🕯Hello Lovie🕯

the zamboni conks out mid-rink with a broken mechanical whirr, and simon — cock still stuffed inside of you, hands finding your hips to hold you exactly where you are — leans sideways to pop the small panel beside the steering wheel open.

'must be a connection…' he mumbles to the wiry guts of the thing. 'maybe a fuse…'

it’s been five whole minutes of him elbow-deep in wiring, brow furrowed, entirely absorbed, while you sit impaled dead center of the ice. every small shift he makes to reach further into the panel moves him inside of you, slow little drags and presses that he apparently doesn’t even notice, no matter how much it has you shifting where you’re spread wide across his giant thighs.

he’s tracing a wire with two fingers, humming tunelessly, and at some point, starts talking and it takes a second to realize he’s talking to the zamboni and not to you.

'hmm, who did tha’ to you, eh?' a gentle click of his tongue, shaking his head. 'poor thing, the state of you...'

'simon,' you whine breathlessly as he digs into one of his pockets.

'mm?' he shoves his penlight between his teeth, mumbles around it, 'wire’s corroded.'

you clench around him using all of your strength — you don’t exercise kegels for nothing. his hand pauses in the panel for a second then keeps working. but his head tilts slightly, and without looking at you, says, 'do tha’ again and i’ll lose my place. distractin’ me.'

'that’s the point,' you groan, pressing your face into his throat breathing in all engine grease and cold air. he smells you back, nose in your hair, one long inhale like it might help his diagnostics process. 'simon.'

'heard you,' he grumbles as he strips the end of a wire with his thumbnail. 'gimme a minute.'

icy-cold creeps in at your back, but the heat of him against your front keeps you comfortable enough; your whole body narrowed to where you’re stretched around him, full to the point of stupidity, throbbing in time with your pulse. you count his heartbeats through his jacket just to focus on something, anything other than the frustrating ache of him. it’s beating far slower than yours, and every beat you sit there you get wetter and wetter, soaking into his denim; humiliating.

you drop your forehead to his shoulder and make a long suffering sound.

'i know, i know,' he says mildly. to which of you? it’s unclear.

you rock your hips and his free hand clamps down on your hip again, holding you down, thumb finding the crease of your thigh and pressing into the folded flesh, and you make a wretched moan of frustration and feel him go still.

'interestin’,' he murmurs, his hand reaching back into the open panel.

'i hate you.'

'mhm.' the panel clicks shut and the engine turns over, rumbling up through the seat and straight into where you’re joined together, and you moan so loud it echoes around the whole empty rink.

simon pockets the penlight and pats the dashboard twice, 'good girl,' to the machine, and settles back against the seat, which shifts him deeper inside of you, you can tell her felt it too despite how hard he’s trying to be unaffected.

then he puts it in gear, 'left off at the blue line, sit tight.'

you could kill him. and you would if killing him didn’t require getting off his cock, and you’ve been sitting on it so long that the thought of moving makes your thighs shake. so you cling to him instead, arms around his neck, every pass of the ice translating up through the seat, through him, and into you; a low relentless vibration that has you leaking down all over him in waves of desperation.

as you’re shaking apart in his lap, and his eyes stay firmly on his lines, checking the overlap, the amount of water he’s letting out. but every so often his gaze flicks down to you, cataloguing — the sheen on your neck, the way your mouth’s gone slack — and then back to the ice.

you realize that he’s tracking both of you, seeing which one finishes first — you or the zamboni.

a corner turn rolls his hips under you and your nails dig into his shoulders.

'breathe,' he says at the halfway mark, and you realize you haven’t taken a breath in a while.

by the far end you’ve given up on dignity — forehead on his collarbone, breath ragged, grinding down in tiny, helpless circles that he permits now without stopping you, one of his gloved palms spread wide and warm over the small of your back, pressing you against him through every shiver.

then suddenly, due just to the engine’s grind and the fullness of him and the drag of another helpless circle, your orgasm hits somewhere low and deep, a hook that yanks. heat floods up from where you’re stretched around him, up through your stomach, spreading across the backs of your taut thighs, and your whole body clamps down; a rolling clench that punches a keening moan out of you, high and cracked and swallowed against his collar. your hands close around his neck for purchase. you can feel yourself fluttering around him, and there’s nothing to do but ride it out with your face hidden in his throat.

you can feel the zamboni drifting, then the small jolt of the wheel correcting, then stopping — and then both of his hands come to your hips, grinding you down through the last of it.

he pulls his glove off with his teeth, tosses it somewhere onto the dash, and leans you back so that he can look at you, taking your jaw in his bare hand, tilting your slack face up.

