Melissa

Price who’s really beat after a long day at work. Just wants to relax in bed and let the stress of the day melt off him. Until you look up at him, your eyes wide with eagerness, legs rubbing against his under the comforter, hands caressing his arms. All frowns and pouts when he scratches at his beard and lets you down with a pet at your hair and kiss to your forehead.

You say it’s okay with a huff and roll over but when Price clicks the light off and turns to his side, after a few minutes you shift, scoot back a little. Again and again until you’re pressed to his front, head on his arm, and Price figures you just want to cuddle, pouting too much to admit it, so he wraps a heavy arm around your waist, nose nuzzling into your neck. Shiver with the scrape of his beard along your shoulder.

Sleep slowly building behind Prices eyes when your hips shift slightly, grind into his. Doesn’t think anything of it other than you’re getting comfortable. Until the movement of your hips becomes constant, knocking and rubbing against his cock. Can feel your back arch into him and he grunts into your ear, huffs a breath onto your neck that makes your need so much worse.

“Stop that.” He grumbles into your ear, knows that you’re trying to rile him up, so he tightens his arm around you in hopes it keeps you still. A little annoyed now because he’s all chubbed up in his boxers and knows it’ll take a minute before he’s calmed down enough to fall asleep.

You stop, thankfully. Until you don’t. Hips moving just subtly, slowly enough the need clogs your throat and it takes everything in you not to move faster. But Price can feel you moving even though you think you’re being sneaky, sucks in a deep breath before slapping at your thigh with the hand securing your waist.

“Cut it out. Don’t make me tell you again.” You shudder, eyes fluttering shut at the hoarseness in his throat. It only eggs you on, makes you throb at the threat behind his words.

You smash your hips back into his cock, grind without subtleness because he’s all worked up now even though he wouldn’t want to admit it. Angry and so hard against you that his arm under your head curls around your front, forearm under your jaw and hand clenching at your shoulder to keep you secure against his chest.

“Want it? Here it comes, baby.” He croaks in your ear. Annoyance and anger rolling off of him in waves as his other hand shoots down to lift your leg, yanks your soaked panties to the side. Makes you whine because he doesn’t bother touching your achy clit just huffs in your ear, rough with his grip that has tingles running over your body shuddering with anticipation.

Your breaths get heavier, body drumming when his hand darts back to wrestle his cock out. Feel it hot and heavy against your ass that you whine, need so heavy in your mind that just the feel of it against your pussy has you gushing.

Price grins when he lines himself up, soaks in the loud cry you let out when he thrusts in because you’re going to regret riling him up.

The airs punched from your lungs when he bottoms out. Pussy stinging at the quick stretch around him, whimper at the pleasure it shoots up your spine. Moan at the throb of him stretching you wide and filling you to the brim.

Bitterness in the way he handles you exactly what you were throbbing for when he pet your head and said maybe another night.

Price grunts and groans into your neck, hooks his arm under your knee and pins it to your chest so you can feel him deep inside you. Starts his thrust all of a sudden, pace so quick and harsh the air is knocked from your lungs. Have to gasp and huff to force air in from the grip he has around your front and pressure from his thrusts.

Makes sure he stuffs you to the hilt as he pounds away at your cervix, has you clawing at his arms, loud keens and moans drowning out the squelching of your pussy.

“What you wanted, huh? Desperate slut. Always needs Daddy’s cock fillin’ you up.” He spits into your ear, jerks when you flutter around him. Mind feasting at how pliable you are. How he can bully his cock into you and all you do is swallow him up and moan. How if he goes at it long enough you’ll blabber thank yous until Price has to fill your mouth so you shut up.

Price groans at the thought, cock slamming into you roughly as the imagine flashes in his mind. You mewl, words clogged in your throat, forced down by the pleasureful cries you can’t hold back. His beard scratches at your neck and shoulder, has tingles shooting down your back and making you push your ass into him.

