SINS OF THE FLESH
summary: Left wanting and lonely by no family and a dead husband who could have cared less while he was living. You and a mysterious stranger find yourself boarding in the same house of an old woman. He’s odd, distant, seemingly from another time. The way he talks is confusing, like scripture, the way he shows up without even seeing him move. And another thing.. he’s always got his eyes on you.
pairing: ole munch x fem!reader
warning(s): SMUT, porn with plot, slight angst (talk of abuse — your ex husband was an asshole), stalking, violence, semi religious undertones (hardly), mention of sin, voyeurism, heavy canon references, two broken people, pinv, oral (fem!receiving) fingering and finger sucking
word count: 4.4k
a/n: i had to, this man is TOO good, some moots have written for him and they are in my reblogs, they’re amazing!! also kudos to ‘lapine’ by bjorntobemild, they started this.. 🫠💗
You hadn’t been surprised in being alone.
In fact, you had been for long enough, even when the bastard was alive. Your husband that was, ex-husband. He had died mysteriously unbeknownst to you for all of two days, dead and found in a ditch after he had stormed off the one night leaving you broken and battered on the kitchen floor.
Serves him right, you had thought. Though part of you ached, not quite yet freed by the torture you were condemned to.
All he had done day after day was shove you around and order you to his dirty work. And such lonesome never came as any surprise, not when you were left with a lease on a house you could no longer tend to, and police officers urging you to find lodging. And so you did.
Comfort came in the company of an elder woman in the middle of town. The suburb was gentle, much like you had been used to as a child you’d imagined, semi-detached houses lined the street, with fences of steel and wire, hardly white picket, but families flooded every one. All of them loud, aware, loving. She had not such luck, her husband also dead, abandoned by her sons, and a ripped flyer flapping on the outside of the gate asking for help.
Simple laundry and grocery shopping help.
Company.
That’s what it really was. And you had taken it as soon as you saw it, snatching it from the wire with a trash bag full of clothes and necessities shoved in your hands, red and stiff from the biting cold.
The lady was kind, mostly quiet, but offering with a good pot of stew always left boiling on the stove, and in return of your chores, your stay was welcome in the stuffy, moth-ball smelling room just down the hall from hers.
And you were alone, together, until you weren’t.
Not until he, showed up. The boogeyman, the creature of a man who had walked in with the door unlocked, snow tracking his worn boots across the wooden floor. He didn’t claim the house, nor give either of you reason for his stay, nor did he ask to. Only few words, soft and chilling with no menace.
I live here now.
The look you and old woman shared was one startled and unsure, but you found it best not to argue, his large frame towering in the doorway between wooden beams. His clothes were something ragged and old, a dark brown and pale green kilt dragging at his knees, and a haircut you’d have imagined seen nowhere from before the early eighties.
Though after a while, you were glad you didn’t argue. He proved useful, and oddly, kind. He didn’t talk much, though when he did it was strange, broken syllables coming out drawn and long, half uttered sentences far too straightforward than you had been used to.
He settled himself into the room farthest from you and the woman, a dusty, dark room near empty with just a bed and a rocking chair. The bed, from what you could see peeked through the crack of the door, stayed made, unused. Like the man didn’t sleep. The cracking of the chair rocked like a tap dripping, shuddering the house all the way from the upstairs.
The Widow.
That’s what he called you, and that’s what you were. Simple and plain just as he was. Though it wasn’t spoken as you were titled with it, burdened as a reminder, it wasn’t something that belonged. A Spider. Something natural and intelligent and cunning. And spoken in his matter of fact terms, the low gravel of his voice and the ancient tongue of his accent, it had almost made you proud.
Proud of what you were, who you were.
Ole Munch, he told you his name was. Rather fitting, for how odd the man was. ‘Oola Moonk’ it came to be pronounced, but you preferred ‘Oola’ and he had not reminded you, or maybe not cared to correct you. He answered to it every time, the steady turn of his head with the same pull of his eyes landing on you.
His hands reached for what you couldn’t, a simple plate form the highest shelf, or the heaviness of a door getting in your way, packed from the snow. He was there, always. So much so you wondered how much he watched. And yet you were entirely unaware.
Ole studied you, from the very moment he passed in the doorway, announcing his arrival before turning right to the stairs, to every morning and night you had greeted him. Awkward and on guard still, but something poked deep within your chest. Something clinging about his presence.
