last time I wrote about butcher!simon, I made him a girl dad who just loves his wife… which was fun and everything… buuuut
sick, pervy butcher!simon who loves to torment the sad lonely girl who comes into his shop every sunday. you can never see his hand behind the counter adjusting boner and palming himself
and he always speaks in such a suggestive way that makes you so uncomfortable and nervous. asking how a girl like you can fit such a thick cut of meat inside her. of course he’s only talking about the steak you just bought. what did you think he meant, sweetness?
when you accidentally back your ass up a little too much into his crotch and he gives your waist a quick squeeze, lowering his lips by your ear as he grumbles out a low “careful”
ahah getting into a play fight with Soap and wrestling him around on the ground, and you can feel the moment he starts using a bit of his strength so you go to tap out, only his eyes are glazed over now and he isn't responding to your repeated 'okay that's enough's because he's too busy pinning your wrists above your head and shoving your legs apart
Ghost glanced at his sergeant, grunting as he sat down, leaning down to untie his boots.
"Fed 'er." He grunts, undoing the knots. "Was cookin' one of my mum's recipes, felt like it."
He pulls a foot free. "Smell must'a wafted over to 'er 'ouse. She was my neighbour at the time." He explains, Soap listening intently. "Well, not too long later I hear a knock at my door. I check and there's this pregnant bird standing there, askin' if she can have some o' whatever I'm cooking."
Ghost looked up, standing to take his pants off now that his feet are free. "'ow could I say no to tha'?" He scoffs slightly, throwing the balled up pants into the basket in the corner. "Sweet thing like 'er coming up to a man like me? Mum would've come back from the dead if I did."
Soap chuckles a bit, pulling a fresh top over his head. "So ye fed a pregnant lass and she stayed?"
"Aye." Ghost nods, top off, mask pulled off as he begins wiping the eyeblack off his face. "Couldn't refuse even if I wanted too. She was a vision, mate. Big belly, glowing cheeks, and..." He trails off, remembering how cute you'd been, standing at his door, heavily pregnant and hungry for that delicious meal that lured you into his home.
"Lt?"
Ghost grunts. "Kept feedin' 'er. Like a damn cat, she kept coming 'round." He mutters. "Was there when our daughter was born. She put my name on the birth certificate and I knew I wasn't letting 'er go." He says, opening his locker, pausing as he took in the photo taped to the back.
You and your little girl, only a few months old.
From behind him, Soap hums.
"Think if Ah make my mum's pie Ah'll get a pretty lassie too?"
18+
Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f! reader, neighbors to lovers, sex toys, masturbation(f & m), voyuerism(m), pervy Ghost, sexual fantasies, wet dreams, implied PIV sex
WC:1.7K
Summary: Your first real interaction with your neighbor takes place when Simon hands over an intimate parcel that was mistakenly delivered to his door.
Divider credit: @/cursed-carmine
He rips it open with the same brute callousness that he did with all his deliveries. Not because he's some goliath who can't help his own strength, but because Simon never ordered anything fragile enough to necessitate a gentle touch.
Thick ribbons of tape come away in high pitched screaming tears, a thin layer of fuzzy cardboard stuck firmly on the sticky side. They fall and curl into themselves on the floor, remaining there while he pulls the box open.
Staring down, the space between his brows pinch, eyes squinting at the contents with a blend of confusion and curiosity.
He'd been expecting a new gun holster to replace his worn out current one. Something black, sturdy and reliable. Not something Pink. Not something silicone. And definitely not something so...phallic.
He doesn't touch it, knowing damn well it wasn't meant for him as he inspects the delivery details on the label stuck to the side of the box.
Apartment 8A. Not 8B where he's resided for the past three years.
Simon Riley is not the kind of man to get embarrassed. He simply grunts his way through it, completely unfazed, you learn, when you go over to answer the doorbell when it rings. Finding him there darkening your doorstep was surprise enough, the man never having spoken more than a handful of words to you in the past.
Before you can inquire, in one large, scarred hand he holds out an unruly parcel, having not bothered to neaten it up even a bit before coming over to hand it to you.
"Yours", he informs you, short and blunt.
"Oh, thank y-UH", you gasp upon seeing the contents among the mess of used tape and soft packing materials.
You turn so tense and hot on the spot you can feel your pulse shoot up to your cheeks, beating hard and fast as your throat feels like it might shrivel like an autumn twig.
But before you can uselessly sputter something out, before you can attempt some desperate damage control, he's already turned away, his door closing in your face as you're left standing there. Still feeling the searing heat of embarrassment wash over your skin with a sizzle.
Why. Why, of all your packages, did he have to get the one that held your new vibrator?
****
The encounter, despite how short, still plays in your head like a reel that never runs out film.
You find yourself spending more and more time by your door after that, peeking out through the peephole, taking note of when Simon comes and goes. He's like clockwork that way. It's all you can do to avoid him, making sure you're never in the elevator or hallway when you know he'll be turning up soon.
The embarrassment had hardly let up. It's still strong in your body, determined to remain there, calcifying like bone. But somewhere inside the winding mess of veins, something much more quiet was coursing in your bloodstream too.
How could he have been so blasé about the whole thing? You didn't expect him to blush or anything cute like that. No. Not a man like Simon.
Maybe a little stammer in his tone? An uncomfortable cough? Even averting his gaze as he handed you back your new sex toy?
None of that had happened.
Instead, he'd looked you right in the eyes, unblinking. Lips set in an emotionless straight line. No awkward grimace tugging at the corner of his mouth where another scar trickles down to his jaw. No stiff posture. No twitch of his brows. Nothing.
The man couldn't have been more composed.
Why did that bother you so much?
He's a hard one to figure out.
And he's an even harder one to scrub from your mind, you learn next.
The first time Simon turned up in your dreams, you sprung up in bed in a damp sweat. You awoke just in time, shortly after you'd gotten to the part where you found him leaning against your doorframe, talking about a certain 'special package' he'd like to give you.
The whole thing was ripped right out of a cheesy, terribly cliched porno. There might as well have been one of those tired old funky baselines scoring the whole thing too. That bow chika wah wah sort of tune that'd pull a heavy sigh and an eyeroll out of anyone.
The sight of his hand squeezing the obscene hard on straining against his jeans as he smirked down at you lecherously was a shock to the system unlike anything you've ever experienced before. Like someone had managed to drop an electric eel down the back of your shirt when you weren't looking.
You didn't know how to react at first, body tangled in your damp sheets, breath coming out in short bursts. But then you found yourself sitting with this new feeling in the dark, cautiously getting to know it like holding your hand out to an unfamiliar dog to sniff. Getting to understand it so that it didn't surprise you so much anymore.
As imposing as the man is, Simon had never scared you in the past. In fact, you always felt a little safer knowing he was right next door. Someone so strong and intimidating, having man like him around was more than enough to keep any shifty little creeps from skulking your shared hallway.
In a way he was kind of like the human Cane Corso of the 8th floor.
A guard dog with a license to carry.
Dreams turned to daydreams and then back to dreams again. The next few times he turned up in your dreams, you weren't as quick to leap out of bed.
This time you didn't rocket out of your subconscious, making yourself comfortable instead. You let it all play out, watching the same hand he'd so crudely groped himself with travel up to the button of his jeans and popping it open. He uses two thick fingers to pinch the little zipper next, dragging it down so much slower than you could stand. Enough to make you want to jump to drag it down quick with your teeth.
You're not necessarily proud of how things progressed or the things you did in your dream. Even worse were the things you let him do to you.
But however far your wet dreams went, you always woke up wanting more. Enough to rid you of the shame you carried with you after your latest interaction, finally turning over in your damp panties to yank open your drawer to use your new vibrator as you had originally intended.
The buzzing pink head against your clit carried you so effortlessly to your orgasm, legs spread, knees bent, heels sinking into your mattress. Nothing but the sound of your little whimpers and the gentle flapping of your sheer white curtains in the early morning breeze in your room.
And when it was over, chest heaving and your eyes stuck to the ceiling, you wondered with a kind of determination that almost felt solid and hot to the touch — how the fuck were you going to get him in your bed for real?
****
No more dreams. No more daydreaming.
Three gentle knocks tap against Simon's door, alerting him to go find out who exactly is coming to visit him at this time of night.
He doesn't bother leaning down to check through the peep hole first, pulling open his door to find you standing there with your fluffy house slippers soft on your feet, a tiny pair of sleep shorts tight around your hips and a black tank top. No bra by the looks of it when he's able to make out the shape of your hard nipples perking up under the thin material.
"I'm so sorry to bother you so late", you start, looking all kinds of apologetic with your fidgeting fingers restlessly clasped together down by your belly button. So worried that you probably don't even realize how that makes your tits look when the insides of your upper arms push them together, deepening your cleavage over the neckline of your tank top.
"It's just that I woke up needing a glass of water and found the sink's on the fritz. I saw the light still on from under your door and...I wouldn't have come over if it wasn't urgent. I think I need someone to, uh. Um. Check out my pipes".
interesting way to phrase it he thinks, catching the suggestive little inflection of your tone.
"You seem like you'd know your way around those. Could I trouble you for some help?".
And in the second before he responds with a curt 'sure' that makes your eyes light up, Simon thinks to himself,
Fucking finally.
He'd waited five hours for you to come knocking on his door. Five whole hours since he'd been watching you through the scope of his rifle. No rounds in the cartridge.
The rooftop of the neighboring building that looked over your apartment windows had been freezing that evening though not nearly enough to make Simon tear his keen eye away from the sight of you using a wrench to bust up one of the pipes under your kitchen sink.
He'd gone up there like every other night since he first decided he'd like to see you make use of the vibrator that'd mistakenly left at his door. Hoping to see you pull down your panties to place the rounded tip of the toy on your clit and pull up your baggy t-shirt to play with your pretty tits again. Even better was the way he could read his name on your lips, over and over and over again. Those flimsy, sheer curtains of yours were a godsend.
The perfect sight that had him unzipping his pants right there, swollen cock in hand, slow strokes turning to quick, jerky pumps. Cute little thing like you. He needed to watch you break in that new toy, he knew it the second he'd set eyes on it after tearing open that box. There was no other way around it.
Camping up there became his routine every evening, creaming out load after load and wishing he didn't need to be so wasteful. How he wanted to shoot it all into your hot, tight walls instead.
Well now here you were, leading him into your apartment, hips swaying not entirely subtly as he watches the way your ass moves in those shorts.
ohh that makes sense! thats fine nikto is hot too<3 maybe we could get a normal nikto relationship hcs too lol (i love sunshine and her story but the end of that intruder scene with gaz was hot)
this, i can do. fluff ahoy!
there's something liberating about being in the forest. all the social expectations are gone, melted away when telephone poles are well and truly out of sight. Out here he can take his mask off and let his skin breathe for a moment. Nobody will gasp or stare or ask questions, least of all his little fish.
she isn't actually very little, he will admit, but that's what makes her so fun. he likes that when she wriggles underneath him, eyes rolling back and toes curling, he can dig his fingers into big, soft arms and hips to hold her still. judging by the little squeak she makes when he does it, he'd say she likes it too.
she traipses alongside him through the woods, stepping over logs and occasionally snapping twigs underfoot as she swings the wicker picnic basket in her hand. every now and again she looks over at him and smiles, and he can feel in his heart that she means it. she's the only person he's ever met who seems to see through the scars, the missing chunks of flesh and the horrible burns. it's almost like she sees the face of the man he used to be. he can barely remember that face now. it's been a good many years since his thin nose was unbroken, since his high cheekbones were unscarred.
they reach the clearing after about 20 minutes of walking, the trees swaying in the breeze around them. they've reached that sweet spot at the end of summer, when the leaves are golden but there isn't snow yet. it will come soon enough, and spoil any future picnic plans until late spring. nikto unpacks the quilt he'd stored in his bag and spreads it out on the ground with a flourish. his fish laughs softly at that, which coaxes a smile out of him in return. this is why she's his woman, this feedback loop of joy that she provides. her happiness brings him happiness, and his happiness seemingly does the same for her. never in a million years did he think he'd have this. he knows he doesn't deserve it, but that's fine. life is not about deserving.
nikto watches his sweetheart sit on the quilt, and relishes in how sitting down makes her ass and thighs look even bigger somehow. it's delicious, really, how soft she is. she's just so perfectly wife-shaped, he's seen her put those big hips to work balancing laundry baskets and firewood. he's watched those sturdy, thick thighs help hold a goat's head still long enough to give it medicine. she's built for this life, out there on his little farm. he couldn't have found a better spouse even if he'd built them himself. nikto is not a religious man by any means, but he does find his wife's existence to be a compelling argument for the case of a loving god being real. she's supposed to be made in his image, after all, yes?
she gently unloads the food across the blanket, putting the jar of her home made pickles right in his lap with a knowing smile. they're his favorite, and there is a permanent spot on their kitchen counter for a large jar of cucumbers setting in brine. opening the lid gives off a very satisfying pop, and he fishes around in the jar with his fingers, moving bits of dill and garlic out of the way.