The bed squeaks and rocks, Prices hips pounding forward and slapping into your ass. You bounce off his hips with each thrust, eyes fluttering closed because you can feel the head of his cock dragging against your walls and knocking at your cervix.

When you clench around him he shifts his hips, pummels his cock into your sweet spot so he can really feel you convulse around him. Has you squealing and toes curling, mind going fuzzy and soft with the pleasure coursing through you. Nails digging into the thick forearm around your throat, mouth falling open in silent cries when the feeling makes your body burn, heat blazing in your stomach.

Can feel drool dribble down your chin onto his forearm. Hand flying back when it feels like you might pass out, mind humming so violently you can’t think straight. “Slow, Daddy.” You whimper. “Too fast.”

Price tuts, grunting as he growls into your neck. “Take what I fuckin’ give you, baby. Wouldn’t let Daddy sleep because of your greedy cunt. Gonna pump ‘er full of cum so she sleeps real good tonight.” He purrs, drops his arm from your shoulder to hold your knee up so he can squeeze at your tits.

You squeal and grip at his arm when he pinches at your nipple through your shirt, rough material making lightening shoot through you.

“‘M sorry, Daddy.” You pant when his hand darts under your shirt. “I’ll be good. Just- slow down!”

Price palms at your chest, squeezing and tugging as his hips pummel into you, dips his mouth to nip at your neck when he sees you swallow thickly. Beard scraping your shoulder raw as he kisses and sucks harshly to leave purple marks for later.

“Too late for sorrys, baby. This is what you were begging me for. Can’t back out now.”

Tears spring to your eyes at the overwhelming amount of pleasure coursing through you. Think you’re getting a break when Price takes his plucking fingers away from your chest but lurch when you feel them at your clit.

Cry out when his rough fingers rub quickly at you, spasm and clench so hard you hear his low moans muffled against your neck, covered in sweat which he licks up, sends shivers down your spine and zips to your cunt.

His groans get lower, thrusts turning sloppy and short, feel every inch of him pull out and thrust back in more clearly. You can feel the veins of his cock grind against your walls, not a blur of feeling anymore, but they drag and tease you, have tingles shooting up your neck.

The pace of his fingers stay the same though, quick and sharp that an orgasm is quick to form. Have you squirming and whimpering, digging your nails into his arm as your ears ring.

Price curses, clench’s his jaw at the tight convulses around his cock, draws his balls tighter until the need to cum is clawing at his brain. Fingers still working against your clit for a second orgasm so he can have you cumming with him.

“Too much, Daddy.” You squeal with overstimulation, claw and tug at his hand until he coos, drops your leg and snatches your jaw in his paw to smash your lips together, beard nuzzling into your face so he can swallow your soft whimpers until you can’t breathe. Legs clenching and kicking around his hand, but never stopping his movements until another orgasm claws its way though your overstimulation.

Snatches his lips away, hand tight on your jaw to watch your face contort as you cum, picks up the pace of his hips when he gets closer. His groans and your soft mewls mixing together until you squeal and Price grunts lowly, your toes curling as you come together. Fingers and cock moving so quick your whole body tenses as your orgasm runs through you. Flutter so tightly around his cock you can feel the pulses that shoot his cum deep in your cunt. Ears ringing as you tremble until the waves of pleasure are soft throbs.

Price curses into your lips, groans when he gives a lazy thrust to make sure the last bits of his cum make it inside you. Pulls out slowly and watches you whimper at the noise and feel. Tugs your panties back over your spent pussy, before cupping your cunt with his palm.

Satisfaction coiling in his chest when you squeal, head slumped against his arm, jerk your hips away from the pressure at your clit, but you’re attempts are futile when there’s no where to run, and he follows you until his palm is nestled against you.

“Settle down, whiny girl.” He rasps, shakes his palm against you until you clutch at his wrist to stop the vibrations from moving your clit. “Ain’t nothing to cry over now you’re nice and full. Or does she want more?” He squeezes.