And from what you could tell, he did not mind your own. When he was around of course, often slinking away into the darkness when the old woman had settled for bed and you had laid underneath your covers, listening.
Sometimes he told you he was leaving, no reason, or destination in it, other times he didn’t. But he waited, waited for the very moment all of the lights would turn off and the doors would close. A humble kindness.
He noticed the very things others did not.
“From what?” He moved behind you, chest looming few inches from your back, your breath catching a you had folded the last of laundry from the dryer. You took in the space he had not, a finger only pointed to your arm. A large scar there. Long and curved, raised by the slightest rosy and etched.
“My hus— my ex husband.” Your head turned, breathing sharply as you corrected yourself, your voice wasn’t small, only recalled as your finger traced it, his head leaning over your shoulder to get a better look. He did not ask further questions, the way your face scrunched told him all.
“A widow weaves her web, but she is more than it. It does not finish. She rebuilds.” His voice pressed over your shoulder, your eyes meeting for a fleet of second, his chin tilted high, unmoving as you ducked back. And then he was gone.
He had a habit of such things. And you had come to decode every one of his sayings, not as difficult as it first proved to be.
And just as he had noticed, he seemed similarly protective, over the house, over the old woman. Over you. Guarding, he had called it, ‘Like a dog in the yard.’ But the way he moved, slow and steady, it felt almost shielding. Neither of you had gone out much together, and you preferred to stay indoors any way, but the one time you had, was met with a young scraggly man who claimed to be the owner of the house you were staying in.
The shovel scraped hard across the pavement, leaving a trailed line from the road to the door, a makeshift path surrounded by blankets of freezing white. It had been one hell of a chore for the day, one you’d taken upon yourself in order to even get out of the house for the lady to get some groceries. A path she had walked nearly every day. And just as you turned, the buttons of your woollen coat done up tight—
“What the fuck are you doing?” A measly voice called out, your back straightened as you cocked your head, balancing against the shovel.
“I uh.. shovelling snow?” You looked around, huffing a small, obvious laugh, eyes landing back onto him. He was scrawny, long blond greasy hair tangling at his shoulders, a cigarette hung between his lips.
“Yeah, no fuckin’ shit. Who are you?” He stepped toward, striding toward you.
You opened your mouth to speak, grimacing at his rudeness, but he stopped you short.
“You know what, it doesn’t matter.. where is she?”
“Indoors.”
Your fingers planted tighter around the shovel’s handle, bones cracking lightly from the cold, a presence standing just short of your side. A familiar step crunched forward, slower, more calculated than the asshole stood in front of you.
“This is what the old crone has going on now, a freakshow and a maid?” His eyes raked over you, and the tall man beside you, his tone spitting and careless. Your fist clenched tighter at that, the insult, about the same woman who had taken you in.. and you had only guessed from then on.
Her son.
“You have no right to talk about her like that.” You spat back, feet planting harsh into the damp concrete.
“Or what?” The curve of his lips slanted smugly, taking a long drag of his cigarette, and at that you started forward. Rather, you tried, a hand clamped around your forearm, tightened and careful.
“Shut up.” You looked back at him, though his words weren’t for you. He did not look at you, eyes casted solely onto the man in front of you, stumbling back onto slightly.
“I didn’t ask you, shitbird.” He quipped.
“Shut the fuck up already.” Ole grimaced, the deep lines of his faced carved tight and red in the cold, barely bothered by the man’s empty threats.
“Oh fuck this.. ma, what is going on?” The man pushed past you both, the grip loosened on your arm, gaze piercing back into yours after it had followed him inside.
“Time should not be wasted. They take too much up themselves.” He analysed, hand falling, hovering just so in the air and flexing as you took yours to your side. There was a pause between you then, and you gave him a small nod, understanding even with the eyes rolling back into your head.
He wasn’t wrong. Even if you both knew one thing, he deserved that swing you were about to give him.
“A boarder, you holdin’ out on me ma.. how much is he paying ya?” That’s the last you heard, trudging your way back inside into the warmth after a few moments. The woman had looked past the younger man, indeed her son, to you as she smiled softly shaking her head. A look of knowing, as you gave her an apologetic one back, and you don’t want to overstep more than you were about to. You reached the stairs, climbing them just as Ole moved in after you, the door closing heavily behind him, a short glance to the back of your head before turning into the hallway toward them both.