"this was a good idea." nikto tells her before he bites into a pickle, which earns him one of her beautiful shy grins. He doesn't know why she's still so bashful around him, it's not like he doesn't know she loves him. as if she doesn't already have his ring on her finger.
"i was surprised you agreed to it. i thought you might think it was silly." she admits as she forks a piece of mannik.
"silly? what's silly about taking my pretty fish out to somewhere beautiful? somewhere i can feed her cake and kiss her with my face uncovered?" he asks as he leans over to kiss her round, smiling cheek. she doesn't say anything to that, just smiles at him as she leans against his side and takes a pickle out of the jar he's holding.
he likes how comfortable their silence is. there's a lot he can't say, due to the nature of his work, but she's never seemed to mind. she doesn't need his secrets, just his love. easy enough, he can give her that. he thinks about his own parents, the constant screaming and fighting. this is the opposite of that, thank god. like any couple, they've hit a few bumps in the road, but she always came to him with open-palmed honesty and a driving desire to fix what was broken instead of just throwing a dish at the wall like his mother would have. it's nice to have a home where all the plates match and the problems are solved by talking them out on the couch.
he's almost ready to think about heading back when the sky makes the decision for him, quickly pushing a raincloud over their picnic as it starts to rain. nikto looks up at the dark cloud and for a moment he's sad for his little fish, she'd been planning this since before he'd last been deployed, and nikto can't help but feel like it's cruel of the sky to ruin her fun like this. he helps her pack the food away, tucking the last of the leftovers as she picks up the quilt and throws it over the both of them, a makeshift cloak from the rain. to his surprise, she's smiling, almost laughing as she wraps her arm around his waist and holds him close.
"good timing, i was getting a little stiff sitting on the ground anyways. let's go home?" she asks. nikto can't help but smile back at her, such unrelenting happiness she has! not even rain on her picnic will keep his happy little wife from beaming at him, her eyes full of love. he can't help but crowd her up against the nearest tree, fully wrapping the blanket around them both as he kisses her and slides his hand over her ass, relishing in the giggles she makes as he starts to lift her skirt. if she doesn't mind the rain, then neither does he.
i fucked up my back, got put on strong meds, and my brain horked up stalker gaz noticing that the object of his obsession is seriously hurting and in need of some care
goddammit, your fucking back is killing you today. it's like an invisible hand is simultaneously squeezing a knot in your muscles and holding a knife to your spine. being upright isn't an option, and the only thing that seems to be of any help is lying on the floor for hours on end as you keep yourself entertained with a podcast marathon as you try to bear through the pain. you're not entirely sure what you did, but it must be a sprain or slipped disc or some shit because christ on a bicycle, moving around sucks. lying on the floor doesn't feel particularly great, but it beats being upright for the moment. bed is too far away, too high up off the ground to even dream of crawling onto, so you'll have to content yourself with some floor time, you suppose.
after your fifth or sixth episode of 99% invisible, your phone interrupts roman mars even and melodic voice midsentence to ring. it's an unknown number, having apparently defeated your do not disturb mode by calling repeatedly.
"so you're alive." a man's voice says. he's english, by the sounds of it, and while you don't recognize his voice at all, you can pick up the teasing smile in his tone.
"uh, can i help you?" there's that good ol' customer service training rearing it's head when you're confused and in pain. polite and helpful, even in times of distress. your old manager would be so proud.
"you can tell me why you've been lying on the floor in your flat for five consecutive hours, to start." the man says far too casually for your liking. the blood in your veins freezes as you come to the startling realization that this stranger with the unknown number can see you.
"who is this?" you ask, voice shaking. please be a prank, please be a prank, you have too much shit going on right now to deal with something as heinous as a stalker.
"me? why, i'm your guardian angel, babes. now, again, tell me why you're on the floor?" you think you hear the distinctive sound of an apple being bitten into on his end of the line. oh, fuck, 'guardian angel' is absolutely code for stalker. god fucking dammit.
"stop peeking in my windows or i'm calling the police." you warn, turning your head to look out the open window and the voice laughs. your building is right across the alley from another one, your only view being about nine or so windows belonging to neighbors. a few of them are open, it's hard to tell which one he might be calling from. fuck, if only you could stand and shut the curtains.
"do it. call the police. hell, call anyone. try it." he goads before the call disconnects. you stare at the screen a moment before you dial a memorized number.
"your mum?!" the man's voice mocks as the call connects. "i tell you to phone the police, and instead you call your mum?!"
"what the fuck?" you breathe, staring at your phone. the display has her number, her smiling face from her contact photo beaming at you from your screen. and yet. it's not her voice that's laughing through the speakers, but the stranger's. horrified tears well up in your eyes as you glance back over to the window. fuck this guy, this creep. you can't do a whole lot, but you can keep him from looking at you. moving hurts, but you're nothing if not spiteful.
slowly, carefully, you roll to your belly and crawl towards the couch. you'll be out of sight from the window if you move there. without lifting your body too much, you pull yourself by your elbows and knees sideways like a fat crab, feeling the burn of rough carpet on your stomach as your shirt rides up.
"what are you doing? stop that." the man snaps, sounding a little on-edge. "don't go where i can't see you, babes."
you keep at it to spite him, very slowly hauling yourself across the floor with your phone in your hand. each movement makes your back scream in pain, but soon you'll be able to rest in privacy again, maybe shoot off a few s.o.s. texts, and that makes this temporary agony worth it in your mind.
"there's no point in you crawling behind the couch. still know you're there, laid out on the floor. you still haven't explained why you're there, by the way." the man says, but you don't answer him. you don't stop crawling, either. every inch is torture, getting closer and closer to cover.
"i said stop that. i told you, there's no point." he sounds truly, properly annoyed now. you must've been right, the window is his vantage point. you don't stop painfully dragging your body across the scratchy carpet until you're pressed right up against the legs of the couch, and smile at the annoyed sounding sigh over the phone.
"you shouldn't have done that." the man says, sounding exasperated. "i'll see you soon, babes."
the call disconnects, and you set to work.
>>help!! i hurt my back and can't get off the floor. a stranger has been looking through my window, i'm in a lot of pain and i really think i'm in danger.
the same message, copied and pasted, sent to everyone in your contacts list. you stare at your phone, waiting for a reply, but none come. twenty minutes pass by in terrifying silence before you hear the sound of footsteps outside, followed by the metallic scrape of a key in the lock of your front door. you shove your phone in your pocket, and can't help but hold your breath as you listen to him engage the locks from the inside and mess around by the door for a moment before measured footsteps get closer and closer to you.
when he finally appears, you blink hard to make sure you aren't seeing things. he's beautiful, with perfect skin and teeth and hair, the closest thing to a blemish being two parallel scars on his cheek. his dark eyes sweep over your figure as he approaches in sock feet. some delirious part of your mind thinks it's nice he bothered to take his shoes off before coming in.
"are you hurt? is that why you're still lying there? talk to me, babes." the man's brows furrow in concern as he looks down on you, lying prone on the ground.
"why do you have a key to my apartment?" you ask, bewildered and more than just a little panicked. beautiful or not, he's a strange man that's been peering in your windows and somehow has a copy of your key. this stranger is in your home, your sacred space, and you're in too much agony to get up off the floor to try to do something about it. your only option is to either wait for someone you texted to do something, or to try to use your phone again. if you don't time it just right, he'll likely take it from you, completely cutting you off from the world outside your apartment. best to wait for the perfect opportunity, when he's not paying attention.
"so i can take better care of you." he says easily, like the answer is obvious, tilting his head as he blatantly stares at your ass.
"fantastic job." you deadpan from the floor, eliciting a huff of laughter from the stranger. he strides up next to you, kneeling by your face and cupping his hand to the back of your neck with a little squeeze. a warning.
"don't get cheeky. now stop playing games and tell me what's happened." he says, voice lowering to a serious tone that startles you into compliance.
"i- i hurt my back." you explain. "i just can't get up."
"oh, babes, why didn't you tell me sooner? i can help." he coos, releasing your neck to pat your hair. this man is the definition of emotional whiplash.
"i don't even know who you are or why you're here." you say quietly, staring up at the stranger. that handsome face smiles warmly at you, and under any other circumstances, it would be soothing, calming, nice. big, warm hands come to a rest on your back, one on each side of your spine.
"i'm kyle, and i'm going to take care of you. now, look, i'm going to gently run my hands down your back, and you're going to tell me where the pain is, all right?" he asks, question clearly rhetorical as he begins without your permission. his fingers gently, slowly glide down your back, only pausing when you speak.
"there! that- that's where it hurts." you stammer when he touches the tender part of your back. it's all the way down, right above the cradle of your hips, a consistent, aching pain that turns sharp the second you try to move.
"oh, babes, how awful. is it all the way across, or just one side?" he asks as he gently applies pressure with his thumbs, and it becomes suddenly obvious to you that it's not as generalized a pain as you'd thought.
"my- my left side." you tell him, and kyle hums above you as he releases the pressure from your back and slides his palms to your ass, grabbing big handfuls and squeezing gently. "hey!"
"sorry, couldn't help it. you'd do the same if you were in my position. too pretty to resist, you know?" kyle says, not sounding sorry even a little bit. "i think it's muscle strain, best course of action is to relax, maybe get some meds. i'm thinking muscle relaxers and something strong for the inflammation."
"all i have is ibuprofen." you tell him, hoping you can maybe send him on an errand to give you enough time to properly dial the police.
"i don't know if that's going to fix this, babes. don't you worry, i'm going to take care of it." he pulls a phone out of his pocket and starts tapping away. when he finishes messing around on his phone, kyle lowers himself to the ground, lying on his side next to you, his smiling face next to yours. "god, you're even prettier up close."
he sounds breathless as his dark eyes roam your face, and he chuckles a little as he takes in your wide-eyed look of fear. you can't help but flinch a little from his touch as he cups your face, still afraid of what this strange man is going to do when you're at your most helpless. you're completely at his mercy, and thanks to the horrendous pain in your back, there's absolutely nothing you can do to defend yourself.
"easy, easy. it's all right. you're just fine. i promise i'm just here to look after you. i've been doing it this whole time, and you haven't seemed to mind yet." he says softly, his eyes flicking down to your lips as he bites at his own. "fuck, you really are just so pretty. can't believe you're right here in front of me."
he leans in, clearly intending on kissing you, but you don't allow him to, choosing to ask the question that's gnawing on your mind.
"wait, what do you mean you're 'been doing it this whole time'? what are you talking about?" you voice shakes as you try to shrink back away from him. in any other circumstance, the little laugh and bright smile that's being aimed at you would probably make you melt. but at the moment? knowing what you know? it chills you to your core.
"you think that it's a coincidence that you've never been hassled in this neighborhood? that all your neighbors have been broken into, but you've been left alone?" he teases, tapping his finger against the end of your nose. "everyone around here but you knows what's what. they know to leave me alone, not to fuck with me, and not to bother my girl."
memories of broken doors lining the hall you live on flash through your mind, neighbors avoiding eye contact with you, and all the times you've been approached by the cops for statements on violent muggings that took place in your area. if what he's saying is true, if he really can create a bubble of safety by throwing his reputation around, he's got to be significantly more dangerous than you'd even realized. that's why, when he leans in again and presses his lips to yours, you don't fight him at all.
he's gentle, thank fuck, but it's still unnerving to feel him smile and huff a small, pleased laugh against the sensitive skin of your lips. he hums contentedly as he presses small, chaste kisses against your mouth, tender and soft like a lover and not a... whatever he is. voyeur. skulker. stalker. all apt titles but still none of them seem to fully encapsulate whatever this man is to you.
tender kisses cease when there's a knock at the door, and kyle begrudgingly gets up to answer it like he owns the place.
"nik!" he says genially to whoevers at your door.
"my brother!" the man outside says, russian accent thick, coating his vowels and sharp consonants. you can hear the sounds of hands patting on backs. "i came as soon as i could, what is it you need?"
"prednisone, muscle relaxers, and a hand getting a body off the floor. my girl hurt her back and can't get into a proper bed." kyle says, tone a little too casual for your liking.