You gasp and hold his wrist down as much as you could. “No more, Daddy. She’s too full.” You whine, squirm at the feel of him leaking onto your panties. Too impossibly tired to care about how dirty you are.

“You sure, baby? I could stop now or be greedy and keep going like you did.” He taunts.

You suck in a deep breath, eyes heavy with sleep. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t do it again, I’ll be good.”

Prices pecks your temple with a soft chuckle. “I’ll let you sleep for now, baby. Fuck your little cunt through the night. Daddy’s gonna teach you a thing or two about messing with him while he’s trying to sleep.”

you swallow.

the last date the two of you had been on had been watching a movie on Netflix, takeout and wine littering your coffee table, your legs thrown over his lap while he rubbed absent circles into your ankle.

it had been nice.

it had been normal.

but at this table, normal feels embarrassingly small.

“when you’ve been together so long, and with his schedule, it’s hard, y’know, to find those moments—”

another friend waves her hand, not unkindly, but ready to move away from what clearly wasn’t going to be an interesting enough story.

“that’s why you have to find those moments. what has he done for you lately? like for example, jack just planned this entire weekend getaway for us after my boss had been such an asshole and it was so romantic. he bought us tickets to—”

her voice begins to fade into the background.

you look down at your ring again.

it’s not that you think simon doesn’t love you.

of course he loves you.

he loves with the weight of his hand at the small of your back in crowded rooms. he loves with the way he always sleeps closest to the door. he loves with the way he notices when you are too tired to eat and sets something in front of you without asking. he loves with the way he comes home half-dead and still checks the locks, the windows, the thermostat, anything that might touch you before it touches him.

but sitting there, surrounded by candlelit dinners and surprise weekends away, a different question curls itself beneath your ribs.

does he still care?

you had already known what you’d signed up for when starting this relationship. simon was never one for giant declarations of love or grand, pretty spectacles. he didn’t perform affection well. never had.

hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time he’d brought you flowers or planned a proper date.

you shuffle in your seat.

“that’s really sweet,” you sigh.

rugby playing on the tv is what greets you, simon fully settled on the couch, a beer in hand.

his head lifts as soon as he hears your key in the door, shoulders falling even more relaxed at the sound of your footsteps entering the house.

usually, that would be your cue.

you’d toe your shoes off by the door, wander straight to the couch, and drop yourself onto him like it was the most perfect fit. he’d grunt like you’d knocked the air out of him, even though you both knew he could carry you around the house with one arm if he wanted to.

you’d recount whatever pointless gossip had been fed to you that morning, and he’d pretend not to be listening while remembering all of it.

instead, you busy yourself with the mail in the kitchen.

simon notices.

because of course he does.

you try the sink next, if only to give your hands something to do.

the tap sticks.

you yank it harder, and when nothing comes out but a high-pitched wheeze, you let out a frustrated groan.

simon is behind you before you can even turn around.

“probably clogged,” he says.

you sigh.

“i can call a plumber tomorrow.” then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to face him. “we should do something tonight.”

his head tilts.

“we are,” he says, voice low and rough with confusion. “watching that new movie you wanted to see.”

you make a small noise under your breath.

his eyes flicker from the sink to you.

“no, si. i mean get dressed up. go out.” you swallow around the embarrassment already forming. “a real date.”

“why?”

your stomach lurches.

you know him. know he doesn’t mean it with any malice or cruelty.

but after an entire morning of listening to women talk about being chosen loudly, extravagantly, beautifully, that one word lands like proof.

why would he need to?

why would he think to?

why would he care to?

why would you ask for more when this is what you agreed to?