'couldn’t wait, huh?' he asks.

you try to answer but his grimy thumb presses into your cheek, and that’s when you feel the small restrained tremor in his hand. twenty minutes of sitting stone-still inside you and it’s finally in his fingers, in the flex of his thighs under yours, in the way his breath’s going through his nose too fast now. his hips twitch up involuntarily and he exhales through his teeth.

his whole unperturbed performance crumbles between one breath and the next, and both hands move to hook under your thighs and drag you up, then back down onto him hard enough that the seat creaks and you both shout a different swear.

that’s just about all the warning you get before he’s moving you the way he wants, hauling you up the whole length of him and slamming you back down. you’re still raw from coming — every drop of your hips lands on nerves already rung out, stretched too much, sparks-behind-the-eyes too much, and you sob into his neck and take it anyway.

‘fuckfuckfuck—’ he grits out just before he comes with a long broken groan against your ear, cock pulsing into your sensitive walls, emptying himself.

and you both sit frozen for a moment, heart rates easing, you can feel him twitch one last time inside of you and he sighs against your temple.

‘…still got half a rink to do,’ he mumbles, hips giving one last lazy grind that makes you whimper.

‘simon,’ you sigh.

‘could stay just like this for it.’ a pat on your arse, he’s dead serious. ‘you’d barely notice.’

and before you can dispute it, he’s already started the ice from the beginning again.

——

oh wow!!! not only does it look interesting but it also has everything i love:

Being threatened by a butcher ✔️

Having your mouth thoroughly inspected ✔️

Being treated like someone’s property ✔️

will def dig into it a bit more!!!! i found that the art is done by Arrokoth, who lists themselves as the artist and illustrator on their vgen acc. but hopefully a few on the dev team have Daum or Naver Cafe i can stalk for details or post more q&as on twt. thanks!!!!

and for those who don't have twt:

ao3

part 8

obsessive gaz x telepathic reader

cw: stalking, past murder, gorey thoughts, sexual thoughts

several times a day, a black car drives around your block, and with it comes every single thought in kyle's head, blasting into your brain like a megaphone spewing violence and pornography.

at first she left the meals and cutlery in the room then left you to eat. then she started staying to watch you eat. you didn't want to give her whatever kind of sick satisfaction she'd get from it, but you need to eat. so you put up with it

then she started sitting closer and closer to you while you ate. then she started holding the plate in her lap while you ate from it. it all happened so slowly, so gradually, that you didn't even really notice how strange it was until she started petting your hair while you ate. you tried not to eat for a few days after that. but you need to eat. so you cave. and she keeps petting your hair

one day she ties your wrists behind your back before she brings your meal. when she comes in with the food, she sits in a chair directly in front of you. you think about how much you hate her. you think about how much you hate that you're so used to being close to her. she picks up some of the food and cups it in one palm. then she extends the hand towards you

you stare at the food in her hands. your mouth starts to water. you understand, somewhere deep in you, that if you do this, you will be crossing a line. something in you will snap in a way that can't be fixed. you hate her. you don't want to give her whatever kind of sick satisfaction she'll get from it

Yes, she mocks rape victims. She threatens litigation against the mildest criticism against her. She has created an LGB group to make it so very clear that trans people are not welcome where she gives money. She is the funding behind Scotland saying trans women aren't legally women. The list goes on.

But. I promise you, 99% of the people around you don't know she's done any of this because they aren't following her social media or stories about her. To them, she is just the author of those fun wizard books. You gotta talk about how she's SO WEIRD and ISN'T IT SAD.

You need to tell the normies how she uses the funds from all her payout agreements for ALL Harry Potter licensing, including the re-release of these movies.

"It's so fucking weird. It's so fucking off-putting. It's so fucking sad." Say that over and over. Don't try to tie it into larger ideas. This is not how people will listen. "Isn't it just fucking sad she has all this money that could go to literacy or scholarships, and she's using it to attack people who are just living their lives? What a weird fucking choice."

We need to out-Morbius Morbius in terms of this tanking, and the way you do that is talk to normies about how fucking WEIRD and RUDE she is. How ODD that the second Fantastic Beasts movie gave a "actually, fascism isn't too bad" vibe all the way through and especially at the end. How she has complained that the child actors from those movies particularly don't agree with her views on trans people and that she's publicly said that's why she wanted a new show.