"probably strained something carrying all that ass around." the new stranger jokes, and kyle laughs along with him, bright and cheerful as anything. the alarms going off in your head get even louder. not only have you been stalked, but he's apparently talking about you to other people and calling you 'his girl'? oh, this is fucked. you're so fucked. you quickly throw a prayer to a god you haven't spoken to in years before the two of them traipse into view. kyle's companion is maybe one of the biggest men you've ever seen in your life, broad shouldered and tall, and you can't help but notice the black leather bag he's hanging onto.
"go grab a quilt or something, we can roll her onto it and carry her to bed together." nik says as he sets his bag down, and it makes your guts churn when you see kyle beeline for your bedroom. apparently, he knows where everything in your apartment is, and that makes you even more afraid. how long was he watching you? and for what purpose? you're a nobody, just some fat broad with a bad back and wide open windows. god, as soon as you find a way out of this mess, you're moving and never opening your shutters again.
"please help me, i don't actually know him, he just broke into my apartment-" you whisper urgently to the man next to you, who just huffs a laugh down at your pathetic figure on the floor by his feet.
"and aren't you lucky he did? what a beautiful world we live in that neighbors look out for one another like this." he teases down at you as kyle returns, blankets in hand.
"got the sturdiest ones i could find." he says as he lays them out next to you, one of top of the other. nik squats by your head, and you scrunch your eyes closed in anticipation of pain. they're going to move you, and it's going to hurt.
"i'll grab her shoulders, you move her hips. if we time this right we can do this quick." nik says, broad hands sliding under your shoulders.
"no, no, no, don't- do not- please, just leave me-" you beg, bracing for the pain you know will come when they inevitably ignore you. all at once big hands on your shoulders and hip shove you onto your side, pain blooming into a large, twisted cramp that makes you cry out and gasp. they keep going, keep shoving at you until you're on your back in the middle of the blanket, tears rolling down the sides of your face and getting lost in your hair as you gasp and grit your teeth.
"it's all right, babes. hard part's done. good girl, staying still for us." kyle soothes as you sniffle and cry from the pain. "nik, grab those corners, yeah?"
"lift with your knees, or you're going to be just as hurt as your girl." nik instructs, and with a simultaneous grunt, the two of them lift you via your quilts and quickly move you down the hallway, setting you carefully down on your bed. you're not light by any means, and a sick sense of satisfaction wells up inside of you as you watch both men shake their hands out, clearly having had to grip the blanket very very tightly in order not to drop you.
"thanks, nik." kyle says over your body. "would've been a lot harder to get her into bed on my own."
"of course, of course. one moment, while i get your medicines." nik says, strolling back to the living room.
"how you feeling, babes? that better?" kyle coos down at you, perching himself on the edge of your bed and brushing imaginary hairs off of your face.
"i don't understand what you want from me." you whisper, voice shaking. kyle can't reply before nik comes traipsing back to the room.
"here." nik interrupts, holding out two pill bottles and a piece of plastic that looks like a large syringe without a needle. "should be enough for a week. follow the instructions on the labels, and if she isn't feeling better in seven days, let me know."
"will do. thanks." kyle says, taking the pills and plastic tube, standing to give nik a back-slapping hug.
"anytime." nik says, suddenly turning his attention on you. "feel better soon, i'm sure your nurse will take excellent care of you."
"thank you." the words slip out of your mouth on their own. you'd rather tell him to fuck off, or better yet, ignore him, but it's that old customer service reflex. damn that deeply ingrained politeness. both men smile broadly at you before sharing a look that you can't quite decipher.
"i like a well mannered girl. maybe that won't be necessary after all." nik says, sounding amused as he nods to the plastic device in kyle's hand.
"we'll see. take care, nik." kyle says, and nik seems to take the hint that he's no longer needed here.
"let me know if you need anything else. i'm always available if you need another pair of hands." nik says with a flirtatious wink and a wave of his hand. you and kyle stare at each other in silence as you both listen to nik leaving out the front door. kyle slides back into place next to you on the bed, eye contact unwavering, tucking himself in against your side.
"i was hoping to do this all differently, you know. had it all planned out, too. was going to bump into you at that coffee place you like so much, flirt a little, give you my number. try to give you a cute story to tell our kids." he coos, rubbing a thumb against your cheek as your eyes widen. "but i couldn't just leave you like this, knew something was wrong when you didn't move for five hours. you poor thing, you really need me, don't you?"
"i don't-" kyle cuts you off with a tut.
"yes, you do. you'd still be on the floor if not for me, and you know it. probably wouldn't even properly take care of yourself and make it even worse. speaking of proper care- say 'ahh'." kyle pops open the two pill bottles, putting three white pills in his palm. you press your lips together firmly, your mouth a tight, straight line. no way. no fucking way. kyle sighs, and it sounds annoyed.
"stubborn girl, let me help you. look here-" he says, holding up a bottle. "it says 'take one to two tablets as needed for pain or muscle spasms'. that's what you've got. and this one here is just a steroid that will help with inflammation. see? says right there. no tricks. just trying to make you better, honest."
"please stop." you whisper, eyes welling with tears again. you know the game he's playing- those muscle relaxers will knock you out, and he'll be able to do anything he likes. you won't be able to defend yourself at all. "just stop. i- i won't tell anyone. please."
"oh, babes. you're okay, everything's all right. you're just a bit spooked is all." he leans his forehead against yours, cupping your opposite cheek to keep you in place. "i know, it's scary having to admit you need some help taking care of yourself. but you're independent to a fault, you know? probably how you got into this mess in the first place. now, come on. take your meds. we can talk more when you're less cranky about the pain."
he holds the pills in the palm of his hand, fingers curled like he's prepared for you to swat at them. you lock your jaw and shake your head, and he sucks his teeth. the grip on the side of your face lets go for a moment as he leans back a bit.
"you can do this the easy way or the hard way. easy way, i give you some water and you take them willingly. hard way, i shove them in this little device that's used for giving feral cats medication, and you take them dry while i force all three of them down your throat." he says coldly, waggling the plastic tube at you. "what will it be?"
"water, please." you say quietly, defeated. there's one more trick up your sleeve- or, rather, in your pocket- and waiting for the perfect opportunity to deploy it feels like the only thing keeping you together right now. kyle hands you the pills, and fishes the water bottle that he shouldn't know about from out of your nightstand. the wink he gives you in exchange for your horrified expression does nothing to ease the terror of knowing he's definitely been here before. you could have chalked up knowing where to find blankets as a fluke, but there's no doubt about it now. he's been in your home, possibly many, many times.
you swallow the pills, chasing them with room temperature water, afterwards allowing kyle to shove his fingers in your mouth to make sure they're truly gone. his fingers investigate under your tongue, around your gums, under your lips, and once he realizes that you did truly take the pills, starts exploring more leisurely. he runs his fingers gently over your teeth, petting your tongue, and eventually pushing back as far as he can into your mouth before you gag.
"good girl, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he coos, pulling himself even more tightly against your side. you can feel how hard he is through his jeans as he presses against your hip, fingers leaving your mouth so that one big hand can turn your face enough so he can kiss you hungrily. it's hard not to lose your breath at how well he kisses, the way he sucks at your lip and tongue making you gasp a little, granting him the access he needs to explore your mouth a little more. you lose yourself in it a little, giving in just a bit to allow yourself to feel something nice after hours of only feeling terrible and scared. it's easy to give in, the way he seems to worship you with his mouth.
besides, you reason to yourself, what are you gonna do? fight him off?
it isn't until that big, warm palm slides from your cheek to your neck, from your neck to your shoulder, and from your shoulder all the way to your tit that you start to panic. kyle kneads at your breast, attempting to play with your nipples through your shirt and bra, squeezing your chest and groaning into your mouth. things are slowly escalating, and there's no doubt in your mind that you'll probably be more hurt as an end result.
"please, please wear a condom, please, kyle-" you sob when he grinds his cock against the plush fat of your thigh, and he shushes you, wiping your tears with his thumb.
"shh, now. you're all right. i know you're too hurt to take my cock right now, and besides, i've got a busy night ahead of me. you're going to need a full-time caretaker, only natural your boyfriend move in to do it, isn't it?" he says, smiling gently at you, ignoring the fresh wave of tears rolling down your cheeks. "but don't worry, babes. i've got a little bit of time before i should head out, i can make you feel good for a bit."
that warm palm slides down the soft, rounded hills and valleys of your body, sliding under your jeans and into your panties, fingers wriggling to make space between the fat of your thighs and the tight cotton.
"come on, spread your legs a bit. let me give you this." kyle says breathlessly, bridge of his nose pressing to your temple as he gently kisses your cheek. against your better judgement, you comply, allowing him to trace his fingers between your folds as much as he can within the cramped confines of your jeans and underwear. kyle finds your clit in no time, and starts experimenting with different techniques to get you off.
those beautiful dark eyes devour ever expression you make, like he's determined to figure you out, like this is the last piece of the puzzle for him to solve before he can finally claim his prize. when he nails it, making you gasp and grab his arm as your eyes roll back, the smile on his face is nothing short of victorious.
"that's it. come on, cum for me. needy little pussy, bet she'd like some fingers stuffed in her too, huh?" his voice rumbles low in your ear, making you shiver as you feel his breath on your skin.
"please, please- ah! ow!" you start to beg before you wince. in your pre-orgasm haze, you'd bucked your hips, aggravating your back pain a bit, sending pain shooting through you and erasing all pleasure instantly. kyle makes a sympathetic noice.
"poor babygirl, let me help. get these off." he instructs, tugging at the waistband of your jeans with the wet hand he retracts from between your legs. gingerly, achily, you manage to wriggle both your jeans and panties to mid thigh when kyle finishes the job and yanks them down, impatiently pulling them off of one ankle and not even bothering with the other, leaving them dangling as he pushes your knees apart and settles between your legs.
"fuck me, just look at you. not a hard edge to you, huh babes? all soft and warm, and just waiting for me." he says in an almost awestruck tone, settling in to kiss gently at your thighs for a few moments before he hunkers down and gets to work, throwing a solid arm over your hips.
he finds your clit immediately, peppering it with kisses like it's a long-lost lover, slowly incorporating strokes of his tongue that make you feel absolutely soaked. hot damn, he really knows what he's doing.
kyle shoves two fingers inside without any warning, fingers crooked and dragging against your walls, making your eyes roll back as he eats your pussy with relish. he's practically making out with it, sucking and licking and humming contentedly against it while he fingerfucks you, the lewd sounds echoing in your small bedroom.
your hips start to buck against him, but you find that he's got you pinned in place with the forearm pressed over your hips. you're firmly planted to the mattress as your legs start to shake and your breaths get shallow, eyes rolling back as his fingers repeatedly nail a spot inside of you that makes you see stars.
"kyle, i'm- i'm-" you stammer, breathlessly, and he just hums in acknowledgement, keeping his pace while you fall apart against his lips and on his fingers, keening as you try to keep your back from arching as you tumble over the edge. for the briefest of moments, a white hot flash of pleasure flashes within you like a meteorite burning in the atmosphere, bright and beautiful, before fading back to the the constant aching pain in your back.
dark brown eyes watch you carefully as you orgasm, lips and fingers retreating from your cunt as soon as you come back down from your momentary, glorious high. two wet fingers hover in front of your lips.
"suck." he commands breathlessly, and you don't think twice about complying. the wires haven't totally crossed in your brain, you're still going to try to get help at your first opportunity, but for now you'll play nice with the man who made you cum while making sure you didn't hurt yourself.
you taste sweet and tangy on his fingers, making sure to run your tongue over the pads and suck gently. his pleased hum as he retracts his cleaned fingers feels like a terrible loss and a wonderful victory all at once. when he leans in and kisses you, that same flavor on his tongue, you try not to think about how softly he kisses, how nice those full lips feel against yours.
"that's it. my good girl, i knew you would be. just needed to warm up to me is all, is that it?" he teases softly, bumping the side of his nose against yours before he repositions himself, tucking back against your side, head resting on your shoulder. when you don't reply, he huffs out a small laugh. "those muscle relaxers kicking in, babes?"
they aren't, really. but now you feel your opportunity to escape quickly approaching. you're pretty sure you'll have to sit up to get the phone out of the jeans pocket, but if you can bear through the pain, you're home free. you nod your head, blinking slowly before closing your eyes and trying to look as dozy and relaxed as you can.
kyle rests next to you for a while, and only leaves once he's convinced you're asleep. he's quiet as a mouse, slipping out of bed without a word, his footsteps growing fainter as he wanders down the hallway. slowly, you crack one eye open, feeling a rush of relief when you realize he's shut the door behind himself.
slowly, you try pulling your leg back so you can reach the jeans that are dangling from your ankle, biting back your groans of pain as you work hard to avoid having to sit up. you can only reach so far this way, and with a deep breath and the count of three, you creakily move to a seated position. the nerves in your back scream, a horrible, silent chorus of agony as your fingers make purchase on the edge of denim and yank. flopping back onto the mattress, you fish your phone out of your pocket. you stop and listen, holding your breath so that nothing can cover the sound of a curious intruder approaching the bedroom. -six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen... ok, he's not coming. there's no movement that you can hear, he must be out to grab his stuff.
the press of a few buttons wakes your phone and checks your messages. absolutely none. concerning, but not enough to stop you from dialing the police. you cup your hand over your mouth to direct your whispers into the speaker as you wait impatiently for the dispatch to pick up. the phone rings once, twice, and then connects.
