pinky !

Poor guy, your heart sympathizes. Lets see what we can do.

You breathe outwards before rapping on the door, barely hesitating before pushing inwards.

"Hi!" you greet enthusiastically, sparing the (hulking) man hardly more than a glance before you reach for the hand sanitizer dispenser, "Mr. Riley, is it?"

He clears his throat, "Yes."

His voice is much quieter than you'd expected, soft and muffled, like he hated the sound of it. You resist quirking a brow, turning around to study him while you rub the sanitizer in. He's...

God, he's big.

The stupid, rickety patient chair makes him look like a giant, bulging biceps heaped atop the arm rests like solid steel resting on bamboo scaffolding. If he stood, he'd probably hit his head on the doorway, but sitting there, his shoulders are hunched, his head hung low, the perfect picture of abject reticence. A black facial mask covers his jaw, matching the black baseball cap shielding his head.

Mysterious, your brain interjects.

Clinically self-concious, your (rather blunt) professional self deduces.

Inwardly, you think it's rather impressive, how such a large man manages to shrink himself down into something near invisible, but you keep that observation to yourself. You extend your hand in his direction when you introduce yourself.

"So what brings you in today?" you bounce onto your rolly-chair, scooting closer to the man, eager to hear his story.

He tsks.

"Read my chart, didn't you?" he scoffs, voice twinged with disdain...or is it amusement?

It takes a special type of person to walk the fine line between those two, your inner-world says, hardly offended.

"Yes, but I'd like to hear it in your own words. Better to let words speak rather than typing mistakes," you laugh.

"Hm," he acknowledges.

For a few seconds, you wait for a reply. However, after the awkwardness grows to a palpable level and nothing but the rusty hinges on your wheely-stool remain, it becomes apparent he isn't going to give one. Still, you don't make to interrupt the process.

His chest rises on an inhale, and slowly, his head lifts, just enough for you to see blue irises peek out from the shadow of the brim of his hat. When he finally meets your eye, vision settling across your face, the once stoic set of his brows loosens, pupils expanding to capture the light as best they can. He seems stuck there for a second, drinking you in from your forehead to the tip of your nose, until you cock your head in curiosity. The exhale is punched right out of him, and he hurriedly ducks his head, repositioning the brim of his hat.

Suddenly, he doesn't look so tough.

No, he just looks...shy, eyes darting around the room as if he'd rather stare anywhere else but at you.

He's quite cute, the chronically single part of you chimes in.

AMA Code 9.1.1, your white coat whispers.

Internally, you shake the thought off your back. Focus. This man is looking for your help.

Again, his voice is soft -- so contrastingly soft -- when he speaks.

"I've got scars," he blurts, obviously discomforted and too afraid to hold eye contact.

"Okay," you respond.

Another beat of silence. You hope that it conveys your assent to his control of the conversation.

"And..." he stutters, "And I want them gone."

"Okay," you nod, wheeling backwards to grab a pair of gloves, "And do you mind if I take a look at them? To see what treatments might be best?"

Again, he doesn't answer. You only look on patiently as you situate your gloves. He's not wearing a heart monitor on his fingertip, but if he were, you imagined it'd be racing right about now. He looks towards the closed door, Adam's apple bobbing with a harsh swallow.

"You gonna bring anyone else in? To look?" he mutters.

"It's just a quick exam, doesn't require any tools or assistance," you promise, "But if you'd be more comfortable with another person in the room with us -- or with another physician entirely -- we can certainly make that happen. It's your choice."

"No. It's not that."

He stares at the door for a few more seconds. His hands wring in his lap, and for the second time today, he manages to look you in the eye.

"Just...make it quick. Okay?" he says aloud, commanding.

Don't want anyone else to see, his fidgeting frame conveys.

"Of course," you say, standing from your chair. He reaches for the cap atop his head, shoulders taut, before he unhooks the mask from his ear. You can see it almost immediately despite the way he keeps his vision locked resolutely on the floor. Beneath buzzed blonde hair, you see the beginning of red raised lines, trailing down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. They're long, fluid, and reaching, starkly mottled with color against his pale white skin. When he finally raises his face, you can see that his right eye is drooping at the corner, obscured by a small waxy section of fused skin on his outer eyelid. The eye doesn't look damaged, though.

The scar extends down the entire right side of his face, and the skin is textured there, raised with bright red in every spot that the liquid touched. It recedes into the surface of his skin in some parts -- the flatter portions of his face -- where pools of the substance had time to eat away at his cells a bit longer. The skin is wrinkled and stretched in those parts, including the bit by his eye.