Your back fell into the covers of the bed, swarming you in a warmth, your hands splayed over your stomach, slowly picking at the skin, tangled in attempts to keep the heat in. You listened in, their conversation muffled between floorboard and pipe, and the incessant nagging in the back of your mind.
It may have been curiosity, morbid and intrusive, or the fact that in such closeness you had grown comforted by the company around you. The older woman yes, sweet and kind as she was, she was strong, and had taught you more in the past few weeks than most had in your lifetime. But the other one, that’s what was more, it was him.
He was odd yes, peculiar in all the ways you thought seemed ancient. But part of you burned at the thought. His voice, his gaze, the coded manner of speaking that was something thoughtful. That feeling in your chest had settled elsewhere, deep in your belly, a flush that you couldn’t quite name, but it burned. And from that, you longed for it, his touch.
The man took off not long after, a scuffle of boots and an air of silence leaving him. The door only closed once, though it opened again. And you didn’t hear from her son after that.
All of you took yourself to bed early, rather the two of you that slept did. She had said goodnight to you in the hall, catching you just as you made your way to the bathroom, the soft cling of your sleep shorts a welcome comfort in contrast to the scratch of heavy itchy cotton.
—
You weren't sure how it happened. But there was an ache in you that you couldn't quite break from. Like a coil that tightened itself around you, working it's way up every inch of your body, your nerves pressed tigher with every movement and thought you attempted to push back.
Until you refused to, refused to deny yourself any longer.
Your fingers trailed down your body, taking your own time, feeling down the curve of your breasts, running along your stomach down beneath your sleep shorts. The covers twisted under you, shrugging with every rise and fall of your chest and arch into your hand as you began to fuck yourself, running your fingertips through your folds, damp and needy. You needed this. You bit back a moan as you circled your clit, tugging the coil tighter inside of you, rubbing slow at first and then harsh, testing a finger into your entrance and curling.
He was there. In your mind, igniting your body more than your touch had. And you had imagined it was his, bigger than yours, swarming your body as he ran his hands down it, gripping and grasping at your frame as he did your arm in the yard. You pushed two fingers in, thrusting them lightly as your other fingers worked at your sensitive bud, mouth falling slack as your head rocked back agaisnt the covers, knees bent up as you angled deeper. His breath breathing along your skin, tongue working along your skin, fingers pressed tight into your cunt. The thought made you salivate, wettening the back of your dry throat as you came with a strangled moan.
It was him that did undid you, even if he had not touched you. Yet.
—
It became routine after that, a nagging that never ceased. His presence was enough, stalking around every corner, watching through the windows, a hand when necessary, but never beyond it. And somehow that worked you up more, agitating you in every way that felt wrong, and right. And so you kept it quiet, attending to your tasks as well as you could, day in and day out.
Laundry, kitchen, cleaning, shovelling, repeat.
And when the house fell quiet, and night appaorched, surrounding you all in darkness. You too did the same. Your hands dipped between your legs, drawing whine and moan unkempt from your lips without resolve, your arousal coated your fingers, dripping juices from your weeping hole, and down onto the mattress.
You were lost in it, in every thought, every image that you dared not to speak aloud. It wasn’t shame, perhaps guilt, greed, of what you could not take and yet wanted to.
Wants that no other person should know about. That no one should know about. And yet they did. Eyes were on you, you felt them form every corner, burning into you from the walls and dark corners of every room. And in your lonely hour, the only seemed to sharpen.
A pair, heavy set, near black, haunted just outside of the door. The crack in it left opened, it had not been a conscious thought, nor as you had pulled yourself to the comfort of covers and warmth. Barely room for a breath between it, darkness meeting darkness, your body only silhouetted by the twinkle of moonlight creeping through the window. Worn boots scuffed across the floor in complacent strides, the sound of crusty creak of the door being pushed open just enough to move through.
Though only your moans filled your ears, muffled whimpers of desire, your own undoing as you pumped your fingers deeper, curling and prodding you flesh, pressure building enough to foracsblt snap, but nothing came of it. You worked at yourself harder, a hand cupping your breast through the thin material, swiping a finger over your swollen clit, but it was of no use.
“Temptation is not weakness, it is restraint.”
Fuck.
