a warm round of applause.
Simon would have too but his tie made it hard to.
He grunted, he dropped the box of cigarettes in his hand, "Bloody fuckin' tie..." Simon grumbled.
"Need help?"
He stopped in place, he turned to put a face to the voice he'd never heard before. Simon met eyes with the woman. He knew her, she was the maid of honor, the brides best friend.
Simon cleared his throat, "I got it. I just—" He pulled more on the knot of his tie, "One sec." Simon nodded.
She giggled, but not like she was laughing at him, but like she was enjoying watching Simon struggle. Kind of rude for a woman whose makeup was slowly melting off in the blazing Italian sun.
She took a step to me, "May I?" She asked. Simon gave her a look before his hands came to his sides, giving up and letting her try.
She quickly loosened his tie, softly patting the spot when she was done.
She took a step back. Simon cleared my throat, he turned leaning against the railing of the balcony.
She cleared her throat, it took him a second before he turned his head to her and noticed her hand out to him, Simon was so focused on her eyes he almost didn't notice the box of cigarettes in her hand, Simons cigarettes.
He sighed, "Thanks." He pursed his lips, he grabbed the box out her hand, his fingertips brushing against her palm.
He grabbed a cigarette and put the rest of the box in his suit jackets pocket.
Simon placed the cigarette between his lips, inhaling then exhaling the dark grey smoke.
She started to speak, Simon wasn't up for conversation but he wasn't a complete asshole.
"So you're the...uh, grooms best man?" She spoke, sounding...in a way angelic to one's ears.
Simon took the cigarette out from between his lips, he nodded, "Yeah. You're the maid of honor 'm guessing?" Simon asked but more so stated.
She gave a small chuckle, "Yeah, I am." She said to him, they weren't looking at one another but watching the reception below themselves.
The space between them could fit another person.
"Yeah...never thought Soap would've settled down already." Simon spoke through his thick British accent.
She inhaled a breath before speaking, "I knew from the start. I always saw how he looked at Hannah." She nodded.
He gave a slight chuckle, he knew exactly how John was. "Johnny's been obsessed over the idea of having a family since the day I met that guy." He nodded. He took another breath from my cigarette.
Simon glanced over to her, seeing her hand swat away the slight smoke coming her away, he turned, tossing the cigarette on the ground, he put his foot over it.
Simon turned back to her, "Sorry, I didn't even think to ask if you were 'right with that." She shook her head, looking at the man. "It's okay." She spoke with the same tone from earlier.
Soft and angel like.
He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the sound of John's voice coming from the entrance of the balcony.
"Oi! There you two are." He said to them both, his speech slightly slurred. He was probably many drinks deep and neither wouldn't blame him.
Simon turned around to face him, noting how the maid of honor didn't turn with him but instead lean against the railing like he was doing previously.
John stumbled over to the two, a smile plastered on his face as he leaned on Simon for support, "You two look cozy out here." He teased, clearly not noticing Simon's already annoyed face from the fact that he did interrupt Simon.
Simon rolled his eyes, giving him a helping hand. "We were just getting a breath of fresh air." Simon corrected him.
He looked to the woman behind Simon over his shoulder before he looked to Simon.
His smile grew, "You should come dance with me." He nodded.
Simon shook his head, fuck no. "I don't dance and I'm pretty sure you are aware of that." Simon spoke.
"Don't tempt me with a good time." She said behind Simon. "We'll be there in a bit." She told John in a promising tone before he nodded and turned, leaving them both alone on the balcony again.
Simon let out a breath, he turned to her, "Hey, maybe you didn't hear me but, I don't dance." He shook his head.
She gave him a smile, "Everybody dances." She spoke, she grabbed his wrist and led him to the dance floor where pretty much everyone else was.
He laughed with her as they danced, they'd go from his hands on her hips and her arms draped over his shoulders to her jumping up and down and Simon watching, laughing at her.
He was out of breath by the end of it. Simon shook his head as he swallowed. Trying to speak over the speakers.