In medical school, you'd studied case photos before. It was quite a distinctive burn pattern due to the way liquid runoff caused scars in the shape of the running droplets themselves, diffused across the surface by gravity, spreading the agony by nature's hand.

You cannot begin to imagine how painful it must have been. Your heart aches imagining how it occurred.

Slowly, you raise your hand to touch the edges of the the marks, assessing their texture.

"How did the injury happen?" you ask between careful fingertip taps, taking mental measurements of the length and size of each mark.

"It's in my chart. They teach you how to read in medical school?" he huffs...almost pouting.

You giggle.

"It is in your chart -- which I can read, by the way. But I want to hear your perspective on it."

He tsks again, "Does that even matter?"

"It's the thing that matters most," you reply -- and rather seriously, too. You emphasize the sentence with a pointed glance at his face, before you return to your task.

The scars are winding, branching things, diffused across his cheek, forehead, nose, and neck, like interconnected constellations across the night sky.

Despite how much pain you know is embedded in them, you can't help but think that, in a way, they're beautiful. Like many of the scars you saw each day, they're part of the people you help. A part that, in many cases, is just as much a facet of them as their hair color or clothing choices. That, and like many other things, something that wasn't so easily removed or erased.

As always, you keep that opinion to yourself. You can't tell whether the idea stemmed from your own clinical interest in them as a specialist. Or maybe the smaller, softer side of you couldn't help but marvel at the way Mother Nature always stitched herself back together in the end, leaving her touch as a reminder that, once the blood had dried and the dust had settled, you would always be made whole again. Someday. Sometime.

Of course, maybe you'd just published too many papers on the topic not to find them interesting by now. Staring out at conference crowds ranting about it for hours tended to do that to a person.

But hey, at least you weren't, like, a podiatrist or something. Somehow, you doubt your friends would find you as cool as you are if you ranted about big toes with the same enthusiasm as you did talking about the mechanism of Lichtenberg figures.

"Acid. There. That good enough for you?"

"Yeah," you curve your head to track the scars through his hairline. He perks up at the feeling your hands brushing through his hair, "And how long ago were these marks made? They seem well-healed given the circumstances of the injury."

He takes a breath in, "I'd say it's been...almost two decades, minus a few years."

"Huh," you raise your brows when you step back, pulling your gloves off.

He latches onto that little sound for some reason.

"What?" his cracked, crooked lips curve into a smirk for the first time since he walked into your office, "You think m'old, doc?"

"What makes you say that, Mr. Riley?" you laugh, "I thought it was pretty nonchalant on my part...they teach us that in school, y'know."

Why are you making jokes with him?

Why are you making jokes with him?

Seriously, this is what happens when you don't have a boyfriend for five years straight. Yeah, maybe you needed to get through medical school, and yeah, maybe you're too busy for a relationship. But then, every time a man so much as looks in your direction your heart starts to lurch.

That, and this is what your last preceptor would call 'ethical bullshit that will bite you in the ass if you let it fester long enough.'

Offput by the combination of those thoughts, you busy yourself with typing your observations into his chart. But of course, that doesn't negate the form of him sitting in the edge of your vision.

(That, or his warm, rumbling laugh. Or his awkward half-smile. Or the way that, when you leant closer to him, his cologne wafted over you in waves.)

Yeah, you should revisit your ethics textbook.

Or maybe you should buy another vibrator.

(Maybe you should do both.)

"Never thought I'd live to see the day a lab-coat developed a sense o' humor," he huffs, still smiling, before he reaches out to grab ahold of your name tag. The reel of the tag snaps back into place with a teasing noise, "How long you been wearing that thing anyway, huh? A year? Maybe two? Or do they enroll into medical school straight out of daycare these days?"

"Hey!" you swat at his hand before it can pluck at your name tag again, and suddenly, he's anything but shy, "You sayin' I have a babyface?"

"Uh-huh," he chuckles, "Doesn't match the white coat, love. Hate to break it to you."

"Pot calling the kettle black."

At that, he balks. His confidence falters, and for a second, the syllables get caught in his mouth.

"What? You think I came outta the womb lookin' like this?"

He gestures to the myriad of scars across his face, disdain evident in his expression.

"What?" you plop back down on your rolly-stool, "No. Just sayin', if you're trying to get a discount on the botox, it's gonna take more convincing than that. You look pretty good for your age."

That last bring yanks a laugh out of his stiff frame.

"'For my age?' What am I, seventy-five?"

"Well, seeing as how my professors never taught me to read a chart, it's a possibility, I guess..."

"Fuck off," he huffs, laughing.

"Aww, c'mon, don't say that just yet," you rock back and forth on your stool, "We're just getting to the fun part."

"The fun part?" he mutters.