Your body jolted, your hands tugged from the waistband over your shorts as you moved to sit up. He stood over the bed, unmoving, the blackness of his pupils studying you all over, and you had never felt so bare. He had seen it all, the man before you, more than he had when his ears pricked up at your moans, standing entirely unaffected, the way his head tilted at you, for longer than you had realised.. longer than you imagined. The writhe of your body, the sheen of flush that marked your body in your desperation.
Your knees knocked together, shuddering at the thought, and you swallowed it down, patting the bed with red hot heat flushing your cheeks. An awkward offer, but the only one you had managed, your throat impossibly dry.
He hesitated for a moment, moving only a single stride before dipping the mattress beside you. There wasn’t any need for explanation, his body rising at least a head over yours as you sat next to one another. You had been this close before, always stepping between each other in hallways, moving about the house in rhythm, but this was different.
You wiped a hand over your face, a low exhale breathing from his nose where he was at your side, hands placed into his lap, over the cotton of his kilt. From that angle you could see how frayed it was, ripped and torn, the scuffed and scarred fingers striking the material gently. A breath sucked from your mouth, closing your eyes before opening them again, to meet his, already looking.
“Did you.. see?” You called out to him, feet dangled from the bed, meeting the floor where his crossed it.
“Yes.”
He left no time to let you down easy, to even dance around the idea, and though the flesh at the back of your neck ran colder, you hadn’t hated the idea. Somehow it eased you more, you weren’t imagining it all, those eyes on you weren’t just in your head. Like you had been told many times before. It was real, he was real, and he did not falter at it. There was no judgement, only honesty, and the flicker in his eyes through the dim light casted into the back of your heads, it told you were both one and the same.
The moonlight shadowed his face, leaving most to your imagination and how you remembered it, the scent of woodsmoke and ash filling your nostrils from the closeness. He almost looked pretty, all long limbs partially comfortable.
“The air has changed, thick now.”
You nodded, and he hummed. Hardly loud enough to even make a sound, the bed dipping once more form the release of his weight. But he didn’t leave, not yet, instead he moved to the floor. A heavy thud of his knees shoved to the wood, hands reaching the sides of the bed, where his fingers move to your shorts. You jutted your hand out, grabbing his wrist as he guided it to between your legs. He held your gaze for a moment, slowing as you did, your fingers not quite tight around his skin.
“Sweetness when her hive is stirred, but there is no nectar, only a bite.” His fingers worked methodically, different to your own, longer, slender, the rough pads of his fingers unhooking at the waistband as he had seen you push through it. He took his time, and paused, waiting, listening.
He did not ask, did not need to, but he gave you enough time yourself. To scream, to shove him off, to pull away, but you did not. It beckoned you. Another one of his metaphors muttered, one you had barely registered before the words trailed off, and you had not found it in you to speak some more.
He had made up his mind, as had you.
The material was peeled away, snaking down your legs and dropped to the floor and the tugging in your belly deepened, overcome much like the thoughts you’d had plagued yourself. And that alone that was his signal, the gentle exhale from your breath, wanting an aching.
His tongue darted out in one steady motion, testing through your folds as he parted your legs. Your body arched at the long stripe he licked up your cunt, broad and teasing without meaning to. A feat for a man who had been left without, it was sloppy and inept, with every heat of passion on his breath huffed into you. Like of a man not only starved but denied, once he may have known such a way, you’d imagined, but for now there was only remembering. And he learned quickly, dragging his tongue into you with a clumsy skill, making no other sound other than the wet pattering at your slit.
“Fuck.. there, that’s it.” You whined, breathing shakily, guiding just as he did the same, his hands shoved tight at your thighs, widening them to keep them open. Wet muscle lapped at you, tasing and devouring, tracing every curve and finding every piece that hit nerves sending you bucking into his face.
Your fingers tangled into the hair of the man before you, like one did at an alter, collecting every drop and savouring it onto his tongue from your already dampened cunt. It was messy and torturous, the unkempt work of a feral starvation, his nose pressed harsh to your clit, nudging as he sucked you down onto his mouth, fingers pressing deep into the flesh of your thighs.
He ushered you through your high, the coil, tightened from days of yearning and an edge you couldn’t quite break from, crashing over you in a wave. He licked at you, searching, like finding a missing piece, the first traces of a meal he had been without for centuries. And most likely had been.
But he remembered the feeling, every lap of sweetness, every suckle sending you the release your hand could not give you. His tongue stayed pressed to you, flicking and swirling over your sensitive bud until you shivered, your head thrown to the covers you had fell back onto. The electric shocks graced through your body, your thighs releasing and draping boneless over the bed as he stood.