"Hey! Let's get a drink!" He said to her, trying to point to the bar with his hand.
She watched him, she shook her head. "No thanks. I'm not thirsty." She nodded to Simon.
He sighed at her words.
Simon put a hand on her shoulder, he brought his mouth to her ear before speaking to her.
"I'm thirsty. We've been dancing for a straight hour." Simon spoke to her. He straightened, watching her face for any reaction.
Simon watched as she built a response she waved him down and he came down, his ear to her mouth.
"You want me to come with you?" She asked. Simon went down to her ear.
"N-No. I'm just...uh forget it." He was aggravated, the music was too loud, people's sweaty arms kept rubbing against him, everyone was yelling and bumping into him.
He turned, moving through the crowd of people to get to the bar.
He didn't drag her with him.
Once Simon got to the bar he ordered himself a cup of cold water with no ice.
He leaned his back against the bar watching the dance floor being filled with life.
Simon looked around to try and spot her but he couldn't.
"Okay friend's and fam, please clear the dance floor for the bouquet toss!" The bride announced on the DJ's microphone.
The crowd soon began to gather on the sides of the dance floor, Simon was already at a good spot where he could see everything so he didn't have to move.
There she was.
She was shaking her head at the bride as she dragged her to the other group of bridesmaids for the bouquet toss.
Simon watched as she started to look for something maybe someone.
Hannah, the bride. Took a step away from the ladies, turning her back to them she held up her white rose bouquet.
She raised it in the air.
Then threw it.
Simon's eyes followed the bouquet as it landed in someone's hands. He didn't hear no fighting over it, bummer. That would have been the best part of his night.
It hit him.
She caught it. Simons eyes stayed on her, the only people to congratulate her was the bridesmaids, John, and Hannah.
His brows furrowed slightly.
No boyfriend to come celebrate with her? No "Im already married"?
He tilted his head, bringing the glass of water to his bottom lip.
Simon turned, facing the bar now.
Simon watched ahead of him as they all soon filled his view of sight.
The maid of honor, the bridesmaids, and the bride. All together taking rounds of shots to celebrate once again but this time over poison in a cup.
Simon couldn't help but think good for them.
"So who's going to be the lucky guy?"
"Luna, have you got your eye on anyone?"
"There's plenty of single men here..?"
He listened as the bridesmaids nicked and poked at her all night.
The only useful thing he got out of it was her name. He hadn't asked for her name all night and now he got it. Sucks she didn't get his, not that it mattered. It didn't matter to me. It didn't.
Luna.
Simon ended the night leaving the wedding silently. The party was going well but he was in need of some well deserved rest, he left the party while everyone started crowding the bar, getting their "last drinks of the night."
Which was a fat lie, as he left he could hear the words, "One more." Being yelled throughout the reception, yeah no thanks.
The morning after John and Hannah insisted that Simon joined them both for breakfast, "Your best man duties aren't over." John had told him over the phone when he called.
Simon tried to seem annoyed but who would to free breakfast.
Once Simon made it to the hotel lobby he caught up with the two newlyweds. John tried to convince Simon to stay with them on their honeymoon.
"I swear It's fine. Please I don't want to interrupt you two." Simon shook his head as the three walked towards where breakfast would be.
"Please, I'm not renting out a fucking beach house just to use one room." John nudged Simon, pleading.
Simon glanced to Johnny, "Jesus-you can't take a no, can you?" John responded with a smirk before nudging his mate, "I'll take that as a yes." He winked.
Simon shook his head, watching John leave his side and walk alongside his wife.
As they made their way to a booth, she was there, who invited her?
Simon sat next to Luna, Hannah and John across from the two, "You two look like you're getting along well." Hannah spoke with a smile looking at the two.
Simon's brow furrowed. They hadn't even said anything to each other. "We met briefly yesterday." Luna spoke. Simon nodded in agreement. not adding to her already truthful words.
John stood to grab utensils, Hannah left to the bathroom, cleaning her hands.