"Yeah," you swivel back towards the computer, clacking away once more, "The anti-smoking lecture I'm professionally obligated to give you. From your chart. Which I can read."

"Save it."

"You want lung cancer?"

"Save it."

"Then stop smoking."

"Done."

You giggle, shaking your head.

"What?" he snickers.

"Y'know, I can see the Marlboro package sticking out of your pocket, right?"

Behind you, he straightens up in his chair to glance down at his belt, below which is the red and white façade of that familiar package. He licks his lips.

"What, a man can't change his mind, love?"

Love. God, you nearly melt at the stupid little quip.

"Not sayin' that, it's just..." you cross your arms, giving him a long hard look, "You don't look like the type to go back on your own convictions."

"You callin' me stubborn?"

"Not at all," you roll your eyes, "You sure you're not projecting?"

At that, he's got no good response. He merely lets his smile widen, just enough to let his teeth show through, and for that alone, you figure you can forgive yourself for your own professional transgressions.

"Well, smoking aside..." you sigh, forcing yourself back to business. You hate the way Simon's smile falls at the sudden transition, "You're in good shape for treatment. We can discuss the intricacies in further appointments, but there are several options depending on your own preferences. For the contracture scars around the eyelid, that'd most likely require surgical correction, but if you're aiming for less invasive options, laser treatments and topical medications would work as well."

"Whichever works the fastest," he speaks, voice deepening into something serious. He looks back down at the floor. It strikes something within you, and you brace yourself to act as the bearer of bad news.

"Mr. Riley--"

"Simon," he interjects, "Call me Simon."

You nod.

"Simon," You scoot your stool closer, "Before we get any deeper into exploring your options, I just want to make sure that you have reasonable expectations for your treatment."

He balks, hands wringing again, "''Reasonable expectations?'"

"Yes," you inhale lowly, "Given the extent of your injuries, and given the nature of your other inujuries as well...It's unlikely that the appearance of your scars can be completely negated. They can be reduced, yes, but they can't be removed. Not in the sense that you may be thinking, at least."

"Why not?" he asks -- no, demands. It's wrought with emotion, verging on anger. You don't recoil, however, you only continue onwards.

"Well...when you sustain a burn, it doesn't just affect the surface or the appearance of your skin. Altogether, what you might call...'the architecture' of your skin has changed. Scar tissue isn't normal skin, and aside from that, the blood vessels and hair follicles may have been damaged, too. With chemical burns like yours, the thickness of the burns is difficult to counter. Chemical burns can be deep, speaking relatively, and even with treatment, it's often not possible--"

"Why not?" he demands again loudly, and this time, his voice strains around the exclamation. He leans forward in his seat, and you're pinned beneath his harsh glare.

Instead of launching into another explanation, you let him sit in the silence, in the anger and emotions. The longer you look onwards, empathy hardly wavering on your face, the faster his belligerent expression falls into something...deeply hurt.

His anger falls away, whether it be from remorse for shouting at you or grief for his own situation, he ducks down to bury his face in his hands. A far cry from the man you'd just been joking with.

For minutes, you sit in silence. Simon, repetitively running his hands over his face -- over those raised red scars he despised. And you, looking on, unable to promise anything more than you could give.

"Simon," you eventually speak, quieting your tone, "Why'd you come in today? I mean, after almost twenty years living with these scars...why now? What changed?"

You hear him sniffle beneath the cover of his hands.

God, is he crying?

If it were possible, your heart breaks even further. Slowly, you wheel backwards to grab a box of tissues out of the supply cabinet.

"Does it even matter?" his voice is muffled from the hands he hides behind, warbled with tears. He's determined not to let you see them. (Not to let himself have them).

"Yes, Simon," you pull a tissue from the box, holding it out in his direction, "It matters. I could give you a whole spiel about the health science behind resilience and purpose in recovery, but I'm not saying this because of the research. I'm saying this because I'm your doctor and I care about you."

For a few more seconds, he cries silently into his hands, sucking in every hitching breath, like maybe if he tried hard enough, you'd never notice the tearstains on his collar. It takes awhile, but eventually, he reaches out shakily to take the tissue.

You don't recoil, not even when he lifts his head, and exposes his swollen, reddened eyes. His words are shaky when he finally opens his mouth.

"My nephew..." he manages, nearly choking, "He's -- he turns three years old in a few weeks."

"Yeah?" You pull another tissue, "He's what makes you want to get rid of the scars?"

He nods his head, and for a split-second, that look of sadness on his face deepens into an aching look of sheer anguish.

"He's a sensitive lad, gets -- gets nightmares real easy," he looks down at his boots, "Last time I went over, he burst right into tears, and -- and my brother said he woke up cryin' for damn near the whole weekend."