"go to sleep, babes." kyles voice says, the sound in your ear layered with the slightly muffled voice just outside your door, and you can't help the startled sob that escapes you as you feel the drugs in your system finally start to dig their claws into your consciousness, dragging you down into the blackness of a heavily medicated slumber.
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."
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.
"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"
You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."
"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.
"More curious than anything."
She hums, unconvinced but listening.
"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."
"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.
"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."
Her eyes soften at that, just a little.
"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.
You pause, then shrug.
"Not really. New place. New sounds."
You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."
She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."
"Mom—"
"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."
"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeah—but not in a scary way."
There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."
Her gaze sharpens immediately.
"About?"
"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."
"That doesn't make you uneasy?"
You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.
She doesn't look convinced.
"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back
"A ride?" she repeats.
You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.
"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, truly”
She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."
"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."
She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.
"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."
You nod.
"I will."
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
You're not sure when it became a routine.
At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.
Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.
You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.
"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.
You did it again the next morning.
And the one after that.
Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.
Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.
"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.
You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.
By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.
Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.
And maybe it did—except some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.
No freezers. No crates. Nothing.
You noticed it once.
Twice.
Then you stopped looking.
It was true what everyone said about him—he was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.
He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.
On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.
But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.
It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.
Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"
You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare you—it made the softness feel deliberate.
It was.... pleasant.
Comforting even.
Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.
"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.
"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.
They nod toward the window.
Outside, the red truck waits.
"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.
the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.
"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.
"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.
"Don't know what you mean," he hums.
You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."
He glances over for half a second. "Different?"
"Mmhm." You nod.
He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.
"Have you eaten?"
You click your tongue.
"No."
The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.
This wasn't part of the routine.
You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.
"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"
You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.
You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.
It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.
He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.
And you do.
When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.
You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.
Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.
"Stay," he says—low and firm by the door.
"Simon—he doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.
Shadow listens anyway.
Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.
Not just heat—the kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.
Yours doesn't try to hide you.
There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.
It smells like you.
Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.
His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.
The kitchen's small. He isn't.
He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.
You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.
This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.
The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.
You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.
"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.
"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"
"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.
He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.
You lean back against the counter, watching.
The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.
It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.
You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.
"That smells amazing," you beam.
He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.
He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.
You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.
He stares at you—openly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.
"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.
You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."
It slips out softer than you mean it.
For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.
"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.
"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.
"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."
You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.
Between the shop and... everything else."
"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."
That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,
"Don't like going into town much."
You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."
You meant it as a joke-only half truth.
He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.
The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.
Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about it—grass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.
The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.
You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.
You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.
Every area except one.
You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.
The closer you got, the clearer it became.
Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.
The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.
You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.
For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.
Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.
You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.
"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.
All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.
"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."
Today, though?
Today, you wanted that angle.
Simon be damned.
You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.
You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.
You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.
You looked like a lost bunny.
The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.
He paused what he was doing and just stared.
You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.
Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.
Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.
Then you showed up.
He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmth—your laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.
And yet.
You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.
He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.
By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.
Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.
You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.
He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.
"Can I help you."
You startled—not badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.
You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.
Your pulse jumped—he could see it—but you held his gaze anyway.
"Just….. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."
He meant it.
Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.
"I didn't walk in, though, did I."
Silence settled between you —thick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.
He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.
He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.
He stayed like that—half-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.
The contrast caught you off guard.
He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.
Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.
Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.
This—this—was the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yes—but framed by something gentle. Something alive.
The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.
"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.
"Now?"
"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.
Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.
"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.
"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.
"Fine,” he said. "I'll do it."
You stopped short and turned back to him.
"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"
He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.
You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.
The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift out—wood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.
He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.
You looked at him properly then.
The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.
You noticed things you hadn't before.
The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.
He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.
You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.
Brutal. Masculine.
Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.
"You alright, bunny?" he asked.
You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.
"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.
As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.
You were about to apologize when he spoke.
"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."
You blinked-then laughed again.
"Can I?" you asked again.
This time, he stayed still.
You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.
The contrast—him and the delicate bloom resting there—felt almost cinematic.
"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.
"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.
"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.
He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.
"Because you look like one."
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head—but you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.
You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.
Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.
"You got a boyfriend?"
Your hand stilled mid-line.
"Why the sudden question?"
"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."
You laughed at that.
"No," you said. "I don't."
He hummed in acknowledgement.
Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.
"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"
"Mmm. Couple years."
You click your tongue.
"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."
He shrugged.
"You can allow whatever you want."
You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The sounds around you settle into something easy— the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.
He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.
"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"
You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.
"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."
"People included?"
"Especially people," you admit.
He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like this—not in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.
"You any good?" he asks.
You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."
"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."
You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.
You go back to drawing.
Time slips by without either of you noticing.
The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.
Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.
"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.
"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."
You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.
"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.
The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.
You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.
"I think that's enough," you say softly.
Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.
You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.
You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.
"Here."
He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.
That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.
Then, quietly, "You see a lot."
"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.
He nods once.
"Thank you," he says.
The words hang steady.
"Of course!" You smile softly.
The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."
"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.
"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.
"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.
Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.
His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.
A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.
The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.
You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small things—a loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.
Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.
Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.
A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.
He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coats—or leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.
"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.
You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.
"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"
you reply plainly—ignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.
He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's close—close enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.
His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.
"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.
You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.
"I can handle a little cold," you tease.
You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.
Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.
It's one of those nights.
The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.
You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.
But moments like this don't let you.
They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.
It makes your cunt ache.
Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.
You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.
You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.
The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.
Fuck.
Your left hand drifts down without thinking—first over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.
Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.
You picture his hands on you—large, rough—teasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.
You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.
You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.
His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.
Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.
Your thighs squeeze together.
You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.
Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.
A moan slips free.
"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.
Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?
Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.
The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.
"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourself—naked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.
"Si-"
Boom.
The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.
You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.
"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.
Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.
"Y/N!"
The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.
You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.
You don't stop to think—just move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.
The power's out.
When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.
"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"
“I—yeah” you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power just…went out."
"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."
"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"
"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.
This place isn't insulated well enough for it."
You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentials—your charger, a hoodie, shoes—moving through your space with unsettling familiarity.
"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."
"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."
You don't argue after that.
The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.
Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.
When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.
You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.
He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.
The warmth hits you immediately.
The house smells like him—burnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.
And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.
It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing there—framed, dusted, given a place—feels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.
"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."
"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."
The words hit harder than they should.
Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."
"I would never," he says, without hesitation.
Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.
"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.
You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.
Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.
"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"
He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"
"Keep it around for storms." He adds
You blink. "Of course you do."
He almost smiles.
The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.
"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."
He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.
"You don't have to—"
"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."
You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."
"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.
You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this before—like this is normal.
"You're quiet," he says after a while.
"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"
He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.
"No," he says. "Just noticing."
You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.
"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.
And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.
"Tea's good for you,"
The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.
The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.
"You're shaking," he says softly.
"I'm not," you lie automatically.
He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.
"Come here," he murmurs.
It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.
You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.
This is new for the both of you.
Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.
His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.
You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "I— I need a second."
He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.
You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.
The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.
You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.
"You don't have to run," he says gently.
You glance over your shoulder—and that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.
The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.
He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.
Your hand comes up on instinct—flat against his chest.
He stops immediately.
"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.
His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.
"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."
A beat passes.
Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.
"It's not," he says.
His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.
His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.
You don't.
The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.
His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.
You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.
"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you again—rougher now.
Hungrier.
As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomach—until it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.
"Fuck, bunny—you're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.
He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.
You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.
"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.
"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.
"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.
His expression doesn't change.
"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.
"Oh my….. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.
Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.
"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."
Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.
You can't imagine what you must look like right now.
You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourself—messy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.
The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.
"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.
His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.
Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.
He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skin—soft words, grounding words—until your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.
"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.
Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.
"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.
"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."
His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.
No pictures. Exactly what you expected.
He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.
"Like what you see?" he teases.
"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.
His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.
The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.
Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on you—his warmth. You need it.
"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."
Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.
His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.
Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.
You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.
"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.
He inhales deeply.
You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.
His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.
"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.
"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.
"Need you."
Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.
"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."
You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.
True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bites—taking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.
Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.
"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.
"Please."
He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.
You instinctively try to close your legs, face burning— but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.
"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.
"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.
He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.
His tongue slips out, presses flat against you—covering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.
The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.
You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth—warm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.
He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.
He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rush—just works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.
Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.
You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.
He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.
One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.
"Oh my god, Simon—"
They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.
Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.
"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."
It hits you in waves—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.
The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.
He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.
"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.
"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.
Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.
It's huge.
So thick it barely holds itself upright.
Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-
Would this even fit inside you?
But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.
Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your still—sensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.
The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.
You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.
"You think you can take it, bunny?"
Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.
"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.
Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.
He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precum—then taps it there. Hard.
"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.
"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."
For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.
"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediately—too full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.
No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.
"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.
His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.
Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.
"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.
Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.
He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and out—whines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.
Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.
"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."
You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.
He looks nothing like you feel.
He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.
Then warmth—unexpected.
You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.
"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.
You almost wish you hadn't.
It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywher—high, deep, overwhelming.
He hasn't looked away once.
"Almost in, baby," he tells you.
Then he stops. All the way in.
You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this full—like there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.
Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.
Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.
Letting the shock fade.
"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.
You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.
When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.
Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.
He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.
You're growing desperate. All the pent—up tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.
You want him. So bad.
"You can be rougher-ah,"
"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."
His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.
"I do!" you say breathless.
You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.
And you don't want him to.
"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.
His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward again—harder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.
"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.
Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.
Something flips inside him.
He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.
All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.
Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.
You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.
"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."
The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.
With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.
"Simiiimon-ah—ah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.
"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' good一fuck.”
He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.
You don't hear him.
You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.
The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.
"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."
You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.
He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.
"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"
"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasure—coming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.
"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissed—out face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.
Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.
"You're-ah-being—mean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.
The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.
Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.
"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.
It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.
You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.
As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.
"Ah—" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.
"Bend over."
His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.
"C'mon, bunny," he says, slapping your ass impatiently. "Bend over."
"M'gonna breed this fuckin' cunt," he mutters.
His hands grip your waist, putting you exactly where he wants you—on your knees, tits pressed into the bed, ass up just like he's imagined too many times before.
And you. You're just a cock-drunk, drooling mess. You can't even form words. Just cries and whines spilling out of you.
Music to his ears.
Fuel to his aching cock.
He positions himself behind you, a heavy hand coming down on your ass. The sharp sound echoes through the room, followed by your broken cry.
"Sii-"
His thrusts are messy—messier than before.
Desperate. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you harder, deeper. You chant his name like it's the only word you know.
Your body starts to betray you first. Your legs tremble, knees threatening to give out as the rhythm stutters, breaks, turns reckless. You can't keep up anymore—can't tell where one movement ends and the next begins. Every nerve feels lit, stretched thin, buzzing too loud inside your skin. Your breath comes apart in your chest, sharp little gasps you can't control, like your body already knows what's coming before your mind does.
You're right there—so close it hurts. The need swells until it feels unbearable, like pressure behind your ribs, behind your eyes. Your grip tightens, fingers clawing uselessly at his pillow.
"Fuuuuck, baby!" he nearly yells, hips snapping animalistically, your whole body jolting with every thrust.
"Fuckfuckfuck-" you scream, loud and unfiltered, grateful there aren't neighbors close enough to hear.
The pressure builds again-and just before you can release, he pulls out.
You sob at the emptiness, looking back at him. "No! — please.
He smirks, gripping his cock, a white ring of your slick at the base before he leans down, spreading your ass. Both holes are on display. You can't stop him even if you wanted to.
He spits directly on your asshole before burying his tongue there, licking and slurping like a man starved.
From your clit to your ass, messy and obscene. His hand pumps his cock as he eats you, smacking and pinching your ass, tongue pushing deep enough to make you cry into the pillow.
"Please—want your cock, Simon," you beg, pushing back into his mouth without thinking.