Two fingers swiped back through you, sticky and cool as the air whispered back over your bare core. He brought them to your lips, arm stretching over your half naked body as he pushed them into your mouth, your tongue flattening onto his digits, tasting yourself.
“She can taste it.”
Sweet and sinful.
He left then, rising to his feet like a prayer just sealed and nothing more. His eyes followed, the exhale of tense muscle at his chest just visible through the low light. And through it, a sly look of appease, at himself or you, you could not tell.
Both.
And then turned on his heel, making no other move toward you, ducking out of the room simply licking the wetness from his lips as he caught his breath. Boots stomped back along the floor and into the hallway, silent and still, your breath catching in your ears as you eased.
He had taken what he wanted, and you had been given the same. Or perhaps it was that he had found you in such a state and offered to help.
Though you didn’t find it in you to care. You were blissed and sated, a blush creeping your cheeks at the knowledge.
—
Something shifted in the house when she was killed. ‘To the wind’ he had told you, carrying her body in from the street just as dusk had settled. You had been upstairs at the time, clearing some of the clutter she had asked you to help her sort. Old pictures in broken frames, trinkets and silver candlestick holders. Nothing special, all dusted and rust covered, but you paused over them, taking your time. She had promised to help you, and you had waited for her, when she would return from her round of groceries.
That’s when you had heard it.
A round of guns, shots ringing down the street in a cascade, firelights cracking into the night. So much, for Halloween. It was said that the veil between life and death was thinnest then, and it must have been true, because whatever gang or bandit had gone after someone, it had taken her in their place.
No others came by, no police or neighbours, just silence, more than before. This time more unsteady. You had not know entirely how to grieve, but you had felt it, an emptiness inside the walls of the house, and in your chest.
And you weren’t the only one.
The tartan crimson coat she had worn, matted fluff at its collar, he had taken it upon himself to wear. He spoke to himself often, louder after that, reminiscing in sonnets and speeches, mentions of sin and revenge, of when he was a boy and the man that was. And it was the only thing other than your footsteps that had echoed the halls of the house.
And though neither of you spoke of it, you grieved together. The rocking from upstairs continued, your duties did as well, and life resumed in the days that followed, the same itch biting at you as it did before.
Desire.
Burning hot and wanting. The itch not yet scratched, not completely, only heightened. His presence followed you, even when he wasn’t there, eyes that peered through the windows late into the night after he had left, the heavy stomping behind you, his frame placed into the small, rickety chair at the table as you prepared what was left of the food on the stove.
He did not eat, and you hardly did yourself. But his gaze sharpened, and your hands trembled.
——
The lamp flickering down the hall broke you from your thoughts, a finger of whiskey from the cupboard left in the crystal glass in your hand. It was late for it to be on. Usually he would be out, or sitting eerily in the dark. You swirled the liquid in the glass before drinking it down, and smacking it to the table, the burn licking at your throat.
You did your best to stay away, not knowing where to turn, what to do, or what to say. And his presence hardly helped giving you the right signal, though one thing was known. A need.
You moved through the corridor, a warmth settling in your chest, and a wanting in your bones. Your fingers traced the bannister, steadying you through every step, the whiskey warming your stomach, and perhaps prickling your courage. Not that you were scared, only curious.
Gentle ticking, clicking to the floor. A tap, tap, tap creaking the wood came from behind the door and you already saw the image, gripping the oak to allow yourself entry. It pushed from your hands as you stepped into the room, a damp smell filling your nostrils.
He was there. A hand swamped over each arm of the rocking chair, staring into the air, only moving by the slightest dip is his knee. He noticed you before he saw you, counting the familiar steps down the hall until you had reached the door. You felt his eyes on you as you entered, glancing around the room taking in more of it as you realised you hadn’t really been in it before.
It was plain, covers till untouched as you had noted beforehand, a smell bedside table and few paintings hung at the walls. His head turned, face like stone, the golden glow illuminating his rugged features.
He looked more handsome in such a way. He was already, striking features of his pointed nose and strong jaw, the light bringing him perfectly into view as you settled before him, watching through the window. The street was quiet, lights at every house turned off and doors closed, blanketing the area into stillness.
“Why did you come here?” You asked him, eyes distant as you kept looking away, though his remained on you.