Simon cleared his throat, he glanced over at Luna. "Wanted to congratulate you." He muttered. Luna looked to him.
Her brows furrowed, "On-?" Simon responded realizing he gave zero context, "The bouquet toss. Isn't it a thing to congratulate over...?" He spoke softer.
Luna smiled, "Yeah, for sure. Thanks."
Simon nodded in relief. "Who's the lucky guy?" He asked her, Luna shook her head, "I'm single." She responded quick,
"Oh." Simon swallowed, "Sorry." He nodded, "Ah, no worries. Being single in todays day n age is a privilege.' She smiled, chuckling like her own words made her laugh.
Simon laughed lowly with her, soon enough the two others joined back, the four ate peacefully.
"Luns, you should join us on our honeymoon." Hannah spoke after she swallowed her egg whites. Luna looked at her best friend like she was crazy.
"No? I don't really want to be there when you two are making my niece or nephew." She swallowed a gulp of water.
Simon hid a laugh with a bite of bread.
John gestured to Simon, "He's going."
Luna looked at Simon, Simon met her eyes, "He chose for me." He corrected, Luna huffed looking back to Hannah, "Fine."
John and Hannah shared a look. Hiding their smiles with food.
The ride there was silent well at least in Luna and Simon's car. The soft sound of Simons engine and music softly humming in the background.
He drove, one hand on the steering wheel the other on the console.
"You 'an change the song if you'd like." He spoke up, Luna looked up from her phone Simons phone in his hand as he handed it to her Spotify already open.
"Anything you hate hearing?" Luna asked as she clicked the search bar. Simon chuckled, "I asked you to pick."
Luna shrugged, "Your car, your music." Simon glanced at her quickly before looking back to the empty road. The car far ahead of them John and Hannah.
"I asked for your music, not mine." He spoke. Luna smiled softly before clicking play on The Morning - The Weeknd.
The ride went by quick, Simon was a good driver slowing to stops with ease or taking turns without even adjusting in his seat.
They got to the beach house, "Fuck, this is huge." Luna mumbled under her breath as she took in the large house ahead of them, the soft sound of waves crashing against the shore could be heard already from this far.
"Watch your mouth young lady." Simon spoke as he picked up both their luggage out his trunk, Luna closed it by the button and followed him, "I can hold my own bag." Luna reached out for her bags.
"I got it." He spoke, leaving no room for argument.
She didn't even ask for him to carry her stuff.
As hours slipped by the group slowly settled in the house, Luna and Hannah outside. Luna helping Hannah take pictures for her instagram.
Johnny and Simon inside, sharing a beer as they cooked. Steaks in the oven. The smell of seasoned meat wafted through the air.
"So...you and Luna, hm?" John hummed as he started peeling potatoes. Simon chuckled softly.
"Fuckin hell, that's why you brought us here. To play bachelor?" Simon watched the man.
John shamelessly half-nodded, he set down a potato. "C'mon Si, How long has it been since your last relationship?" John looked at Simon.
Simon finished his glass of corona, "Unimportant." He exhaled as he swallowed. John huffed when he didn't get the answer he wanted. "She seems like a good girl." John shrugged.
Simon cringed at those words. "Stop talking." Simon spoke as he moved, grabbing both their empty bottles and tossing them.
Johnny chuckled softly, "Just try it. Worst that can happen is she rejects you. Or...you find out she has a boyfriend." John shrugged.
"She's single." Simon straightened, clearing his throat seeming how that sounded, "We talked a bit." Simon moved to the fridge. Grabbing two beers.
He slid one to John and kept the other for himself. Opening it with his hand as he watch Johnny use a bottle opener.
It was probably at least one in the morning, Simon couldn't sleep. His head spinning, why did all thoughts have to come when you had to sleep?
Simon tossed the sheets off of him, he swung his legs over to the side of the bed. His head hurt.
Simon stood pulling up his sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He didn't bother to put a shirt on, nobody would be awake at this time. Right?