“Yeah, baby,” he mocks, voice pitched higher. “You want this fat cock in your tummy?”
His fist tangles in your hair, jerking your head back until your neck strains, eyes lifting to meet him looming over you.
"Yes, please," your voice is horsed, neck straining with veins popping out. Chin wet and you're panting like a dog.
It made Simons cock impossibly harder.
He sinks into you again-no pause, no waiting. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you without restraint, the bed squeaking so loud you're sure it'll break. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair harder, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch.
"This is what you wanted huh baby," he pants, hips never faltering, yet they get sloppy. His end is nearing.
He knows it by the way his balls tighten. Still dripping a sticky mess of both of you.
Then everything disappears.
Your vision blurs as you cum all over his cock again—no warning, no buildup.
You don't even know how many orgasms you've had.
This last one knocks you out completely.
You collapse onto the bed when he finally lets go, lying there motionless, drool slipping from your mouth as he uses your body for his pleasure.
"Fuck, bunny," he laughs. "Came so fast."
He doesn't give you time to recover.
He hauls you back up onto your hands and knees, positioning himself at the edge of the bed-your face level with his throbbing cock. Every twitch sends a bead of precum sliding down the angry red tip, already mixed with your cum.
"Make me cum, bunny."
"Wha-?" you mumble, still coming down from your high, vision spotting as you look up at him.
"C'mon, bunny," he groans. "You can't just leave me high and dry."
His hand comes down to grip his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your mouth waters instantly.
And then his earlier words echo in your head.
M'gonna breed you.
You whine softly and reach up, nudging his hands away so you can replace them with yours. You shuffle forward on your knees, settling in as you lean closer, both hands moving slowly up and down his shaft.
You tilt your head, staring up at him as you muster the best face you can manage, cheek brushing against the warm weight of him. You love the sounds he's making—ragged moans as he loses control.
"Want it inside," you beg.
Simon's eye twitches.
His breathing turns rough, uneven, gaze hardening as they lock onto you. For a split second, you almost wonder if you've crossed a line.
His grip snaps tight in your hair, the burn sharp enough to steal your breath. You barely have time to yelp before he's shoving his cock into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat hard.
It's sudden. Too sudden.
You choke, gagging around him as he thrusts shallow and rough, spit bubbling at your lips and dripping down onto him.
Your head rocks back and forth as you grip his thighs to steady yourself, fingers digging in.
His grip doesn't falter, using it as leverage to drive you deeper. It's brutal. Too much. The sounds you're making would make you blush under any other circumstance.
Your throat burns, gag reflex overwhelmed as you choke around him, fluids spilling from your mouth every time he pushes deeper. Your cunt gushes as he uses your throat for his own pleasure.
"Yeeeeah gimmie that—gurg, gurg—baby."
He grips the base—what you can't fully take-along with his balls, forcing it down. Your eyes widen as you physically feel the stretch of your throat around him.
You tap at his thighs hard and fast, panic spiking just before he finally releases you.
You pull back immediately, coughing, gagging as phlegm spills from your mouth. Your face is a complete mess when he grips your hair again, jerking himself fast and hard. His expression twists with pleasure and desperation, lips caught between his teeth.
Your hand slips down between your legs, rubbing at yourself as he works his cock over your face.
"M'close," he breathes, chest red and heaving, focus razor-sharp.
"Fuuuck, bunny."
Before you can say anything, you feel it—sticky ropes splashing across your face, catching in your hair, your lashes, your brows, your lips. Everywhere. It lasts longer than you expect, enough to leave you stunned.
He grips the tip, giving a final stroke before tapping your cheek and pulling away.
You look up at him as he backs off, dragging your fingers through the mess on your face and bringing them to your mouth, licking them clean.
"Don't do this to me, bunny," he groans.
You giggle softly, the sound weak and breathless, before collapsing back onto the bed. The exhaustion finally catching up on you. Every muscle feels loose, heavy, like your body forgot how to work all at once.
The mattress dips as he moves closer again, slower now.
"Easy," he murmurs, hand settling at your side to keep you from rolling awkwardly. He grabs something off the nightstand—a cloth, a shirt, whatever's closest—and gently wipes at your face, patient, thorough.
Your eyes flutter half-closed as he works, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing finally evening out. The tension from before disappearing and turning into something soft, and peaceful.
"There you go," he says softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers there for a second longer than necessary.
You hum in response, too spent to form real words.
He shifts again, sliding into the bed beside you and tugging the covers up around you, making sure you're warm. When he settles beside you, he pulls you in without asking, arm firm and grounding around your shoulders.
You melt into him easily.
For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, your head on his chest, his breathing steady beneath your ear. His hand traces slow, absent lines along your arm.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
You nod against him, eyes closed. "M'good,"
His arm tightens just a little.
"Good."
You smile to yourself, fingers drifting over the scars and dips along his chest. "Thought you said you were gonna breed me," you joke softly.
He lets out a low laugh, warm and deep, the sound vibrating through you.
"That was heat talk, bunny," he says easily. His hand slides to your waist, fingers trailing along your stretch marks.
You tilt your head, listening.
"When i do cum in your pretty pussy," he pauses, other hand reaching to drag a finger along your cheek. "It's gonna be for a reason.
He doesn't carry around an edge-worn, beloved photo of you slipped into the space behind his vest as if it were the idea of you waiting at home for him that would stop a bullet, not the kevlar. He has nothing of you he can hold when the nights get too dark and the gun steel gets too cold.
Simon Riley has no background on either his work phone or his personal phone, just a black screen. Not of your smile, your precious face. Your number isn't even saved. He has it memorized and any call or text logs with you will only show a string of numbers, not your initials, your name, an ambiguous emoji, or a one word moniker that carries more truth than you would ever believe: angel.
Simon Riley reads the notes you leave for him over and over again until the divots in the paper where your pen pressure carved lightly into the fibers are also present in his mind. He runs his thoughts over them like his thumb over the ink. Every note you write him is burned, held over his lighter until your words are nothing but smoke.
Because when he's in the field, he's responsible for the safety of his team, the mission, and you. The only way he can do that is by keeping you as far away from Ghost as he can. Because Ghost and the rest of the 141 carry a target on their back always. And if the ones with their sights on that target ever aim true then they will only get him.
Simon Riley has no pictures of you, no tokens of you, no evidence that you even exist.
Simon Riley who instead keeps every memory and reminder of you in a place in his heart he's convinced is what keeps it beating. Somewhere where no blade or bullet can reach. They can string him up, carve him to the bone, cut out that cold organ from his chest and they still wouldn't be able to get you.
Simon Riley carries nothing of you that someone else can take.
So, just heard of this thing called "alpine divorce"... It's this phenomenon where men go hiking with their wife/gf/date but keep to their own pace and leave the woman behind (who is usually inexperienced with hiking), apparently with no care for the poor woman's safety.
So imagine--you have this whole meet-cute thingy with someone like Soap or Gaz, he's gorgeous, steals your heart with his pretty eyes and pretty smile, and when he asks you out and proposes a hike, you are more than willing to give it a shot. A bit shallow of you, sure, you wouldn't accept it had it been any other guy, but he says it's just a trail near the parking lot of your local grocery chain. Your common sense hasn't completely exited, so you share your location with a friend.
The date's going fairly well, a bit taxing on you given how much time you spend hunching over a screen all day at work, but things could be worse. He's making all the right moves, smiles and jokes and hearty laughs, but then something in him seems to switch when he says he wants to catch the sunset at the top of the mountain, and marches right on ahead at an astonishing speed you can't hope to match. You attempt to speedwalk regardless, but it's hard with all the undergrowth and your knock-off hiking boots aren't holding up well. Panic squeezes your heart and throat, but you try your best to yell at the guy to slow down--to no avail. Within these few moments he appears to have seemingly vanished off the face of the earth.
Before you can help it, tears are already pooling in your eyes as you shakily pull out your phone, only for your heart to lurch when you see you have no signal. Looks like the trail was much further out than you were told. It's going to be evening soon, and you debate between staying on the spot and risking encounters with whatever wildlife lurked out here in hopes of running into your (hopefully worried bastard) date, or attempting to retrace your steps back to civilisation. Your sense of direction was rubbish already, and your full on panic isn't exactly helping on top of that.
After a few terrifying seconds as darkness slowly starts encroaching around you, you decide you'd rather take the chance of finding your way back over becoming bear chum by staying around. Start recording on your phone just in case you do end up dying out here for your friends and family to find. As you go about blinking between tears and giving a short verbal recount of everything that transpired so far, paused with plenty of hiccups, your eyes land on something that nearly has you falling to your knees in sheer relief and gratitude. It's another human! It's a man, a frankly big, intimidating guy, but your saviour nonetheless. You rush over to him and he cocks his head as he takes in your tears and snot and blubbered help mes and thank yous.
Tells you with a crooked grin, of course lovie, sure I'll help ya.
What you of course don't know is the fact that Simon/John has been a part of your date the whole time.
Took a bit of teamwork but it should make it that much easier to take his new wifey back to his log cabin to start their marital life. Got to thank his mate for this one.
all your life, you'd been convinced that the world would end with a bang, like a world war or a meteor hitting earth. you hadn't expected the sudden geomagnetic storms, shutting down all power and throwing the world into a chaotic, frozen future. those with the financial means to run towards the equator did so, leaving the rest of the world to freeze or starve.
when the world went to icy shit, you'd stayed home as long as you could, duct taping the edges of your windows and doors to keep the cold air from leaking in. it was tolerable for a few days, even with the power out. you did what you could, layering clothes and burning your scented candles, creating a makeshift fireplace in your stove as you burnt trash for warmth and held a rag over your nose to keep from breathing in the smoke. all of that, in hindsight, was extremely short-sighted. temporary measures fit for a temporary problem. when it became clear in a few weeks that this was it, that the constant storms meant that the world would never go back to how it was, you started making real plans.
step one was amassing more supplies. most folks in your small town had tried to run south, loading up toboggans and hoping for mercy at the border. the vast majority of houses, businesses, and apartments emptied. it's strange to see the town you love like this- covered in a thick layer of snow and ice, windows boarded up or broken, your favorite mom and pop businesses with signs in the window reading "save yourselves- take what you need" and "goodbye, good luck, and godspeed". you'd pulled your little makeshift sled down main street, loading up on all the canned goods you could carry and stockpiling for as long as you could. you checked inside if houses, restaurants, and the grocery store, grabbing everything of use and pointedly ignoring the frozen, emaciated bodies you ran across. opting to pick through their belongings with heavy guilt settled into your belly like a lead weight.
you can't help but feel a sort of strange gratitude for your thick, wide build. you're fairly certain that the extra insulation of fat around your internal organs has saved you a dozen times over, and you start to feel a sort of kinship with polar bears as you make your weekly treks around town to scavenge for food, kindling, and blankets. it's sort of liberating, being alone out here and not having to worry about whether fellow survivors watch your food intake like a hawk. you're allowed to be fat and happy, free of any guilt or shame about the shape of your body. your focus is less aesthetic and more utility now, and god is it paying off to be fat.
months have gone by, and pretty soon two things are made abundantly clear: you are the only living person left in town, and the scavenging opportunities are are drying up. if you want to keep living, you're going to have to pack up and move to somewhere new. there's another small town, maybe 25 miles or so south that you think might be your best bet, and you get to work packing your belongings onto the sled. everything's put into plastic bags, strapped together with packing tape and rope, with five days worth of food. you layer up all of your clothes, wearing everything you own, your spare boots tied together by the laces and thrown over your shoulder. as you trudge to the edge of town, you can't help but stop and look back. this place you called home has nothing but ice and death for you now, and as much as you wish you could, you cannot stay. you say your goodbye to the place you loved silently as you approach the sign welcoming visitors to your town. knocking the ice and snow off of it, you pull out a spray can and write the words THERE IS NOTHING LEFT over the words 'welcome to dolly's landing'.
the trudge south is slow, but you manage it within a day. you're sweaty and tired, legs sore from constant use and having to trudge over slick ice patches and through deep snow. nothing seems to have fallen off of your sled, thank fuck, and the first house at the edge of town seems suitably abandoned. it doesn't take much to get inside, nobody ever bothers to lock windows out in the sticks anyways. you gracelessly tumble inside and assess the interior. it's small, which makes heating it easier, and the open, bare cabinets tell you that probably no one is coming back here for a supply run. you close the window and your aching legs make one last push as you stumble your way to an overstuffed couch, collapsing on it's luxurious softness as sleep takes you into her arms immediately.
in the morning, a gentle shake to your shoulder wakes you. there's a man towering above you, snow and ice clinging to his thick beard, wearing a very professional looking white camo snowsuit. you can't help but jump and gasp a little at the realization that you've been caught unawares by a stranger. his grip on your shoulder doesn't relent, hanging onto you as if his life depends on it.