What a WEIRD thing to say about child actors you worked with over a decade ago. It's so WEIRD she would care that those child actors have different opinions than her. It's really SAD she apparently has no hobbies except posting on social media about how she hates trans people. A beloved author who could be using her name to raise money for animal rescues and homeless people and all sorts of really great causes that could improve people's lives, and she's out here doing THIS? It just bums me out. I just can't support someone who uses their money to harass and harm other people like this. I don't know WHY she acts like this or WHY she's chosen to make it her whole personality, but it just makes it really hard for me to want to support any Harry Potter stuff, even when I loved it so much. Knowing any money made from that franchise goes into her pocket to just pour out onto orgs and laws that tell adults they can't just live their lives and be left alone is WEIRD.

And then say what you're gonna be doing instead. You know, I'm going to go and find some new fantasy books at the library. I'm going to boardgame day down at the game store. I'm going to a stitching group. I'm going to host a 1980s fantasy fest at my place; do you have any favorites you recommend? We should have a film fest where we watch all the movies that scared the shit out of us as kids.

Barely

"Hey lil' man," ghost coos to the baby sat in his lap, happily chewing on the ear of a snoopy plush with a tiny fist wrapped around ghosts pinky. "Having fun? Thinking up some big things, I'm sure."

It looks comical how small a normal, healthy baby looks in his lap. Little arms waving absolutely while it turns to look at ghosts unmasked face. Baby doesn't cry, only stares up at ghost before exclaiming "ahh!! Babbfaaahh!!"

Ghost, he only laughs and holds baby up in his palms so baby can touch all over his scarred face. Little excited "ah ah ah"s and random giggling interspersed whenever ghost pulled a funny face.

"Smart fella, ain't you?" Ghost snorts, sets baby back down to chew on snoopy. He's got this soft, sappy expression on his face. Looks so natural with a baby in his arms. You can't help but snap a few photos.

This heat is frying my brainnnnn (and theirs too)

though it takes some time, skittish as you are, he talks you down. learns who you are and what you’re doing on his property. apparently, you’ve been fending for yourself for months after your new husband took your horse into town for supplies and simply never came back. no letter or body, nor word from anybody who might’ve seen him—just a house that’s falling apart and a garden you depend on to keep you alive.

price shows you the deed and bill of sale to convince you he isn’t some drifter or swindler trying to trick or rob you, and watches the fight go out of you when you realize what the papers actually mean, that the land was never your husband’s to begin with. that this stranger has every right to put you out.

you were frightened before, but now you’re looking at winter coming on with no horse, hardly any money, nowhere to go, and truly no one left in the world. and price, who’s spent his life living hard and thought that he’d spend the back half of his life alone, finds he can’t stomach the sight of you standing there trying not to beg him mercy.

he looks at the growing calluses on your palms, the dirt under your fingernails, and the dried mud caked along the hem of your skirts, and he is struck. all those violent, bloody years he survived when better men did not? this must be what he’s been kept alive for. to come all this way to this slice of heaven and find you here.

so he strikes a bargain instead: you can stay through the next month while you decide what you want to do. in the meantime you’ll help him make the place livable and he’ll teach you what he knows.

you’re not stupid. you know exactly how lopsided a deal it is, how little you have to offer compared to what he’s putting on the table—besides the obvious. he gives you the night to think it over, you toss and turn beneath for hours trying to invent a better alternative, but there simply isn’t one.

in the morning, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, you tell him you accept. john just grins and drains his coffee. to him, the matter was never in much doubt. he puts the two of you to work immediately.

the first few weeks are hard. john tackles the roof and walls first, making you his little helper, calling down for whatever tool he needs next or sending you to fetch whatever materials you can manage. you go to bed and wake up sore, palms blistering in a pair of his old gloves. all the while, john, strong as an ox, seems capable of working from dawn until dusk.

in the afternoons, when the heat makes repair work miserable, he puts you both on his horse and rides double to the nearby lake to teach you to fish. you squirm the first time he makes you gut a trout, nearly retching when the knife opens its belly. john only laughs when you try to shove the whole bloody business back toward him. his big hands close over yours instead, guiding the blade while his chest glues to your back, his voice rumbling in your ear as he chides you for trying to worm your way out of it. can’t live on good intentions, love. go on. get your fingers in there.

he teaches you to shoot next and that’s when you get your first inkling of whatever life he led before he found you. he’s an excellent shot, on foot and horseback. he’s also a good teacher. hands-on. correcting your stance, one wide palm at your waist and the other on your elbow, enduring every flinch of yours until you can fire without shaking. he shows you how to set basic snares and read the ground for tracks. in return, you teach him what grows best in the garden and what you’ve found foraging.