A sob escapes his mouth before he can stop it. He swallows it and clears his throat.

"He's so scared of me he won't come near. Won't let me hold him. Won't let me talk to him," he shakes his head as more tears burst forth, "He's terrified of me. His own uncle. Because I look like this." He gestures towards the smattering of scars across his face, tissue clutched in his balled up fist, "Because this is who I am."

"Simon, that's..." you reach forward to grab his fist, squeezing it between your warm hands.

"My brother says he'll grow out of it, that -- that it's not a big deal, but..." you hand him another tissue, "I know it's not easy for them. And -- and sometimes I wonder...if maybe they'd be better off if I stopped going to see them altogether."

Immediately, you shake your head, scooting your stool closer emphatically, "That's -- that's not the answer, Simon. I promise."

"Yeah?" he looks up at you, watery eyes unsteady, "Then what is? Because -- if you can't get rid of them, then what's even the point of trying?"

That strikes a chord within you. Seeing him there, looking to you for help, for comfort, for answers...Your preceptor told you not to get close to your patients, but after this...How could she expect you to put up walls?

You reach for the box of tissues, and lift one towards his face. He can't help but flinch backwards when you raise it words his injured cheek, but when you hold steady in the face of his reproach, he squeezes your hand in silent consent.

You dab around the corner of his injured eye, studying the contracture marks beneath your tissue. His fingers twine with yours, nervous and worked up, but you don't rush.

Already, it's hard to imagine his face different than what is already is, but if it's as important as he believes...

"Simon, I can't promise you more than what science has to give," you whisper, "But if there's anything I've learned in the past few years, it's that nature is more surprising than we give it credit for."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." you swipe across his jaw, where several tears hang, "Research might say one thing, but the results of treatment might surprise you. What you think is a small difference might be what changes everything. How your family thinks about your appearance...how your nephew thinks about your appearance..."

You squeeze his hand.

"How you think about yourself."

His brows draw tight when you say that.

"That's why it's worth trying. Because if that's what you think is best for yourself, then all of us should listen."

You let your eyes wash over his face, wash over his harsh cheekbones, sharp jaw, blonde hair, and white-red skin. The color looks like supernovas against his complexion, like something tended to, healed, and stitched back together with love in every thread.

"You think so?"

"I think so," you nod, "And I promise I'll do anything to help you get there."

He spends a few more seconds studying the conviction in your eyes, studying the way your hand fits against his own, but eventually, he manages a deep breath, and he gives a small but sure nod.

"Okay," you nod back, tapping your figures against his hand, before you turn your stool and grab a piece of paper from the supply cabinet. You don't waste a minute before starting to write.

"Here," you rip a section of the paper off, "It's my personal number."

"What for?" he suddenly straightens up, something...unreadable and confused overcoming his face.

"I'm booked out for months -- gotta love the efficiency of the healthcare system," you complain sardonically, "If I left you with Julie, she'd do her best to find you a place, but this is important, and I don't want you falling between the cracks."

You stand from your stool, "Whenever you get a chance, call me. I'll fit you in after hours, come up with a plan that's better than just 'wait and see.'"

At that, something akin to hope flickers in his eyes. He looks down at the small scrap of paper and the loopy handwriting thereon, before he gathers himself and finally stands.

For a split second, you're blinded by how tall he is. God, you nearly have to crane your neck just to maintain eye contact.

"Okay," he nods, tucking the baseball cap back over his head, "I will."

"Then..." you smile, sticking out your hand, "I look forward to it, Simon."

He looks down at the offered hand, at your starched white coat, and the irresistible glimmer in your eye.

He didn't know it then, but in the future, he'd come to realize that moment was just the beginning of it all. What followed was deeper than he could've thought. Deeper than seven layers of scar tissue. Deeper than a scalpel could cut. Deeper than he'd dared to let himself imagine.

Now, he knows its significance. But back then, it was only ten little numbers, written in sparkly pen ink, with the letters 'M.D.' left in signature.

-

you looked towards the armchair, panic in your eyes. he wasn’t there, but bloodstains marred the fabric. you couldn't tell if the stains were old or new, but you didn't care. 

fuck, where was he? keeping the blanket around your shoulders, you stood from the sofa. “ghost?” you called as you made your way through the house. 

the staff were bustling about the house. their lack of concern eased the worry in your gut. 

you searched every room downstairs. but, fuck, this house was huge. it wasn't doing your aching joints any favours. 

“simon?” you called, starting up the stairs. 

you searched the guest rooms and the bathroom. nothing. you dared peek into his room, but he wasn't there. 

his office door was open just enough for you to hear the scratching of pen on paper. “ghost?” you called, knocking on the office door. 

