Deer Watch

You were so pretty like this, sitting in your pjs, a mug in your hands, bare face, messy hair. 

You were real. You were right there. He wished one day he could see you like this without needing to hide. 

He lifted the phone, opening the camera app. He zoomed in, the image shuddering slightly as his hands struggled to stay perfectly still.

He watched as you took a sip, your throat working as you swallowed. He watched as you closed your eyes, just for a second, as if steeling yourself. He knew that gesture. It was the one you made just before diving into a difficult task at your desk. What difficult thing were you facing now, all alone in your kitchen?

You shouldn't be alone, he thought. You should have someone to share these quiet burdens with.

The focus sharpened on your face.

A cold droplet of rain hit the screen of his phone. Then another. He glanced up; the sky had opened a downpour. He looked back at you. You should have someone to bring you a blanket. To ask if you wanted the window closed. To sit with you in the quiet.

He would. One day. He was proving he could. He was learning all your quiet moments, all your burdens, so that when the time was right, he would know exactly how to step out of the darkness and into the light of your kitchen. He would know what to say, what to do. He would help.

He pressed the button, capturing a picture of the quiet scene. He had not realized though, that he had flash on.

The bright light was especially noticeable again the darkness of the sky. He saw your head snap towards the window and he quickly pressed his back against the cold, wet siding of your house, just beside the window. holding his breath.

He stood in the drenching rain, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He should really leave now.

But instead he stayed. And he listened.

No footsteps were heard, or any movement at all. You didn’t stand up to check the window, or close the curtains, or turn off the lights.

Nothing.

Did you not notice? But— it was so bright! How could not have?

Or maybe…Maybe you didn’t mind?

His breath grew heavy and his hands griped the wet phone tightly.

Maybe you like this. Maybe you liked him.

"You make me feel safe, Herman," you had said.

That had to mean something, right?

Finally, with movements stiff from cold and awe, he pocketed the phone. He took one last, longing look through the streaked glass at your silhouette and then he melted back into the downpour, becoming just another shadow in the drowned alley.

In his damp, sparse bathroom, he peeled off his soaked clothes. And jumped onto his bed, nearly slipping off the plastic wrap. He excitedly slid the secret box out from under the bed and placed it on his lap. But before placing the newly printed photo (he had even bought a mini printer just so he could do this faster), he took out some of the older ones. He couldn’t help but smile. 

Soon. Soon you’d finally be his.

And tomorrow, he would walk you home. He would stand at your doorstep in the evening chill. He would look into your eyes, and he would search for a flicker of the knowledge he now held. He would say goodnight, and he would wonder if you were already moving to the kitchen, to the window, to wait for the comforting proof of his watchful eye in the dark.

He fell asleep still shivering, a small, serene smile on his face, dreaming of the day he wouldn't have to walk away.

The next day, you wore the earrings, the ones with the little blue stones he’d said looked like water droplets. You mentioned a new album you were listening to, and as always, he listened. However, he noticed you were a bit more quiet, unsure almost. It was barely noticeable, but he knew you like he knew the back of his hand. 

At your doorstep, he didn’t linger in his usual, hesitant way. He planted himself, his gaze holding yours directly. The evening chill seemed to part around him.

“You’re quiet today,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was an observation.

“Just tired,” you replied, the automatic excuse. But you held his gaze, were you inviting him to see through it?

He did. A slow blink, a micro-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The rain last night was loud,” he said softly. “It kept me awake. I kept thinking… it’s not a good night to be alone. To be… unsettled.”

The rain. Last night. Alone. Unsettled.

You remembered the flash. The warmth of the tea against the sudden cold in your veins.

“I was fine,” you said, your voice remarkably steady. “I made some tea. It was… peaceful.”

His breath hitched, just a tiny, ragged intake. Peaceful. You had named the feeling he’d worked so hard to create. 