and during those early weeks, you live on edge, waiting for him to ask for more than just a second helping at dinner. because you know enough of the world to know what sort of bargain a woman in your position might ordinarily be expected to make, whether the exact terms are spoken aloud or not.

you hold your breath whenever he squeezes past you in the kitchen and go stiff when his hands squeeze your sides while shooting, steadying you against the recoil. more than once you’ve lain awake listening to the floorboards creak beneath his weight while he stays up late, waiting for him to appear at your bedside. when you bathe in the lake, he stands watch on the bank with his back turned, and though you wait to catch him looking over his shoulder. but, to your honest shock, he never does.

he’s refreshingly gentlemanly. you can’t tell whether he’s honoring the existence of your husband, suspended somewhere in that awful limbo between living and dead, or whether john is simply a patient man biding his time. waiting for the right moment.

whatever the reason, each day that passes without him demanding that certain kind of tender as payment relaxes you just a bit more. your vigilance eases and you stop keeping track of where he is in and outside of the cabin. for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.

as a consequence, the whole situation grows domestic. his razor appears beside your washbasin. his coat hangs beside yours by the door. you start setting two places at breakfast and supper. at night, when there’s oil or wax to spare, you read aloud to each other.

so it comes as a surprise when, near the end of the month, john tells you to put on your best. you’re going into town.

today, apparently, you’re going to finally buy a horse of your own.

you start protesting immediately—you haven’t the money for a horse, your husband carried the bulk of it, you certainly don’t have enough a good one—but john waves all that away. you need one, he insists. can’t have you stranded. and while you’re in town, you can make some inquiries after your husband.

that shuts you up. almost makes you petulant. worse is the stab of shame when you realize you’ve barely thought of the man in weeks. for months, his absence had occupied every waking hour. you would daydream and imagine hoofbeats or footsteps and fly to the window, searching. then john arrived, and at some point, your husband became an afterthought.

in town, john waits patiently while you ask after your husband at the general store, the barber, the blacksmith. he accompanies you into the saloon, standing a few paces behind while you question the bartender and whatever regulars might have been there around the time your husband disappeared. john doesn’t say a word. he watches their faces, thick arms folded across his chest, eyes jumping from face to face beneath the brim of his hat while you explain when your husband left, the horse, and what he looked like.

nobody knows a thing.

in the end, you wilt dutifully. resigned to the fact that he either ran off or that his bones are bleaching in a ditch somewhere on the road. the thought ought to devastate you more than it does, and that brings another little stab of guilt.

john simply plants a hand between your shoulder blades and steers you toward the livery.

there, at least, he manages to cheer you up. he helps you choose a pretty chestnut gelding with a blaze on his forehead and a friendly disposition. john pays for him while you’re busy cooing at the creature, along with a saddle and tack, and when you claim that you’ll pay him back, he merely smiles and says, ‘m sure you will, love.

back home, neither of you mention that your agreement is nearly up. and when the month comes and goes, and neither of you mentions that either.

the timeline simply stretches, one day passing into the next. any sense of urgency gets lost. there’s still work to be done on the cabin, after all. you’re getting better with the rifle but john reckons you’ve plenty left to learn. you’ve only just got your own horse and ought to become a better rider before setting off anywhere alone. then the sun starts setting earlier and the leaves start to change, and really, leaving now would be foolish what with winter so close. you better to stay until spring.

john lays all this out over dinner one night. says it so plainly.

you agree, a mite too eager, and hide your smile behind another bite.

that night, while you sleep curled beneath your blankets, john eases your door open enough to look in on you. he stands there for a long while, listening to your breathing, before slipping a hand into his pocket. his thumb finds the worn band of that wedding ring he picked off a dead man on the road west and toys with it.

he wonders if he ought to pray. john never put much stock in faith or fate before. but what could he call this? finding that failure of a man, then finding the home he’d abandoned and the wife he’d left behind? what else is john supposed to understand it as, if not a series of signs pointing him precisely where he was meant to go? of all the land he might have bought, all the roads he might have taken—what are the chances?

the next day, he takes that dead man’s ring down to the lake and tosses it in. he will buy another the next time the two of you ride into town.

and that night, after weeks of patience, of sneaking off to see to his own wants in private, kicking dirt over his wasted spend, he will finally make his move. he will employ that same slow tenderness he’s shown you from the beginning. he has no reason to believe you won’t welcome it. you won’t shy away. you’ve been alone so long, starved for company, and he’s taught you to reach for him when you need something, hasn’t he?

no, you won’t fight him one bit. you’ll understand better, too, when he’s got you on your back, cock buried deep, drool hanging off your lip—you’ll know that you’re both right where you belong. where you’re meant to be.