“come in, love.” 

you sucked in a breath and pushed open the office door. before you strode into the room, you took him in. 

fresh dressings covered his freshly cleaned wounds. someone had done a better job than you at patching him up. they'd fixed him, while everything you did was temporary. 

his mask was back on his face. his brown eyes were fixed on you as you finally stepped into the room. 

“shut the door, sweetheart,” he said. 

you did just that, not wanting to dwell on the nicknames. Two in such a short space, like he was trying them out. tiptoeing across the floor, you sat in the chair in front of the desk. 

simon laid his pen to one side. he looked at you, as if waiting for you to say something. your fingers flexed, brushing over the soft blanket as you looked at his bandaged hand. 

“I just wanted to make sure you're okay,” you said, not entirely sure what else to say to him. 

“wouldn't be ‘f it weren't for ya,” he said and pulled off his mask. 

you didn't want to stare, but there was so much to take in on his face. details you wanted to get to know while he was being so warm to you. your gaze moved to the overlapping ink on his arm, impressive lines and shading making up intertwining pictures. 

“I've been a right barstard,” he said, sitting with his hands clasped, as if this was a business meeting. “i ain't done anything to make you feel comfortable ‘ere since you arrived.”

you scratched at your wrist, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze. “i didn’t help,” you mumbled, but simon shook his head. 

“none ‘f that, love,” he said, leaning back. you glanced at his face, at the scar across his crooked nose and the mark on his chin. 

“the wedding's still happening,” he said, he voice finally sounding bitter, like he couldn't hold it back anymore.

"i know," you said, never once doubting it.

"but i'm gonna be better to you. i'm not gonna make you feel like a stranger in this house anymore."

finally, you looked into his brown eyes. he could have bee lying to your face, you wouldn't have known any better. but living in this house, being his future wife, you had no choice but to trust him.

you made yourself comfortable on your chair, tucking your feet beneath you. "do we have a date for the wedding?"

simon shook his head. "not yet," he replied, swinging his chair from side to side. "i'm gonna piss price off about it when i see him."

"okay," you said, fiddling with your nails.

silence hung between you. it was uncomfortable enough to make you squirm. so, you stood from the chair. simon didn't stop you as you walked out of the office.

you returned to your room, but not to stay. just to shower, to get dressed into something a little nicer. you had a little less on your mind, a little less to weigh you down. happy would have been a stretch, but it wasn't so far out of reach.

finally, you walked the halls of his house with your head held high. there was no shake in your step, you didn't stare at your feet as you walked.

you strode past his office, not catching the way he watched you. even if you looked, the mask was back on his face, not letting you see the kind smile he wore.

you made your way down the stairs. there was a library around here somewhere, you just didn't know where.

the staff let you explore. they didn't exactly ignore you, instead letting you wander through the halls. for that, you were grateful. it let you explore the house at your own pace.

it was beautiful, not what you expected from a man like ghost. care had been put into the maintenance and decoration, something you suspected he hadn't done himself.

the staff stopped when they saw you. they were still, letting you pass as if they were merely statues before they continued on with their work. you kept walking, taking in the paintings on the walls, the expensive decor.

the library appeared all at once. the great double doors that didn't look like they belonged inside of a home were pulled open to reveal books upon books. shelves that climbed towards the high ceilings, stretching towards the drawn curtains.

sucking in a breath, you stepped inside.

***

simon watched you through the cameras. his wife to be, exploring the house that would one day be yours.

the warm feeling that started in his chest was unnerving.

he switched the camera feed to the library as you stepped inside. he hadn't watched these cameras since he first moved in, unwilling to touch his mother's collection of books.

the shelves were filled with dust. you ran your fingers along, gathering it onto tour fingertips. but you weren't observing in scrutiny.

simply taking everything in.

at first, you didn't touch the books. simon's eyebrows were raised behind his mask as he watched you. you weren't yet looking at the books, in fact, heading straight to the windows.

the long, thick curtains couldn't have been easy to pull back. but simon watched you try. they only moved a little bit, but you weren't giving up. not until both curtains were pulled back, secured with the curtain tie, and light flooded his library.

the video feed didn't show what a state it was. it was one of the few rooms he'd told his staff not to bother with. but, if you were going to start using it, that would have to change.

with the curtains pulled open, you dusted off your hands and went to find a book. as soon as you found one, you pulled it from the shelf and sat in the little seat by the window.

simon watched you. he couldn't look away. calls were ignored, reports unfinished, work forgotten as he watched you.

his future wife.

someone he was starting to think was perfect.