"easy, sweetheart. didn't mean to startle." he says, deep voice practically purring as he looks you up and down with smiling blue eyes. shit, you should've hidden your sled full of supplies, but exhaustion had overridden reason. you could kick yourself for it now. a desperate scan around the room behind him doesn't indicate anyone else is with the two of you.
"i- i didn't mean to intrude, i'll just leave, i don't want any troub-" you stammer, voice creaking from disuse.
"there's no trouble, sweetheart. none at all." the large man cuts you off before swinging a leg over the width of your hips, settling his weight on top of you. oh no. oh no oh fuck oh no. tears spring to your eyes, blurring the face of the man looming above you as you try to wriggle out from under him.
"easy, i said. you're all right, nobody's hurtin' you." the large man coos as he leans down over you, his body weight pinning you down by your hips. "haven't seen a new person in a good long while. where have you been hidin', eh?"
"north. i- there was nothing left up there to eat, i thought i'd try my luck at charlie lake, but i can just go. this is your spot, i won't make trouble, i'll just move on." you croak as he pulls his glove off with his teeth and begins to strokes his fingers along the side of your face.
"nobody's askin' you to do that. prefer if you stayed, truth be told." a small smile creases the corners of his eyes. "let me take you and that little sled of yours over to mine. get you properly warmed up."
it doesn't take a genius to figure out what he's after, not with the way he's talking to you and staring like a hungry predator. frankly, as startled as you are having this strange man sat on top of you, so long as he doesn't get violent or try to steal your supplies, you're not too tremendously upset, just startled. having a hot guy on your hips is more than fine, your only hesitation is the unknown factors about this man. for all you know, he's a cannibal or gets off on stabbing or something. until you get a better feel for who he is, your guard is well and truly up. still, no point in arguing with a man like this, especially when he's got the upper hand. best to placate him for now and think of methods of escape when you're not pinned underneath him.
"ok." you whisper hoarsely through chapped, cracking lips, and the man beams at you. he presses his cold nose against your temple, the coarse hair of his beard scratching your cheek.
"i'm sorry, sweetheart, i know i should be a gentleman and give you some space, but it's been a long bloody time since i've seen a pretty face." he murmurs as he nudges his nose against the shell of your ear. "come with me to mine, yeah? i've got plenty to eat and a proper fireplace, you and me could have a nice time together." he lowers his voice, and his next words make you shiver; "we don't have to be alone anymore, sweetheart."
the offer of food, warmth, and company- especially with the unspoken promise of getting laid- is too good to pass up. after solid months of struggling, rationing, and fighting to stay alive, it's hard to be too averse to the idea of no longer having to fight in exchange for being this large man's plaything. besides, you've been so goddamned lonely with no one to talk to. you hadn't really realized how badly you needed another person's companionship until this guy made you see how desperate you are to have someone, anyone, keep you company.
"should i bring my supplies?" you ask quietly, and it earns you a pleased hum and a kiss to the apple of your cheek.
"the sled out back? i'll pull it, sweetheart. come on," he says with a grunt as he gets up and off of you, holding his hand out for you to take. "let's get a move on, my compass is spinning like a top, so i imagine another storm is on the way."
his name is john, he tells you on the way into town. he's retired british military, moved to canada a few years back to try to find some peace and quiet in the woods. he hasn't seen anyone alive in the five months since the world froze over, not until he came back to town after an unsuccessful hunt and found your tracks in the snow.
"got excited, seeing signs of life that wasn't deer or a moose. or mine. couldn't help but follow your sled's tracks to the house, could i?" he chuckles. "and then there you were, like sleeping beauty, all bundled up and laid out on that old sofa, lookin' like a fairy tale."
"what are you still doing here? why didn't you leave when the power went out like everyone else?" you ask, changing the topic in a fit of self-consciousness. you're still a little meek in his presence, especially now that you can see the big gun strapped to his back.
"figured i was prepared enough, didn't need to take the risk of travelling on foot on the open road." he shrugs. "besides, initially i thought we were just having a cold snap. canada, you know? thought it'd blow over."
you can't help but laugh at that, fog leaking through the scarves wrapped around your mouth, and even through his snow goggles and thick gaiter over his nose, you can see john beaming at you.
"what about you?" he asks.
"i was planning to go with a group, but, uh. they went ahead without me." you say simply, glossing over the pain of abandonment. it had hurt, to realize too late that your so-called friends had skipped town the second they could without bothering to so much as check in on you. mercifully, john doesn't comment on it, and the two of you walk in silence for a while, with him dragging the sled by the rope firmly in one hand and your lower back under the other. he's always looking over at you every few paces, like he keeps needing to double check that you're real. it's funny, there's nothing really to look at. you're covered head to toe, nothing exposed to the bitter cold. you're just a round blob of polyester with a puffball toque on.
suddenly you see it, a dark purple, frostbitten corpse in the snow, naked as the day he was born, lying supine in the snow. you stop dead in your tracks, and john follows your line of sight before snorting out a small laugh.
"don't you worry about that poor sod, been gone months now. when i first saw him he smelled of cheap lager, i think he was trying to make snow angels in negative thirty degree weather. come along, sweetheart, not much further now." john urges gently with a pat on your ass.
"did you know him?" you ask as you continue onward, eyes still glued to the lifeless, frost-blackened body.
"only met him a few times. didn't care for him much if i'm honest. austrian transplant, moved here the year after i did and raised a ruckus by falling head over heels for the sheriff's wife, despite her complete disinterest." john shakes his head. "amazed it was the cold that got him and not kate. if it had been my wife he'd been chasing, it wouldn't be the cold that got him."
you don't respond to that, or the following pat to your backside as you continue to trudge down the road. you've got a decision to make, and soon. you're not a stupid person, you know what john wants from you, what he's expecting of you. under normal circumstances, if you'd woken up to a strange man on top of you who insists you go home with him, you'd try to get out of this somehow, to stammer out your apologies and make a break for it. as it is, you've been completely alone for months. you hadn't heard another human voice since the needle on mrs. man-goughs record player went dull. there's been no one to talk to, touch, or even look at in ages, just you and your reflection in the bathroom mirror. john is a little intense, but you can't help but feel the same sort of clawing desperation to not be left alone again. as you continue to plod down the road, you come to a decision: you'll stick with john until he does something that makes you not want to stick with him anymore. simple as that. something inside of you needs his companionship as much as he needs yours, and, frankly, the idea of getting laid again really does appeal. lately you've been too exhausted and cold to try to take care of those particular needs, and the idea of being warm, fed, and well-fucked really isn't a terrible one.
it's obvious upon arrival which house is john's. it's on the far southern edge of town, the only house with covered windows and a bare roof that's clearly had the snow shoveled off of it. shit, you hadn't even thought to do that, there was just so much more on your mind. clearly john is more than competent enough to survive this, it's not a wonder why he (reasonably) thought he could take his chances in this frozen hellscape.
john leads you to the door, the two of you unloading what little possessions you have into his kitchen. he praises you the entire time you unpack, how resourceful you are, how smart you are to put everything in bags, how well prepared you were to make a real go of it in this new town. you tamp down the strange feeling that bubbles up inside of you as he automatically puts your supplies away in his cabinets and drawers. it feels like your independence is being stripped away, like you're already being absorbed into his life completely, losing your individualism as you become his.
"you've got me feeling all sorts of selfish, sweetheart. you would have done well on your own, i think, but i don't want you to be on your own. i want you to be with me, here." he shrugs, not even a little embarrassed by his sudden proclamation as he shelves another tin of peaches.
all you can do is blink at him as a thought strikes you. he must think all this padding is just layers of clothes, huh? you can't help but get a little fidgety at the thought of how mad he's probably going to be once you're able to get down to a comfortable layer and he sees that the width of your hips isn't solely due to layer upon layer of snow pants. will he be afraid that you'll eat more then your share? will he throw you out? will he at least let you gather your things first before he does? he must see your hesitation, the gears turning in your mind, because he cocks his head and gently pulls you into his arms. maybe it's the loneliness, maybe it's how handsome he is, or maybe it's because he looks at you like you're personally responsible for hanging the stars in the sky, but you step into his embrace.
"i know i'm bein' pushy, but i can't help it. it's been a long bloody time since i've seen anyone else, and i'm not keen on being alone again when there's a pretty girl to talk to." john says, gently tugging at the scarves you've wrapped over your face. it's still cold in the house, but probably not negative considering the insulation and the protection from wind, so you allow him to uncover your face, removing your goggles and layered toques.
"there she is. hello." john grins as you shake your greasy hair out. you just huff out a laugh.
"hello, john." you giggle, watching him lick his lips while staring at yours. "you gonna show me around?"
"yes, of course, this way." john tours you through the little two-bedroom, his hand on your lower back the entire time. it's cozy enough, although it doesn't look particularly lived-in. there's no photos anywhere, no art or posters either. a real bachelor pad. when he leads you to the living room, you nearly laugh out loud. there's a king sized mattress on the floor in front of the fireplace, and it's absolutely covered in furs. it looks like the setup of a really cheesy old porno or something.
"wow. that's a lot of pelts." you blurt out, earning you a little squeeze on your hip and a pleased sounding chuckle.
"thank you. hunting's been surprisingly good, but i suppose i'll have to give it a rest for a while and do my best to forage around town for canned goods if i want that to continue." he looks over to you. "that's how you've been getting along, isn't it? scavenging through houses? you'll have to teach me your secrets."
"open every cabinet and drawer. lesson over." you say honestly, and john throws his head back and laughs, fog erupting from his mouth into the cold air of the living room.
"duly noted. now you make yourself comfortable, i'll fetch some firewood so we can make some tea. be right back." john says with another fond pat to your ass, which just makes you roll your eyes and huff out a laugh. john just shrugs and smiles like 'sorry sweetheart, i can't resist' as he strides out into the hallway, the sound of a door opening and closing not far behind.
you settle in on the mattress, running a hand over the furs. shit, he must be a good hunter. he wasn't wrong to try taking his chances out here, he definitely has the skills to do it. between the two of you, you can probably stay here for a good while before you're forced to make another move.
john's back in no time, getting the fire going quickly and and kicking off his boots. his white camouflage snowsuit peels away to expose a broad chest and soft belly in a compression shirt and shorts. you try not to stare at his very obvious erection, but good fucking lord. it almost looks like he's trying to smuggle a white claw in those shorts. when you finally peel your eyes away, john is just smirking at you, his face illuminated by the fire that's coming to life in front of you. he scoots in close, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead that's so abrupt it almost startles you.
"you've been strugglin' for so long, haven't you? stayin' alive all this time must've been hard work." he presses a kiss to your cheek. "stay with me, and i'll look after you. i'll keep you fed and sheltered, just stay with me and keep my bed warm. sound all right to you?"
"just your bed?" you tease, and he chuckles as he leans in to kiss your lips, hand gently resting on the back of your head. his lips are soft somehow, and all you can think as he deepens the kiss is that you hope he'll share whatever chapstick reserves he's got.
clever hands make light work of the buttons and zippers on your various layers as he licks into your mouth and sucks at your lip, peeling you out of them in almost no time at all. the fire continues to blaze behind you, and for the first time in a long time, you're actually warm enough that you don't mind stripping down to a t-shirt and your panties. when john pulls out of the kiss to get a good look at you, you can feel your heart stop, waiting for a wrinkled nose of disgust or the look of disappointment on his face. you watch him sweep his eyes over you, taking in every soft, round bit of you, before he tilts his head back and looks up to the ceiling.
"this is the best day of my life." john mumbles towards heaven, and you can't help but be dumbfounded. there's no way you heard that right.
"what." it's not a question. you have no idea what the fuck he's talking about.
"i thought i'd never get the chance to play with a big soft girl ever again. thought maybe that sweet round face might just be a fluke, that the rest of it was just layers of clothes. fuck, i've never been so happy to be wrong." john says as he slides his hand over your hip, and around to under the back of your shirt, bringing himself in close again as he fiddles with your bra strap until it comes undone.
"a soft girl like you needs lookin' after, and i'm going to be the man who does it. i'll take such good care of you, sweetheart, i swear it. let me show you." his forehead is pressed to yours, he sounds a little breathless, and you can see in the light that his pupils are blown.