“Good,” he breathed, the word laden with a profound, trembling weight. “I’m… I’m glad.”

He didn’t say goodnight. He simply nodded, a deep, respectful bow of the head, and turned. He didn’t look back as he walked down the path, but his shoulders were set with a confidence you’d never seen before.

You went inside. And you went to the kitchen. 

He knew you would, hoped for it as he stood beside the same window.

You moved to the sink, filling the kettle. You were still in your work clothes, but you’d taken off the cardigan, and the thin fabric of your blouse did little to hide the tense set of your shoulders. You placed the mug on the counter—the same one from last night. You were re-enacting the scene. For him!

A wild, dizzying hope surged in his chest. This was communication. This was reciprocity. You were telling him, without words, that you wanted him there. You couldn't possibly see him. The outside was a pool of black, the interior light turning the window into a mirror for you. Still, you must’ve know he was there, you must’ve felt his gaze.

For seven nights this continued.

He would stand at his post by the window. You would move through the kitchen—making tea, reading a book at the table, staring pensively into the steam of your mug, always there, as was he. It was a nightly sacrament. He’d return to his apartment buzzing with a pure, devotional high, placing the new photo in the box with the reverence of a priest archiving a holy relic.

But by the fourth night, the high began to dull. The photos, —the way your hair fell that evening, the specific sweater you wore and how it slid off your shoulder—began to feel like copies. He’d memorized the angles of your kitchen, the pattern of the laminate floor, the way the light from the dining room fell at 8:47 PM.

The craving returned, deeper and more insistent. He hungered for texture, for dimension, for proximity. He wanted to feel the scent of your tea and your laundry detergent mingling in the air, the soft sound of your sigh, the ambient warmth of a space you inhabited.

On the eighth day he stood at the same spot. You had long gone to bed now, but he couldn’t make himself leave.

Now, at this point it would be incredibly stupid to deny that he was a creep. But he liked to tell himself he wasn’t that much of a creep. And sure, he did fantasize of sneaking into your house multiple times— but that was different!

You’re insane and a weirdo, one voice hissed in his mind. This is breaking and entering. This is the line.

But is it? argued the other, She knows I’m here. She leaves the curtain open. She performs for me. This isn’t violation… it’s the next level of trust. She is giving me access to her sanctuary. She is waiting for me to understand the invitation.

She hasn’t said you can come in!

She hasn’t said I can’t. Her actions speak. Her peace is permission.

He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

His gloves were thin latex, the kind he used for detailed cleaning. From his pocket, he withdrew a small, well-oiled lockpick set—a recent acquisition for a guardian who might need to ensure egress in an emergency, of course. 

The click of the bolt retracting was the loudest sound he’d ever heard. He froze, ears straining. Nothing. Only the hum of the refrigerator from within.

He pushed the door open just wide enough to slip inside, and closed it carefully behind him.

The silence of your house was different from the silence of his apartment. This silence was yours—warm, lived-in, thick with the aroma of vanilla, tea, and your scent. He stood in the dark kitchen, breathing it in, and a tremble of pure, ecstatic awe wracked his frame. 

He didn't move at first. He just stood, didn't even touch anything. He just looked. The mug in the sink, a faint lipstick mark on the rim. The specific way the dish towel was folded over the oven handle. The magnet holding a takeout menu to the fridge. 

Then, he allowed himself a single, trembling touch. He ran a gloved finger along the spine of the book you’d left on the kitchen table. He could feel the texture of the cover. 

It wasn’t enough. It was everything, and it wasn’t enough. He needed to see where you slept. He needed to see you.

To complete the circuit. To truly know you were safe.

He ghosted down the hallway, drawn like a magnet to your bedroom, he’d memorized your layout from when you had opened your door wide enough while walking in.

Your bedroom door was ajar.

His heart stuttered, then settled into a hard, rhythmic thump against his ribs. Of course it was open. Of course. 

Was this a sign?