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you only remember trembling at the sight of your large, imposing neighbor, squeaking out a little, "sure thing, y-yeah, of course," and then never seeing him again.

no one moves in. no one moves anything out.

you visit, every so often. you don't go past the entryway and living area, but you come over every other week and dust off the surfaces with a rag. you make sure the water can still run and shoo the spiders out and sweep the floors before shutting off the lights and leaving.

it's a small routine, but you keep it up, because the rent is still being paid, so someone must be coming home.

right?

you think about him a lot while he's away. you've always admired him from afar, but you're shy, and it keeps you sheltered. he seems kind. he helped you pick up your bag of spilled groceries when the bag gave out and the bottom tore from the weight. he always held the door for you, nodded his head, gave you soft eyes. he's much taller than you, much bigger, and you think people must part ways to let him through in fear of being crushed underneath him, but it's...attractive, the mystery of it. wondering what he looks like under his masks. wondering what he might say if he told you what was going through his mind, the dark place that it must be.

you almost don't recognize him in the aisle at the shop. you're pushing your trolley, deciding which crisps you might want to try this week, when your eyes span across a very broad back at a very familiar height. you can't help the little smile that comes over your face, and you start to walk over slowly and tap his shoulder gently.

"h-hi, simon."

when he turns, you swallow. he's holding a baby. well, a toddler, you suppose, but a baby nonetheless. he has pretty blonde curls and dark eyes. you wouldn't say he was simon's spitting image, but they share traits, and you step back nervously, feeling as if you've intruded.

"oh, sorry," you say softly. "i didn't...realize you. had company."

simon looks tired. he's not wearing any eye-black under his balaclava, and you can see the dark circles under his eyes. he hoists the fussy baby on his hip a little higher, grunting as the boy looks at you and waves. he looks tired, too, resting his cheek on simon's chest and letting out a sigh.

"'ello, luv," simon murmurs. you try not to break into too big of a smile at his greeting, playing with your fingers nervously as you crane your neck to look up at him. "been quiet around the flat?"

you nod. "yeah. real quiet. a-are you back?" you bite your lip. "who's this?"

when you see simon's eyes twitch, you realize maybe you were too forward. asking too many questions. you shake your head immediately.

"n-no, i'm...sorry. you probably just want to get home."

"no, it's not..." simon shakes his head. "this is joseph."

"oh." you smile at the baby, who's eyes are fluttering open and closed as he yawns. "he's...i..."

"he's my nephew," simon clarifies. he looks down at the boy, and you notice him squeeze him closer. he's tense and uncomfortable. "i'm." simon clears his throat. "i'm takin' 'im home." you notice his eyes go a little misty, and he looks around in the aisle. "i came to...i need ta get 'im 'is things, but i don't..."

"don't what?"

"don't know wot the fuck i'm supposed ta get."

you reach for your trolley, pointing to the aisle sign a short walk away.

"i think the baby things are over there. i can help."

you're holding the baby on the walk back. he's fast asleep in your arms, thumb in his mouth and stuffed bear tucked close under his chin. beside you, simon carries a multitude of bags with not even a grunt.

"how did you know?" simon asks. he's looking for his keys, and when he can't find them, you produce his copy. it's hanging on your own keychain, and he takes it gratefully as he goes to open the door.

"know what, simon?"

"wot...bloody diapers to buy? wot food?"

you follow him inside, and you see that there are boxes of baby items in the entryway—the crib, a changing table, a chair to eat in. you scoot past it into the living room, and you set joseph down on the couch gently. you take your jacket off and tuck it around him as he sleeps, taking a seat next to him as you watch his chest rise and fall as he breathes.

"i just peeked at the size of the diapers that you had in his bag," you tell him lowly. "as he grows, you'll need to get bigger ones. and as for the food," you shrug, "i just picked out things i would probably like. but kids can be picky, so you might have to experiment."

"trial and error, tha' it?"

"mhm."

you sit by joseph with the tv playing lowly as simon builds the crib on the floor. he squints at the directions, but once he gets through the first bit of assembly, it takes very little time for it to come together. you watch carefully as he shrugs his jacket off, arms flexing as he fits pieces together and screws it tight. he shakes the crib to make sure it's secure before going to get the little mattress that fits inside.

you notice he has all the things. the mattress protector, cotton sheets. he even bought a little mobile with moon and stars hanging from it, and you observe carefully as his hands shake when he secures it to the edge.

"i didn't know you had any family," you say softly. simon sniffs as he gathers up the trash, not looking at you as he makes his way outside to throw it out.