“forget it,” you say quickly, already stepping away. “i have a bit of a headache. ’m going to take a nap.”

simon says your name, but you don’t turn around.

the clanking of metal banging against each other is what wakes you.

for a moment, you don’t move.

you just lie there, blinking at the dim light of your bedroom, listening to the low metallic scrape from somewhere down the hall. the house is quiet around it, warm with evening, the television now turned down low enough that you can barely hear the commentator’s voice.

another clank.

a muttered curse.

you rub at your eyes and make your way to the kitchen.

simon has wedged himself inside the cabinet beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting in the cramped space, one arm braced against the floor while the other reaches up into the mess of pipes above him.

“si?”

he grunts, focused on giving the valve one final screw and your gaze follows down to the toolbox lying next to his hip.

“line was damaged,” he says from under the sink. “it’ll need replacing proper, but i’ve got it for now. try it.”

wordlessly, you step to the sink and lift the handle.

water rushes out, hot and clear.

for some reason, it makes your eyes burn.

simon shifts, dragging himself out from under the cabinet with a quiet exhale. he sits back on his heels and looks up at you from the floor, forearms smudged, hair mussed, expression unreadable except for the little crease between his brows.

“i told you i could call a plumber,” you say.

he shrugs.

“got me right here, don’t you? i don’t mind.”

your chest tightens.

because it was never going to be flowers. it was never going to be candlelit dinners. it was never going to be a string quartet playing underneath a perfect night.

it was always going to be simon, sitting on your kitchen floor with a wrench in his hand, looking at you like the solution to a problem is obvious because he’s already there.

you sit down at your kitchen table, eyes already watering from overwhelm, when a memory comes so quickly it almost embarrasses you.

you, curled on the couch with him months ago with your laptop open, showing him a table from architectural digest with the sigh that you do when you’ve found something you absolutely loved.

“look at this, simon. isn’t it perfect?”

he had just hummed as you continued scrolling before you start laughing.

“absolutely not. who spends five thousand dollars on a table?”

simon hadn’t said much at the time. he rarely did when something lodged itself somewhere deep in his mind. continued stroking your hair, looked at the screen for a second longer than necessary, and went back to whatever match had been playing on the tv.

three weeks later, there had been lumber in the garage.

then sketches.

then sawdust tracked through the hallway.

then simon, scowling and cursing at a video tutorial, rewinding the same twenty seconds over and over until he understood the joint he wanted to make.

you’d laughed then.

you remember that, too.

you remember standing in the garage while he sanded the surface smooth, remember telling him he was insane, remember him saying it wasn’t that hard with all the grim seriousness of a man who had absolutely made it hard.

you remember the first night you ate dinner at it.

you remember how pleased he’d looked when you wouldn’t stop touching the grain.

you remember tearing up at the effort before sinking to your knees beneath that very table and thanking him so thoroughly that, to this day, he can’t sit at the damn thing for too long without his eyes darkening and his pants growing tight.

your eyes move across the room.

towards the cabinets he sanded down because you said the old ones made the kitchen feel too dark.

the backsplash he learned to tile because you had paused too long on a photo of handmade ceramic.

the wall he knocked through because you hated how boxed-in the room felt.

the bedroom he painted three times because the first two colors looked different once they dried, and he had only sighed, changed shirts, and opened another tin.

a house that had been perfectly fine when you bought it, just never quite yours, until simon got it in his head that he could make it so.

your heartbeat quickens.

the whole morning suddenly feels absurd in a way that makes your chest ache.

his gaze lands heavy as he watches every expression form across your face.

“you wanna tell me what got you in a mood earlier?” he asks.

his voice is even, but his hand drums once against his thigh.

your six-foot-four lieutenant of a husband, nervous at the thought of upsetting you.

you shake your head at first

then stop.

because no, that isn’t fair either.

he does love you. he loves you in fixed pipes and sanded wood and walls torn down to let in more light. he loves you in the things he can touch, carry, mend, build. he loves you so steadily that it has become the floor beneath your feet.

but you still want flowers sometimes.

you still want to be asked to put on a dress.

you still want him to look at you across a dinner table he did not build and make you feel, just for an evening, like loving you is not only something he maintains but something he celebrates.