Simon slipped out his room, the door in front of his closed. Luna's room. Directly across from his. The sudden thought of entering her room to watch her sleep creeped up into his mind. He scoffed at himself before moving to the kitchen.
He stopped when his eyes locked onto the body he knew well from, watching it across rooms, Luna.
The fridge and freezer were both open, she stood in them exhaling deeply. "Are you..." He started.
Luna jumped at his voice, "Simon. Jeez, you scared me." She said, a hand coming to her chest as she met his eyes across the room.
Her eyes slowly trailed down his torso. "Okay..." He muttered to himself. "You should close those." Simon spoke, moving into the kitchen, pretending he didn't just feel her eyes tracing over every dip in his torso.
Luna didn't say anything as she watched Simons back, his muscles flexing as he grabbed a ibuprofen, opening it as he swallowed two easily.
He poured himself a glass of water, cold. "So why were you basking in the fridge?" Simon turned to look at her as he sipped water from the cup.
Luna swallowed, "I wasn't basking, I have no ac." She leaned back against the counter, Simon nodded.
"Didn't plan on asking for help?" He swallowed. "It's late." Luna crossed her arms over her chest, still embarrassed from being caught in such a stupid position.
"Sleep in my room." He gestured down the hall with the glass in his hand. Luna furrowed her brows. "Wow, take me to dinner first."
Simon smirked, "C'mon. You can have the bed." He was already moving towards the hall. Luna grunted before reluctantly following behind him.
Simon held the door open with a hand letting her in first. "Don't get awkward now." Simon hummed, closing the door behind her.
Simon moved, setting his cup down. His back to her. The soft sounds of a lighter flicking on and off filled the room, Simon lit a cigarette exhaling deeply before he turned, his eyes brushing over her. "Bed's all yours." He gestured to it.
Simon moved outside to the balcony connected to the room. Smoking his cigarette away from her.
Luna sighed deeply, how could she have gotten in this predicament.
Luna slowly sat herself in the middle of the bed, her back against the headboard. "Simon?" She called out to the air.
Slowly Simon came back in the room, exhaling smoke before he entered. "Princess." He answered.
Luna sat up slightly, the pet name making something sting in the pit of her stomach.
"Where are you sleeping?" She asked, Simon walked to the end of the bed. The cigarette twirling between his fingers like he was itching for a hit.
"Floor." He answered. She didn't know what it was, maybe him being shirtless, the fact that he saved her from a heat stroke, the delicious steaks he cooked the house earlier, or maybe the cigarette smoke making her dizzy.
But the way he kept looking at her had been making her heart beat, since they shared a dance on their friends wedding night.
"You're starin'" Simon huffed, Luna blinked, "Sorry. Don't...don't sleep on the floor. Sleep here with me." She said her eyes locked on his.
"Have you been drinking?" He asked her, Luna exhaled, she crawled to the end of the bed right in front of him. She took the cigarette from his fingers and placed it between her lips. Inhaling deeply before exhaling in his face.
He didn't flinch like it wasn't the first time smoke had been blown in his face.
Simons jaw clenched, his pec jerked slightly. "What are you doing, missy?" He questioned her as he leaned in closer.
Luna slowly pushed the end of the cigarette into his skin, Simon didn't flinch or stop her. He just watched her face as she burned him.
"You don't know what your asking for." Simon took the cigarette from her tiny hand, tossing it into the ash tray nearby.
"I'm well aware what I'm asking for." Luna met his eyes, her eyes flickering down to his lips then back up.
Simon exhaled, which sounded more like a growl. He reached out to her jaw pulling her lips to kiss them aggressively, like he was hungry.
Luna groaned softly in the kiss. Simon’s hand gripped under her thighs bringing her back onto the bed. “Simon, hurry up.” She moaned into his mouth.
He huffed, “Patience baby, I’m gonna take my time with you.” He growled lowly.
Simon’s fingers disappeared under her shirt, his hand cupped her breast, “No bra? You were asking for this, hm?” Simon hummed.