"i don't."

the baby is sleeping soundly in simon's empty guest room once the crib is in there. he doesn't fuss or move when simon picks him up and lays him down, and you busy yourself with getting rid of more trash as you organize some of the new things he bought in the kitchen.

"simon," you stack some of the little cups with lids that you had just rinsed out. he stands in the middle of the kitchen, finally looking at you. "is...is everything okay?"

"no." he crushes the cardboard box he's dismantling under his boot, and you look at your feet as he uses his toe to flatten it completely.

you don't see simon again until a few nights later. it's the middle of the night, and you can hear joseph on the other side of the wall, screaming at the top of his little lungs.

you slip a robe on over your pajamas and pad over, knocking gently.

you take the baby from him when he opens the door. he's thrashing, crying, hiccuping. it gives simon enough time to get his bottle into the bottle warmer, and you rock him gently as the little machine bubbles and pops as it evaporates the water until the milk is all warmed up.

as soon as you put the bottle to his mouth, his crying ceases. his little head lulls to the side, his lips sucking the milk down. his little hand reaches and clutches at your robe, enough that it unravels a bit and reveals the low-neck tank top you're wearing underneath.

you pat his back and walk around the living room. simon takes the time now to clean up around the kitchen; it's an absolute mess of dirty dishes, open food containers, and splattered countertops.

once joseph is sleeping and the bottle is empty, you take him to his makeshift room and set him down. you notice simon has decorated a little more; he's put together a changing table and added some glow in the dark stars to the ceiling. there's toys in cubbies, stuffed animals set up on a couch pushed against the wall, and a playmat on the floor. while the rest of the flat is a mess, joseph's room is impeccably clean. dusted. mopped. toys in their place, and rubbish can emptied.

you shut the door quietly behind you. simon shuts the water off in the sink, hands wrapped around the edges of it so hard, his knuckles turn white. he must hear you come up behind him; when you place a hand between his shoulder blades, he doesn't flinch.

"it's okay," you say softly. "why don't we get you something to eat?"

it's probably the best cheese toastie he's ever had. or maybe he just hasn't had a real meal in days. his mask is just barely over his nose before half the sandwich is eaten, and when you get up from his couch, he doesn't let you get far. his hand wraps around the edge of your robe, and then you're settled on one thigh, leaning against his chest in his lap.

his cock is warm in your hand. you look positively adorable when you spit into your palm and wrap it around his tip. there's a little smile on your lips, something satisfied and giddy, and his hand around your hip tightens around the plush skin there.

"can't be doin' this," simon grunts, and you slide your hand all the way down his length, cupping his balls and squeezing. he hisses, gritting his teeth, and then you drag your fingers back up and thumb at the tip. "fuck."

"working so hard," you whisper, rubbing your nose against his cheek. "taking on so much. who takes care of you?"

"fuck—" simon's mouth falls open, and he squeezes his eyes shut as you move your hand quicker. he's leaking from the tip, precum spilling down the back of your hand, and you work your fingers faster.

"so proud of you," you coo. "you're such a good man."

"hah—" that sends simon's mind into a spiral. he's anything but. he's horrible inside. he's black and blue, his blood definitely doesn't run red, but he wants to be. he wants to be good. he wishes he was more than what he was. he aches to be, knows he never can be, but it's a nice fantasy, and it makes his cock so hard.

when you lick the cum off of your palm, he can't stop himself from cupping the back of your head and kissing you wet.

you hold his cheek when he pulls away, brushing your thumb across his bottom lip. he pants, deep and a little shaky, and you draw his mouth back to yours and kiss him again, gentler this time.

"you need me," you say against his lips, and he shifts you on his lap until your straddling him.

"i need you," simon echoes. you whine when he says it, dropping your robe, and simon drags your top just under your tits. you drag your panties to the side, rolling your hips down against his cock.

"s-say it again," you beg. when you sink down on him, he puts his chin to his chest, watching you suck him in slow and tight. he grits his teeth, shaking his head.

"Ain't she a pretty little thing..." Ambessa nudges Sevika's arm as she holds up her phone, there you were on the screen in a pale pink lingerie set, the panties soaked with a dark pink patch letting out the sweetest, high pitched moans as your viewers pay to control the vibrating egg stuffed deep in your weeping cunt. "Mhm, too sweet to be doin' this shit. Why are you showing me this?"

Ambessa shrugs and sends the link through to Sevika's phone. "Thought you two could collab, you know, considering you're both in the same profession, but if it does well... I want a cut." She calls out calmy before leaving the room. Sevika could absolutely agree you were gorgeous, and she'd have a hell of a time ruining you... though there was a part of her deep down that wanted to keep you all to herself.