“i know you care about me,” you say quietly.

his brow furrows.

“never said you didn’t.”

simon stills.

“i know that,” you repeat, softer this time, because you do. God, you do. “I just… I think I need more sometimes.”

something shifts in his face.

“more,” he repeats.

you huff a laugh, embarrassed now. “not more than this.”

your hand moves over the table again and his eyes follow the movement.

“just more…” You search for the words, then give up on making them perfect. “more on purpose, maybe. dinner. flowers. you telling me to get dressed because you made plans. stupid things.”

“they’re not stupid.” he immediately corrects you, firm and like he’s already offended on your behalf.

you look up at him and he pushes himself off of the floor.

you watch him stand, slow and heavy, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it aside. he comes toward you with that careful, deliberate look that always makes your stomach dip, like every bit of his attention has narrowed down to one target.

you.

“friday,” he says.

you blink. “friday?”

“dinner.” his gaze drops over you, not subtle in the slightest. “wear somethin’ nice.”

despite yourself, you laugh, small and wet in disbelief at how easy it is with him.

simon’s hand comes up, thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear can fall.

“are you asking me on a date, riley?”

his mouth twitches.

“seems like i am.”

you look down at the table, at the careful seams, the polished wood, the impossible thing he made with his own two hands because you wanted it and he saw no reason you shouldn’t have it.

then back at him.

“good,” you say, standing slowly. “and since you fixed the sink…”

simon’s eyes darken.

you take one step toward him, then another, until your fingers catch in the waistband of his jeans and tug him close.

his hand finds the edge of the table behind you.

your table.

his eyes flick down to it, and whatever memory crosses his mind makes his jaw tighten.

you smile.

“careful,” you murmur. “you look a little proud of yourself.”

his hand settles heavy at your waist, lifting you to rest on the edge.

“built it well, didn’t i?”

Simon could look as tough as he wished at work but when he was with you, he was the softest soul there ever was…except for that not-so-soft dick of his. Your sexual life with Simon never really got interrupted, it didn’t matter where you were. If you needed him, he wouldn’t deny you. 

This is what a full week of orgasms looked like.

On Monday, you were getting ready for work while Simon was just coming home from his shift at the base. He found you in the bathroom, bathrobe loosely tied around your body as you prepped your skin with lotions and serums, products Simon didn’t see the need for but automatically bought whenever he noticed you were running low.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” you smiled as he dragged his feet inside, exhaustion etched into his broad frame. Instead of giving you a quick debrief on what had happened during his shift to get you up to speed, he let his chin fall to your shoulder, his large hand parting the robe to caress your bare skin. 

He liked to start the week right and that usually included thorough morning sex, something he would’ve been thrilled to dive into if he hadn’t been called in the night before. His fingers immediately sought out your clit, circling it slowly as he asked in murmurs how you slept and apologized for ruining the morning plans. The gentle pressure built a slick heat between your thighs, your arousal coating his fingertips as they delved deeper, seeking your entrance. He curled them inside you, stroking that sensitive spot with expert precision while lifting his eyes to meet yours in the mirror, slowly blinking as pleasure began warming your body from the core outward.

Your bathrobe slipped from your shoulder, exposing a pebbled nipple that he rolled between his thumb and forefinger, pinching just enough to send sparks racing down your spine. He finally decided to bring you up to speed on his shift, his voice low and gravelly, knowing full well not much would stick in your mind amid the rising tension. The air grew thick with your shared breaths, your pussy clenching around his invading fingers as slick seeped down your inner thighs, making everything slippery and urgent. The coil in your belly tightened unbearably, every curl of his digits pushing you closer to the edge until your body sagged against his, waves of orgasm crashing through you. Your walls pulsed greedily around him, gushing slick that dripped onto his hand and the bathroom floor in messy rivulets, your cries muffled as ecstasy left you trembling and spent.

He followed it with a soft kiss on your cheek before retreating to the mattress for a deep, much-needed sleep as if it had been him who just came undone at 4 a.m.