Luna moaned softly throwing her head back, she gripped his shoulders to keep her grounded. “Fuck. Quit teasing me Simon.” She muttered out.
Simon smirked slightly at her plea. He leaned back on his knees looking at her, “Fuck…” he muttered.
Luna bit her bottom lip she looked up at him, “What?” She asked, Simon chuckled softly. “Sweet girl, think you might’ve gotten too excited he said. “You’re soaked.”
Luna gasped she bent forward to check for herself and sure enough there was a wet patch through her shorts. Simon chuckled softly, he moved her hand.
“Don’t hide from me.” He said his fingers moving to hook onto her shorts, pulling them and her panties off in one go. He tossed them somewhere off the bed, Luna closed her thighs.
Simon looked into her eyes, “What did I just say?” Luna tilted her head, “Your still dressed, unfair.” Simon chuckled softly. He moved off the bed to take off his sweatpants leaving his boxers on. Luna opened her mouth to protest but Simon cut her off.
“Nope. You haven’t earned dick privilege yet.” He spoke, he dived back between her legs, forcing them open easily. His breath brushed over her already slick core. She shivered “Fuck.” She muttered.
Simon shook his head in disbelief, “That’s it? You’ll come if I breathe hard enough.” He stated, Luna scoffed. “No! I—nngrh” Simon cut her off with his tongue diving into her flaps.
Luna groaned biting back her moans, Simon sucked harder against her bud. “Mmm, lemme hear you.” He hummed against her slit.
Luna gasped for air under him, “Fuck! Oh—my god.” She moaned, her hands digging into the sheets under them both.
“Cmon pretty girl, give it to me.” Simon growled on her clit. He looked up at her as he sucker with passion.
Luna’s mouth hung open as he ate her like the last meal on earth, his tongue flicking at her bud.
Luna whined, “Simon—oh Si-“ She moaned. Simon bit softly at her flap, that did it. Simon watch as she tried to make words. “C-Coming.” She announced.
Simon watched as she got right to the edge before he pulled away from her, catching his breath softly. Luna gasped she sat up, “You asshole! Why’d you stop I was about to come?” Luna sighed.
Simon licked his lips, “I want you to cum on my dick.” He huffed out aggressively.
Lunas brows furrowed “W-“ She couldn’t even get the word out before Simon pinned her, her knees to her chest as he kicked off his boxers.
His cock sprung out between the two. He didn’t waste time on prepping her. He shoved himself into her, he was pent up.
Luna gasped her head hitting the headboard, “Fuck!” She yelped. Simon waited for a moment before moving, he slid out till his tip almost fell out her beauty.
He slammed back into her, doing it consistently, “Si-nggrh—please.” She babbled. Cock drunk.
Simon continued his rampage, “Use your words, baby.” He panted. His hands digging into the back of her knees as he watched his dick disappear and reappear on loop.
“I’m gonna come!” She gasped, Simon slowed. “Wait for me, doll.” He ordered. He slowly built back up the pace.
He reached up, gripping her left breast, rolling the bud between his fingers. Luna whined, she was overstimulated.
“Take it like a good girl and stop whining.” He panted, his eyes flickered to hers. Watching her face as she held herself back.
Another whine slipped, “That’s whining, I thought we talked about that.” Simon dug himself into her.
“Simon please!” She choked out. Simon whimpered, “Fuck princess.” He muttered.
Simon nodded, “Give it to me, baby.” He nodded as she came, her soft walls pulsing on his cock. Simon soon oozed into her, filling her to the brim.
Simon panted, pulling himself out of her.
He met her eyes, lying next to her as he panted softly. “Sorry.” He swallowed staring at her boy next to him.
Luna smiled, “That was perfect.” She kissed him.
Ahhhhh first tumblr fanfic and immediately getting into smut I love that for me. This was actually taken from my Wattpad where the entire story originates in that ver its in Simons pov anyways ty for reading!!
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