He edged closer, until he could see the slice of room revealed by the gap. He could make out the shape of your dresser, the silhouette of a chair draped with clothes.

And there, in the center of it all, underneath the blankets was you.

He could hear your breathing. Slow. Deep. Trusting. This was the core of you, unguarded and at rest. Because of him. Because he made you feel safe.

So this is where he was meant to be, right?

Please do not repost or translate my work. Reblogs and comments are appreciated though!

Deviders by @/saradika-graphics

God help him. At home, the two of your are connected. His big hands keep caressing and groping your side, just where he could reach.

He has massive hands, and he wants them to be filled with you.

He has you in the missionary position, your thick thighs pressed against your chest as your ankles rest on his shoulders. Even if you're not too flexible, sex always finds a way to bend you in ways you couldn't imagine.

His cock is thick. Stretching your hole out as he puts his weight on your body with each thrust. It takes your breath out of your lungs each time.

He's not filthy, he praises you the whole time, but your mind is too fuzzy to register it. His fingers stroking your clit/hand stroking your cock, so why would you need to think during this when he can do it for you?

Definitely fucks you while he stands, just to show his strength off.

He loves groping your fat while he fucks you, giving him something to hold onto while he rocks your world with his thick cock.

It was an accident the first time.

He had you against the wall in an unused office because he could not wait. You zigged when he zagged; moving to kiss the nape of his neck while he readjusted, and his skin drove against your teeth hard enough to leave an imprint. And yeah, it hurt, but...

Once he was sure you were all right, things continued at a more careful pace, and he couldn't get his mind off it. Running his fingers over the mark not a half hour later, hiding in the bathroom as he gripped himself to relieve the residual desires.

It was a stressful day. Herman wouldn't normally do these things at work.

That very same night, he had you all to himself again, more private, for as long as he wanted. You both had the day off tomorrow, and you'd unknowingly awakened something in him that quickly revealed itself in the heat of things when he begged you.

"Do it a-again."

Your question brought him out of it, a little; that sweet, awkward smile pulling his stutter back as he explained.

"When--your teeth. I. I like it. The--it faded, the mark. Want..." He moaned low in his throat, pressing closer with a craned neck. "A-another one. Please."

It wasn't the pain, not completely, though at a certain point, when his entire body was shuddering with pleasure, it did feel nice.

Mostly, Herman just liked the sensation of you digging in. Even if it wasn't on purpose the first time.

So when you oblige him, closing your jaws around his trapezius, he chokes out a gasp and fucks into you in kind; rougher, with more pressure, and he whimpers, "harder."

Your hum is a question, your sweet touch cradling his head.

"It--m'fine. Please. Please."

You bite down as hard as you dare, and he becomes a different man.

Just the thought of the mark it would leave drives him wild. Herman fucks you absolutely stupid. In the thick of it, as you hang on for dear life, another accident happens.

Your nails dragged welts down his back, angry and red, and at first you apologized as he twisted to look at them in the bathroom mirror, but that flush crossed his cheeks again. The deep, almost-a-puncture bite mark felt so good under his fingers.

"A-are do. Do you like this?" He asked. "L-like, is it." Herman leaned into you, sweet again, soft again. You were always in awe at how much he could flip behind closed doors; never dangerous, just different. Nobody at work would ever fucking believe the animal he could be when it was just you two.

So he, sheepishly now, asks in his own way: Does that make you uncomfortable?

You think about it. "I don't really like...hurting you."

He rubs his mark with a smile, biting his lip. "I-it really doesn't. Actually. I just. Hmmm." Herman kisses your forehead. Squeezes your ass as he drags you close. "Proof I'm yours."

Something about the way he says that, you're safe to say, awakens something in you.

Weeks later, Herman is suddenly not aversive to taking showers at SDN, standing a little taller, claw marks down his back, a few bites across his shoulders and neck, bruises on his chest. Advertising it. Someone has him.