“A man walks until someone opens a door. He could ask the same.” He replied, a shrug in his voice though his shoulders did not rise. He continued rocking, less focused on the timing, and more on you.
You huffed a laugh, offering a small smile as you faced him, balancing onto your heel, “Not much different. Running from the same things I suppose from fear.”
“You are less afraid, one would notice.” Your eyes met through the thickness in the air, dust particles floating past your face through the shine of the lamp. He wasn’t wrong, and you weren’t afraid of him, far from it, and he knew it. There was a pull between you, one that even as you had gravitated, had been left unspoken.
“Not for a long time..” You countered.
He said nothing, the shuffle of his feet planting slightly wider. An invitation, with no enticement, only that.
And in your courage, the stillness of the night descending around you, the quiet tone of his voice beckoning you and the silent understanding. You stepped forward, feet padding the floorboards with every balance.
The chair still rocked as you stepped between his knees, fingers tightening just so as he took in your scent. Whiskey, want, sin.
The first crack.
His eyes didn’t leave you, not once, he didn’t even move a muscle, only the gentle rocking from his heels pressed to the floor slowing.
“You’ve decided something..”
“Maybe.” It didn’t need to be said what it is, his face stayed forward, raised by an inch of that to fully see you. Taking you in. As his gaze dropped, cataloguing. The flex of your fingers, the knock of your knees as you edged them closer, the pupils blown.
“You are taking something.” He stated plainly, etched with a ragged lilt.
“Yes..” You croaked shamelessly, though you should have felt it with him seated before you, saying next to nothing but observing. The weight of it stinging across your face as something paused between you. The rocking stopped, the rounded wooden legs of the chair creaking to a halt, the quiet thickening.
He drew heavy breath that almost deterred you, recalculating your moves, until he spoke.
“Then take it.”
He spoke with a certainty. It wasn’t a beg, or a pleading for you to take him, take what you wanted, but it was an allowance, with him at your disposal. The roughness of his voice edged then with something more, a wanting.
The breath sucking through his nostrils as you came closer, crawling up into his lap. Each of your knees planted either side of him, bone braced against the hardened wood of the chairs sides, biting the sensation that crept between your legs. His arms stayed where they were, encasing you both even as you rover above him, head tilted up against the head of the chair. There was time for contemplation, a lot of it. But you did not take it.
Your lips reached his, unhurried but eager, at first without connection, the soft plush of your lips meeting his chapped and aching. You pressed one after another, kissing at his mouth until his began to shift beneath yours. They curved into one another, tearing and swiping tenderly as your hand cupped the side of his face. You thumbed it slightly, rubbing circles, tangling up into the unwashed threads of his bangs. He shuddered at that, your tongue poking against his as he let you lick into his mouth, his tongue exploring back.
Just like his scent, he tasted of ash and smoke, like the embers stoked from a fire, a warmth pressing in between your lips and your thighs. Heat pooled into your core, slowly grinding onto him from there he sat, the tightness of the chair leaving you near no room to move, building every bit of friction through material. The belt buckle of his kilt graced the inners of your thighs, thick rough fabric rubbing on the underside of your cunt through material. your nose bumped his, grinding down onto him.
“Need this..” You mumbled against his lips, the other hand gripping at his shoulder, the heaviness of the coat that clung to his body already fallen away, leaving him just in the tightness of his shirt, long sleeves scratching your sides as you wriggled.
“Yes..”
He called back, surprisingly. It wasn’t a moan or even of the sort, only an agreement, and one you both took gladly.
His fingers traced delicately, working their way between you, sliding the silk of your thin nightgown up toward your stomach, revealing the skin of your navel. And how you had thanked yourself in that moment, less nonsense to tug with, and he had seemingly thanked you for it too, running a sharp finger along your slit, slick coating through the fabric of your underwear.
Another finger hooked at the other side, dragging up your hips, pimpling along your flesh as the fabric was shoved to the side, cool air hitting your cunt. A moan bubbled up from your chest, burning your lungs as he reached you, fingers pressing between your folds. They were cold, shocking your body as he ran them between your folds, collecting your wetness and spreading you wide.
He watched as he did in, taking in the glistening of your heat in his hand, lips just parted. In awe it would look like. But he listened, the hitch of your throat as his thumb moved to your clit, fingers pushing into your hole. He began to pump them, pulling them in and out of you as you arched into his hand, fingers gripping tighter at the barely covered flesh of his shoulders. Your mouth opened, a silent gasp escaping your lips as your eyes closed, nodding gently at the pleasure he was giving you.