Sevika was a 'cam girl' herself though she hated the term. There was a dire need for muscley butches in the cam space and she was more than happy to fill the void. Most of the cam girls were pretty little femmes -like you- which wasn't a bad thing, it left her with the horny, perverted leasbians who loved butches... which was a lot.

After a few weeks of messaging back and fourth, you decided maybe a collab with Sevika wouldn't be a bad thing... your viewers had only ever seen you in lingerie- they'd never seen you bare. And what better way to reveal yourself than collaborating with another well known camstar?

"Come in, please, make yourself at home." God she couldn't do this. Here you were welcoming her into your home, your space, wearing only a silk pink robe and clearly some very skimpy lace underneath.

"Lookin' good, doll. I won't lie to you... I've been counting down the days." She walks in further, leaning against the wall in the hallway which most likely lead to your bedroom. That bedroom. With the soft pink sheets, probably smelling of you- which she loved. Vanilla with a hint of chocolate.

"Couldn't wait to get your hands on me huh?" You giggle, walking closer to her as you joke. But Sevika wasn't joking, she literally couldn't wait to get her hands on you, she needed it like she needed air to breathe.

⊹˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

"Isn't she so beautiful? Look at this prettly little cunt... so wet for us isn't she?" Sevika had you sat back against her chest, legs spread over her own thighs to keep them pried open. The camera and ring light stood at the foot of the bed, giving your viewers a perfect view of you all spread open.

Her fingers run through your folds before she held them apart, exposing your throbbing clit and clenching hole to the camera. "Mmph look at it..." you nervously giggle through a moan, though the comments were very validating. People were happy, and so were you.

"Yeah you look so perfect, doll. Soaked and desperate aren't ya? Should I give her what she wants?" You watch the laptop off to the side with Sevika, the donations and messages all flood in at the same time. Some requesting Sevika to use toys on you, others wanting her to use her bare hands.

"Look at that one..." you point to a $200 donation for Sevika to finger you until you squirt, even if it takes multiple orgasms for you to do so. She kisses your temple as her fingers start to move. Slow, deliberate. Tracing your folds with the tips of her fingers lightly already felt so good, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, needy for her fingers. "That's the one, I've watched your videos, you ain't ever squirted before have ya? We'll change that little dollie."

She ignored all of the comments of people who were recognising her- that wasn't why she was here. Honestly the only reason she was here was to get her hands on you...

The minute Sevika sinks two of her long, thick fingers into your hole you let out one of the most whoreish moans she'd ever heard, it was beautiful. "Oh my g-god!-" Instantly your cunt clenched around her fingers, trapping them inside in fear she would take them away. Instead of pumping them in and out, she hooks them upwards, massaging your g-spot gently, earning her the prettiest little moans she'd ever heard. "That's it doll, let 'em hear how good my fingers feel. Bet they're all wishing it was them huh?"

You couldn't focus on anything other than her fingers which she'd slowly started to pump in and out of your sopping hole. Each pump of her fingers dragged against your inner walls deliciously, eliciting small whimpers and moans. "M-more... please more..." You wanted more, you wanted it faster, harder.

She chuckles, pressing another surprisingly soft kiss to your temple, watching your pussy through the laptop- it was beautiful. Glistening folds hugging your hole which was stretched beautifully around her digits which were now also dripping with your arousal. "Shhh, I'll give you more soon. Cum for me like this and ill give you more dollie. Be a good girl for me come on."

Seviak let's out a low groan agaisnt your skin as you tighten around her digits from the praise. And all of her self control leaves her body, she had to feel you tighten around her like that while you came. "Goood girl, there we go, cum for me baby- that's it, that's it..." Despite telling you she wouldn't give it to you harder, she did. Speeding up her thrusts she curls her fingers upwards as her fingers pummel your poor little cunt.

"Fuuuck! Mmph f-fuck I'm cumming! I'm cumminggg!" You cry out, hips twitching and thighs shaking as you let go, pussy clamping around her fingers as the waves of pleasure wash over you. As your whole body twitches, shaking as Sevika works you through it,the sight was nothing like she'd ever seen, and she was pretty sure you were too far gone to realise you'd already squirt all over the bed.

"Well ain't that a sight? My good girl squirting so pretty for you all so quickly. I think that earns her a reward, don't you?" She never stops, her fingers sliding out of you only to start slowly rubbing your clit as you come down. Your hips jerk at the oversensitivity but you never try to pull away- it felt far too good.

"Mmm... g-give me money..." you joke weakly, earning yourself a slap on the cunt from Sevika. Your wetness splashes over the bed and your open thighs, and despite your joke the money comes rolling in.

"Did so good for me dollie, so good. Now let's see how many more you can give me hm?"

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.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

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.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

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.

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