"please, john." you whisper against his lips, less than one full second before he pounces. your teeth click together as he suddenly pushes you onto your back , rucking up your shirt and loose bra until you take the hint and help him pull it off entirely. between the heat of the fireplace and the furs under your bare skin, it's the first time in a long time that having exposed skin hasn't been actively uncomfortable, and thank fucking god. the idea of fucking with snowsuits on really, really does not appeal. you bite your lip as you watch him pull his shirt off, showing off thick, dense chest hair that trails all the way down his soft stomach. he's built like a bear, strong muscles under a good layer of fat for protection. you want to put your mouth on every inch of him.
"knickers off, sweetheart. let me see you." john says as he grabs the sides of your panties and yanks them off. all you can do is raise your hips to help him work them down over your ankles as he tosses them into the dark abyss of the rest of the living room where the firelight doesn't reach. you spread your legs, holding your soft, squishy thighs apart and grimacing at how you must look after months of not shaving. at least your pussy will never catch frostbite. john groans as he crawls between your legs.
"promise i'll pet her and kiss her nice later, i will, i swear it, but i need that pretty pussy wrapped around my cock right. bloody. now." he wastes no time at all pulling himself out of his shorts, giving it a few quick strokes, rolling the foreskin back a bit as he lines up and pushes in. fucking hell, it's been a while since anything but a tampon has been up there, the stretch pulls a moan out of the core of you as he pushes in in in, deeper and deeper until you can feel the thick patch of hair around your pussy meet with the dense hair around his cock. john stares down at you, expression awestruck as he takes in the soft hills and valleys of your shape underneath him in the warm firelight.
"please, john, please-" you start to beg, even though you're not sure what you're specifically begging for. it's overwhelming being stared at by someone so broad-shouldered and handsome. he groans a little as he lowers himself to rest on his forearms, getting as close to you as possible as he kisses and sucks at the tender skin of your throat as he starts to move. fuck, he's not being gentle but that's honestly more than fine. his pace is frenzied and animalistic right out the fucking gate. it doesn't take more than a dozen thrusts or so before he wraps his arms across your back, holding you tightly against his chest as he roughly snaps his hips while pinning you in place, your legs limply bouncing around him in the air.
"good girl, good fuckin' girl, takin' my cock so nice. you feel so good under me, sweetheart. been dreamin' of a softie like you, haven't i? never thought i'd get another shot at one. luckiest man in the world, me." he pants against your cheek, his beard bristling against your skin. all you can do is cant your hips, trying to meet his thrusts, grinding your clit against him as your brain slowly leaks out of your ears. you haven't been fucked stupid in a long time, and the way john's putting his back into it like a desperate animal, it's pretty clear to you that neither of you is going to last long.
never in your life have you felt more like the wild creatures that roam around outside and howl in the dark. your brain has been reduced to it's basest levels, chasing pleasure mindlessly, uncaring of what sounds or expressions you make as you claw at john's back. he, similarly, growls and nips at the curve of your shoulder, panting loudly as the sounds of the fireplace and skin slapping against skin fill the room. there's no reason to be quiet, nobody anywhere near who could possibly object to the noise, so when your eyes roll back and your thighs shake, you don't hold back the scream that pours out of your mouth. it's wild, uncouth, and as sexy as the sound of a barn owl's call. you'd worry about the sound of it would put john off if he didn't instantly double his pace, sitting up and digging his fingers into the plushness of your hips as your tits and belly bounce rhythmically. he's so close, you can tell by the frantic desperation in his pace and the snarl on his lips. he just needs a little push, and you're pretty sure you know exactly what to do.
you wrap your legs around him, trying to hook your feet together around his back as you clench down around his cock. he curses, low and sharp, face buried in your neck, as he goes rigid before collapsing on top of you with a grunt. you can feel the pulse of his cock as he floods your pussy, and you wrap your arms around john's neck and kiss his sweaty temple, petting at his hair.
"best bloody day of my life." john sighs against your skin as he reaches blindly behind himself, grabbing a large shaggy fur and pulling it over the both of you. it isn't long until you hear soft snoring start up, and you can't help but chuckle as you watch the fire continue to burn and try not to think too hard about anything in particular. for once in a good long while you are safe, with someone who isn't willing to abandon you, seems elated that you're a big girl, and has promised to help provide for you. god, pooling resources with him alone is going to make life so much better, not to mention the sex on tap. it's so much more than you ever could have hoped for just a day ago. hell, it's more than you could have hoped for before the world went to shit. damn, this might actually work out okay. you might actually be okay now, safe with john for however long he'll keep you.
this post includes: soap, ghost, gaz, price, graves, konig & alejandro
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soap 🧼- the one that takes his time
now, this ain't soap's first time using a fleshlight. he started with a tenga egg or something like that, just for the sake of trying something that wasn't his hand. and i just know that troughout the years he has created a decently sized collection with a lot of varietiy: fleshlights imitating pussies, asses, mouths,... even if a man like him could easily pull a pretty lass to fuck, with the job he has and what it requires of him, it isn't always ideal.
but there is one thing that soap does, no matter weather he's fucking one of his partners or a plastic replica: he takes his time. stroking himself tentatively before lubing his dick up and loweing the fleshlight onto his hard on until he's balls deep. and when i say he fucks it as if it were a real person i mean it. he's fucking int in diferent positions, jerking himself with it but also fucking into it, both slow and fast until cums all over himself
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ghost 👻- the stretcher
ghost sometimes has to ask himself if he's really that big and thick or if it's just that the one or two fleslights he owns are way too fucking small. he doesn't know, but he very much loves it. there is something about the size difference, the way the plastic stretches to fit him and how he can perfecly see it expanding as he pushes his dick deeper into it that makes him go feral.
now, other than his size kink goin brrr, he finds himself swiping his cock against the flesglight's pussy-like entrance, as if he were teasing a real cunt, before fucking himself slowly into it. he's mersmerized by the plastic doll completely swallowing up his aching hard dick until he's balls deep. he also intends to pull out - just to save himself some clean up - but he finds himself so overwhelmed by the feeling and visuals that he just fill the fleshlight up with his potent cum - more than once, at that -.
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gaz 🧢- mess making perpetrator
this may be my most repeated gaz headcanon but he's a mess maker and there is no deniying. when he get's home from a mission or something like that and he doesn't feel like trying to find a partner to fuck, he always has a trusty fleshlight. the thing is, he doesn't even make it to the bedroom most of the time, deciding to just fuck it in his livingroom.
he just plunged deeply into the plastic pussy, stretching the plastic over his limit because his dick is too long for the small fleshlight, almos breking it. the pent up hornyness and the feeling of something other than his hand wrapped around his dick sending him into an orgasm faster than he expected. he pulls out to first his impossibly hard cock when he feels himself about to cum. and he stains the sofa with it as the mess perpetrator that he is - and let me tell you, it ain't the first time he's had to clean his seed out of that sofa.
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price 🚬- the first timer
price is an older and more traditional man, he would rather fuck another person than some piece of plastic. but he keps hearing his men talk about fleshlights, how good they feel,.. and all that combined with the fact that he ain't getting younger, he's extra tired and trying to find a partner with a job like his is tedious, he decides to get himself a fleshlight just to try it out of curiotisty.
what he did not expect was that god forsaken piece of plastic would feel that fucking good. all it took was some slow deep strokes into it before he found himself cumming. and at that moment his lust filled brain took over and he started fucking himself into the fleshlight again, trying to extend the pleasure of the orgasm. let's say he now fully understands why his men praise them plastic holes.
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konig 🗡- the nasty fucker
lets be real, konig is fleshlight collector number 2. anxiety gets the best of him so he would rather to make do with some plastic pussy or ass than having to deal with the hassle of interacting with people. his not that experiended ass is fucking enamoured by the feeling of and ass or pussy, even if it isn't a real one.
now, konig allways finds himself doing two thing every time he uses one of his fleshlight. a. he moans. like a bitch in heat. he can't help it, it just feels overwhelingly good to have something wrapping tightly around his unexperienced cock. and the fact of finally getting some release. b. he makes messes - yup, mess making perpetrator no. 2 -. spit, precum, lube and cum mixing all together, covering his dick, hands and fleshlight as he fucks himself dumb and slaps his dick all over yhe plastic ass.
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graves 🪦 - the stressed
now, these military men always find themselves stressed out, it's a part of the job. but for graves, said job and the tension that it generates have kept him away for some time now from a real pussy or ass. so a fleshlight is a good alternative, giving him all that he needs to reach some much needed release.
the few occasions he has had enough time to indulge in some pleasure, he's going to make the most of it. alternating slow, sensual deep strokes and fast shallow ones. hands making sure that the fleshlight stays in place as he plunges into it chasing an orgasm and moanig at the sweet feeling of release. he for sure cums deep inside of the plastic masturbator, because it may be plastic, but he loves creampie-ing it the same way he would creampie a real person.
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alejandro 🤠 - the tip teaser
alejandro doesn't strike me as the type of person that would have a proper fleshlight, you know? instead of a piece of plastic that fully engulfs his dick he has one of those quickshot ones. a transparent one at that. it gives him a lot of options, from fully jerking his cock with it to just teasing his tip.
and oh does he love to tease his tip! using that comact masturbator to play with his angry red bulbous tip. pushing just the head in and out, sometimes tilting it to make his dick pop out of the fleshlihgwith a wet noise. and seeing his cock breach into the plastic, dick twitching at the feeling, his stomach spasming from the sensation... he always inevitably cums all over himself, staining his hard shaft, lower hairy stomach, thights and even the quilt.
i just know the cod men are nasty in bed. here’s some hc cause the brain rot was rottin’ today:
18+ feat: Ghost, Soap, Price, Gaz, Alejandro, Graves, Rudy, and König
Simon Ghost Riley:
quiet man who notices everything, sees every breath hitch and thigh trembling and coos at you for it, mask on degeneracy, possessive hands, “if you want me to stop, then say it, otherwise you’re mine for the night”, has a voice that makes you clench on instinct, says, “good girl,” and your soul leaves your body, will absolutely growl praise into your neck while fucking you through the mattress like it’s his sole mission in life, wants you to still feel his cock in your stomach long into his next deployment, doesn’t say much until you’re choking on his cock, lips touching the base, hands tied, tears leaking, and then suddenly it’s “tha’s it, sweetheart, takin’ all o’ me. Tha’ pretty mouth was made f’ this, wasn’t it?” this man will finger you until you’re a slobbering sopping mess
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:
golden retriever with a filthy fucking mouth, makes you laugh and sob during sex, teasing, he’ll crack a joke, then eat you out like a man starved while moaning like he’s the one being touched, absolutely has a thigh tattoo and asks you if wanna sit on it and mess it up for him, has a praise kink the size of the highlands, tell him he feels good and his pupils dilate, says the most depraved shit while still sounding like he’s telling a joke. “Christ, you’re drippin’ all over my face, Bonnie, gonna drown me down here, yeah? What a way to fuckin’ go.” ruts against you like he’s feral, kisses your stomach after and says “She’s a good girl, ain’t she?” but not to you, your pussy, carries you to the shower, still inside you, whispering praise like “Did so fuckin’ good for me, love, Didn’t know you could come like that.”
Captain John Price:
world weary dilf who could manhandle you through a war zone, deep growl in your ear, cigar smoke and calloused fingers, talks you through it, keeps telling you you’re “doing so good, love, just like that”, comfort fucking, calls you “darlin’” and “good girl” in that deep, syrupy voice while holding your chin so you can’t look away as his dick bullies into your sopping wet cunt, he’s too old to go fast but he’ll go deep and slow, absolutely has a breeding kink, his dick’s twitching just thinking about cumming in you and leaving you full, has absolutely bent you over a desk and cockwarmed you while he finished reading a report and you’re squirming desperate for friction, he’s so calm while rearranging your guts, and when you start crying, he smiles, presses a kiss to your forehead, and fucks you deeper, “Eyes on me. You can take it. I know you can. Be good f’me, luv.”