It felt good, unbearably so. His fingers curled tightly inside of you, dragging up into your cunt with a wasteless desire?? He thrusted them slowly, inching you closer, drawing you to him into the palm of his hand, your head falling forward just as your lips connected back to his.
Crooked teeth gnashed against yours, fingers toying with your clit as he drew you to your high, juices spilling out of you and down onto the bend of his wrist. He swallowed your moans, tongue and teeth catching you coming undone.
You didn’t beg, you wouldn’t, and you didn’t need to. You had done your fair share over time, thoughts of your previous marriage blurring into a nothingness that was replaced by the man beneath you, and his initiative.
Just as sin worked its loving tendrils around the vulnerable and shamed, words were not necessary. Instead, it would come naturally as all things did.
His hand at your side, the one not carefully pulled from you slipped at the blemished silver buckle at his waist, clinking open in one singular swipe. You held onto him as his knees shoved up, firming you to him as he sunk down into the chair. He looked peaceful, the tension in his back softening just by a touch. Only to be broken with the fervour that he fucked you with.
A hand braced at your hip, not tightly, but enough, snaking its way around your waist. He was hard, the length of him pressed at your entrance as you sunk down onto him, the harsh pull of vein sliding into you. His teeth gritted into a hiss as your mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut at the burning stretch you enveloped him with.
He smoothed into the walls of your cunt, filling you to the brim as you pressed yourself all the way down. Your eyes met finally, chin tilted toward the ceiling as he looked at you, darkened blues finding yours, a glint in them, an unfamiliar one. Like something broken, finding home again. You moved first, moaning at the push of him inside of you, hot and heavy punching deep into you.
The pace you set was rhythmic, chasing and fulfilling with every breath that you took him with. His arm curled tighter at your back, hand pressing just over the curve of your ass, a thumb poking into the dimple, anchoring. Though he did not just observe this time, for once, it was like he was alive, and in this time. His other hands placed over the flesh of your stomach, splaying at the skin where he was inside of you.
Studying.
A heavy hand clasped underneath your thigh, just as he pressed down onto the bulge, a sudden impatience racking his body, hips driving up into you from beneath, pressure from every side pushing onto your heat. He wanted this, even if he didn’t say it, his eyes faltered and fluttered, curses in a language you didn’t recognise falling from lips through your moans. You rocked into eachother, the crack of the chair scraping the floor as you connected, cunt sucking him greedily as the flood at your core pulled at you, eating at your very skin.
“I’m gonna..” You whined, eyes meeting his as your forehead rocked, sliding next to his as your breaths mingled, a heavy rumble vibrating his chest and into yours through silk. “Fuck..” A finger, long and protruding circled over your clit, harsh and fast, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the air as the dampened room scented with your sex.
You fell limbless into him, fingers curling at the skin of his neck as you rested, his cock twitching inside of you as he spilled free, neither of you bothering to move.
He did not coddle you, or hold you entirely. The arm circled around you retreating to rest back onto the arm of the chair, but he did not move you. His chest rose and fell against yours, your ear pressed into the wall of him, the steady thrumming, proof he was alive beneath you.
“We are even now.” He recognised. The pair of you taken things both, not that you owed it. There was no debt between either of you, only an understanding. You both took what you wanted.
Your senses fixated through the daze, nodding lowly. You breathed deeply once more, a familiar smell reaching you. Gunpowder, acrid like solvent. He had smelt of it before, the first time you had met him, not long after you had turned up on the same doorstep as he did.
It was a known smell, yes, but this was different. Your senses mixing with a realisation it took you back to. The same stench that had filled your home the night it was revealed your husband had died. Though he had been found in a ditch miles away. Someone had brought that smell into the house The same that was on his skin, clinging to it.
And as you had the closest look of him, chin poking into his collarbone as you looked up, he looked back down at you. It was him.
You didn’t startle, or begin to inch away. There was no fear, in fact the opposite. An understanding as always, and a heat punched into your chest. Leaving you to wonder, just how long he had watched you, followed you, chasing you to the same house you had seeked out for help.
And there in the house of a dead woman, not claimed nor owned, it left the pair of you, running from whatever it was you knew before, the washing away of sins leaving something knew.
A widow weaving her web around the very one sworn to protect it. And he would, as a man should.
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