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:
whispered praise, slow build up, eye contact the entire time, attentive lover both physically and emotionally, oral fixation and will absolutely keep going even when you’re crying and pulling away, softly saying, “one more, sweetheart. you’ve got it in you.” will ruin you gently, one minute he’s between your legs, kissing you like you’re breakable, the next he’s got you on your stomach, back arched, begging for mercy, makes you ask for it “tell me where you want it. come on, don’t be shy, use your words.” makes eye contact the whole time, smiles when your voice breaks and you’re gasping through each thrust of his dick so deep you can feel it in your lungs, overstimulation king, gets off on the feeling of your slick dripping down his dick and thighs
Alejandro Vargas:
charismatic bastard, swore you wouldn’t fall for him but he flirts his way into your bed and between your legs, loves a sassy lover cause he likes you going from talking shit to moaning his name as he gets you cock drunk on him, you sass him once and next thing you know you’re up against the nearest wall with his thigh between your legs, his hand down your pants, and a “you want to run your mouth, hermosa? Do it while I make you scream”, making out the whole time so he can swallow your moans, filthy fucker who puts you in multiple positions just so he can reach deeper, “Tan hermosa, tan jodidamente perfecta… déjame verte romper.”, you’re not getting out of bed until that attitude is fucked right on up out of you
Phillip Graves:
smooth talker, calls you “darlin’” and “sugar” right before he ties you to a chair and blows your back out, southern drawl, “you’re mine” energy, dangerous in the most addicting way, you know you should say no but you never do, pulls your hair, bites your neck, marks you up, and then takes you out for dinner like he didn’t just make you see god with his cock, absolutely whispers praise like a threat, his drawl is so filthy it makes your bones ache, holds your wrists with one hand, bends you over a table, and says “Now darlin’, you made me real upset earlier… and I think it’s time we talk about consequences.” fucks you like it’s a performance, pulls your hair just to hear you yelp, groans low in your ear like “You gonna cry, sugar? Go on then. Cry for me. Let ‘em hear how sweet you sound when you break.”, probably definitely has fucked you in front of his Shadows especially when he coos and asks if you like them watching you take his cock deep in your sweet little cunt cause it’s fucking dripping, might even let them have a taste
Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra:
soft spoken man, smiling sweetly at your family, then rails you deeply with a quiet controlled force, will choke you out with his belt and then cook you dinner, “on your knees, mi cielo.” has the patience of a fucking saint, kisses you soft and fucks you hard, doesn’t even take all your clothes off, just pulls your panties aside like he’s opening a gift to himself and drags his dick hard and deep through your sopping wet cunt, likes it when you wear dresses and skirts so he can have you sit on his dick in front of the others with everyone none the wiser, poker face world champion, will ruin you in silence, “I want you to feel every inch of me. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”
König:
gentle giant to unhinged predator, size kink, flustered when you compliment him, foreplay lasts for hours, needs you all soft and pliant and dripping just to even get the tip in, whimpers when he slips inside, like it hurts to feel something that good, nothing but a fuck doll for him when he’s like this, “So tight. So small. So perfect. Mein gott… I’m going to ruin you.”, drags you back into bed when you crawl away after orgasming too many times, filthy mouth when he’s balls deep inside of you, “I should fill you up until I see it leak. Ja? Would you like that? Want to feel me dripping down your thighs, Liebling?” bites your skin, spits in your mouth, moans when you cry, grips your hips like they’re his lifeline, stretches you open with unbearable slowness on his absolutely monstrous cock and then watches your eyes roll back, you cry and he shudders, kisses your throat and whispers “Don’t cry, Maus. I’ll be gentle next time.”, both of you knowing he will not.
I learned Spanish in the American public education system and on Duolingo so I’m sorry if it’s wrong 😭
The rooftop is a heat haze of bodies and string lights. A band saunters through a cumbia that wobbles the margarita in your hand; the plaza below is all bright colors and traffic and laughter, wind pushing warm air up three floors to where you’re pressed into Alejandro’s chest.
“Mi vida,” he murmurs, mouth to your temple, the burr of his voice a private bassline under the music. “Tell me what you want.”
You’ve been answering with your hips for the last two songs. He knows anyway. His shirt is open at the throat, sleeves rolled, forearms golden and strong; he smells like vetiver and lime.
You tip your chin to him, smiling like a dare. “You.”
The corner of his mouth slides up, wolfish and proud. “Here?” He glances over your shoulder at the crowd of servers wheeling past with trays, couples kissing in the shadows of potted palms, a cluster of suits arguing softly by the glass balustrade. “Qué mala.”
“Teach me manners,” you say, and roll your hips to his thigh.
He does the cruelest thing first: nothing. Just stands there and takes the rub of you, the soft gasp you can’t help when his pulse grinds along your clit through thin fabric. His hands stay respectable on your waist while he leans down and says, “Open your knees a little more.” When you do, he drops one hand to your lower back, the other to your inner thigh, and slots you neatly against his leg. “Así. Breathe.”
You feel yourself go, heat turning to wet, wet turning to want. He feels it too. Fingers skim the hem of your dress, push in. The cover of a passing waiter hides his hand as he drags his knuckles up the inside of your thigh and stops at the hinge of warmth.
“Already,” he says, pleased, filthy. “Look what you do to me, hermosa. Look what I do to you.”
“Alej- ” Your voice breaks when two fingers ease your panties aside and stroke you, slow, patient, mean.
“Eyes on me.” He kisses your cheek like you’re discussing weekend plans and, under the table, slides one finger inside. Your breath jumps. Conversation swirls around you, ice clinks, “¡salud!”, the brush of someone’s jacket at your elbow, and Alejandro’s fingertip crooks and finds exactly what he wants. Your whole body bows like he pulled wire.
“Quietecita,” he murmurs, a smile you feel rather than see. “You want to be good, sí?”
You nod, shaky. He rewards you with a lazy circle on your clit, covered by the clatter of a dropped fork. The world blurs. You grab his wrist to keep your legs from liquefying.
“Look over there,” he says, voice velvet over iron. He turns you with a pressure at your hip so your back meets the waist high railing and the city drops away behind you in glittering lines. “All those people.” His finger presses; you swallow a sound. “They have no idea how pretty you look right now.”
Your hand fumbles for the glass. He’s faster. Alejandro lifts it, takes a slow sip, keeping you right at the edge with two knuckles and a thumb, and then presses a cold kiss to your mouth. The lime sting and his breath make you tremble.
“Ten seconds,” he decides, glancing toward the corner where the palm fronds throw a fat shadow, an architectural blind spot where the view cameras can’t angle. His hand withdraws; your body chases. “Walk.”
You go on legs that don’t belong to you, Alejandro’s palm heavy at the small of your back, guiding like he was born to it. The shadow behind the palm is an oasis: cool concrete, a waist-high planter, a little curtain of fern and light.
His mouth is on you before you fully settle, a kiss that’s all intent and no patience: tongue deep, hand firm under your jaw, the other shoving your dress to your waist. He drops to a knee, big hands spreading you open, one cupping your ass to lift you an inch, the other guiding your thigh to his shoulder. He looks up, lashes dark, and grins like a sin.
“Hold on,” he says, and then he eats.
It’s obscene, the first drag of his tongue from slick heat to clit, the seal of his mouth and the pull that goes straight to your knees. You yelp into the meat of your palm and he laughs against you, that deep, pleased rumble that turns his breath to vibration on your clit.
“Así,” Alejandro praises, voice gone hoarse. “Be good for me.”
You’re gone. You’re gone in the version of you that can keep her breath even while his tongue spells out a patient filth and his nose grinds the exact place that makes the back of your skull go bright. He curves two fingers inside at the very moment a burst of applause hides your sound; your orgasm comes like a wave over hot stone, hissing and greedy, that he smothers with his mouth, drinking you while he holds your thigh steady.
“Beautiful,” he says into your skin when you shudder down. “Now, despacio.” He stands in one fluid motion, turns you, bends you an inch over the balustrade so the city is a gasp away. The wind lifts your hair; his hand spreads over your lower belly, keeping you right there.
The little smile he gives you is lethal. “Good girl.”
He frees himself with a zipper sound that feels louder than the band. He slicks his cock through your wet folds, once, twice, and then pushes, slow, steady, the head breaching your cunt and the length following in a single, devastating seat that puts the breath out of you like a punch.
His palm clamps gently over your mouth. “Shh, cielo,” he croons, kissing your bare shoulder. “Breathe. I have you.”
You grip the rail, knuckles white. For a second there is only full, the press of him, the stretch that melts into need, and then he rolls his hips and your brain blanks.
He takes you like he knows how your body stacks, one hand pinning your hip, the other palming your throat to tip your chin so your mouth opens and you breathe. He sets a rhythm that keeps you right at the edge of a sound and denies you the sound, deep, slow strokes timed to the applause, the whoop of laughter, the cymbal crash. You feel the city below like an audience you’ll never have to see.
“Qué rica,” Alejandro groans, filthy soft. “Apriétame- squeeze- yeah, así.” His fingers ride your clit without mercy now, tight circles that make your knees buck. “Mírame.” He drags two fingers to your lips and you suck them helplessly, eyes wet, thighs shaking. “Buena niña.”
You come trying to stay quiet, and the mess of it makes him swear half prayer, half pride. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop. He holds you folded and takes short, greedy strokes that make you feel every inch of him. Below, a taxi honks. Someone laughs too loud. Your mouth is open under his hand and your moans are muffled there, trapped, making your chest heave.
“Diez,” he whispers, ten in the seconds you need to come back from that cliff. He kisses your neck on ocho, your jaw on seis, your ear on cuatro. On dos he says, “More?” and you shake, dizzy and grinning.
“Yes,” you choke. “Make me.”
“Eso.” He pulls you back, two steps, three, into deeper shadow, and drops into the lounge chair by the planter, tugging you with him. “Arriba.” Up. You climb, shaking with adrenaline, and he seats you facing the city, the chair creaking when you take him to the root.
“Ride,” he says, hands heavy on your hips. “Despacio. Let them see your pretty face.” Below, a group crosses the plaza; the string lights throw your shadow onto the white wall, your shoulders, your hair, the line of your mouth as you fall apart.
You move. You can’t not. Long drags up the length of him, down until your clit grinds his pelvis, a slow circle that makes him grunt and tip his head back. He watches you like you’re committing a crime he intends to abet: thumbs drawing two slick, possessive paths up your waist, wide hands cupping your tits, rolling your nipples until your spine bows.
“Colonel,” you breathe, because he loves the title like a sin. “Please.”
“Más,” he says, eyes hot. “Give me more.”
You give him everything. You bounce, tighter now, the wet slap obscene and muffled by music and wind; you grind, mean little circles that push both of you to the edge. His hand slides down, thumb finding your clit in that ruthless cadence that makes you babble. “Eres mía,” he says and you nod helplessly, yes, yes, yes.
Footsteps, close, a couple ducking behind a palm, giggling, stopping dead on the other side of the planter. Alejandro’s hand flies to your throat; his other arm bands your waist and holds you still, buried, throbbing, your mouth open under his palm while the couple argues softly in Spanish about whether the view is better from the corner.
You shake. Alejandro’s eyes are wild, delighted, fond. “Silenciosa,” he breathes into your hair, thumb soothing, cock twitching inside you. The couple moves on. He waits until the last heel click is gone before he laughs, low and sinful, and lifts you just enough to start moving again.
“Finish,” he says, command warm as honey. “Right now. Dame todo.”
You obey with a sound that will live in his bones forever. Your orgasm hits hard and rolling; he chases it, hips snapping up, rhythm breaking into the sloppy, hungry pace of a man who held the line and is finally crossing it. “Mírame,” he orders and when you do he goes, burying deep, holding, heat spilling inside you in hot, pulsing floods that make you clench and clench and clench.
“Eso,” he groans, crushed into your shoulder, his whole body shuddering with it. “Eso, mi amor.”
The world comes back slow: band, laughter, the click of glasses, the wind lifting the fern fronds like hands clapping only for you. He stays inside for the long, necessary minute, palms splayed over your belly like he’s keeping his heat there by will alone. When he finally slides out, it’s slow, a warm spill you feel on your thighs. He catches it with his fingers, pushes it back with a wicked little rub that makes your knees jump.
“Walk,” he says soft, amused, proud, while he tucks your dress down and smooths your hair like a gentleman. “Two steps to the wall. Breathe.”
You do, trembling laugh caught in your teeth. He crouches, wipes you with the corner of his undershirt (sacrificed without a blink), then presses his thumb to your clit lightly, just enough to make you glare and then grin. “Cruel,” you accuse, voice ruined.
“Devoto,” he corrects, smug and tender all at once. Devoted. He stands, kisses you through his smile, and palms your throat one last time, feeling your pulse return to calm. “Good?”
“Good,” you say, dazed and happy.
He chuckles, zips, buttons, and tucks your panties into his pocket with a look that will ruin you next week when you find them. “Souvenir.”
“Alejandro- ”
“Later.” He slides your hand into the crook of his arm and steers you back toward the light, the band, the edge of normal. People pass. No one looks twice. You can still feel him everywhere.
At the table, he sets water in front of you and watches you drink like it’s his job. Soap bubbles from a tower in the corner; the plaza glitters. He leans in, mouth at your ear, voice a molasses purr that makes your toes curl in your heels.
“Next time,” he says, “same view. Different angle.” A beat. “If you’re quiet for me, mi cielo, I’ll let you make me loud.”