Tuesday’s orgasms were more of a ‘before lunch’ affair. You usually had those very important meetings with the ‘suits,’ as he called them and to his delight, this week you’d chosen a pencil skirt that hugged your curves perfectly, meaning his actual lunch was dessert and you were his main course. He pulled you into his office with a firm grip on your wrist, all but lifting you onto his desk, shoving aside papers in his haste. Removing his mask with a swift tug, he bunched up your skirt around your hips, hooked his fingers into your panties and yanked them down, stuffing the damp fabric into his pocket like a trophy before draping your legs over his broad shoulders.

Simon was very much an eater and just like he liked a full plate, he dove in with unrelenting focus, his tongue lapping at your exposed pussy with broad, hungry strokes. The tension simmered from the moment his hot breath ghosted over your folds, your clit throbbing in anticipation as he spread you open with his fingers, exposing every inch to his merciless mouth. He sucked and flicked with precision, building the pressure until your hips bucked against his face, pushing his head deeper into your core. 

Slick arousal coated his chin and lips, the wet sounds of his feasting echoing in the confined space as your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on. The coil wound tighter, your body arching off the desk as the overwhelm hit until your orgasm ripped through you like a storm, pussy clenching and squirting a messy flood that soaked his tongue and dripped down his chin. He didn’t stop, slurping every drop with obscene noises over your muffled moans, drawing out the shudders until you were a boneless heap.

When he finally pulled back, lips glistening with your release, he captured your mouth in a deep kiss, letting you taste yourself on him. Then, casually, he opened his Tupperware and spooned food into his mouth like a Neanderthal, all while you lay there blinking up at him, thighs still quivering.

“Wot?” he’d ask, mouth full, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“My underwear,” you deadpanned, voice husky from the aftershocks.

He shrugged, spooning more of his lunch. “Skirt’s long enough…got things to do with it later.”

On Wednesday, you were sure Simon would storm into your office exactly at 4:56 p.m., frustrated after a training session with a military group. He absolutely hated it, they weren’t good enough or willing to go as hard as he wished, so instead of yelling at some poor 20-year-old, he hid in your office. You always let him sit on your chair, pulling you onto his lap, not his thigh or knees, but straight onto his hardening cock, the thick length pressing insistently against your clothed pussy through the layers of fabric.

During his time there, he wouldn’t say anything at first, just focusing on his breathing and the frustration boiling in his veins. His hand placed firm on your hip, eventually started to rock you slowly, back and forth over his bulge. The friction ignited a slow burn, your clit grinding against the rigid outline of his dick with each subtle shift, building a delicious tension that made your core ache with need. This was more of a couples’ affair, a stolen moment where you forgot your paperwork and Simon stopped counting how many pairs of underwear he’d ruined just like this. 

His cock was so big you could feel every inch of it straining beneath you, the heat seeping through as your arousal soaked into your panties, creating a slippery mess that eased the glide.

The rhythm quickened, breaths mingling in the dim space as the pressure mounted, your hips rolling in sync with his guidance. Wetness pooled between your legs eventually darkening the fabric and smearing against his pants, the shared friction pushing you both toward release like two frustrated teenagers dry-humping in secret. The tension peaked in a shared gasp, your orgasm hit first, pussy spasming wildly as you ground down hard, soaking your underwear with a gush of slick that seeped through to coat his cock. He followed seconds later, a low groan rumbling from his chest as his dick throbbed and pulsed, hot cum flooding his pants in thick spurts that mixed with your mess, leaving everything sticky and ruined between you.

On Thursday, Simon had been out of the country. It often happened, so you hadn’t been at all surprised. The house felt empty and silent in a way you should’ve been accustomed to by then but weren’t, the quiet amplifying the ache of his absence. Late that night, an email pinged from his personal account, the subject line simple: “Open at home.” Since you were already home, curled up in bed wrapped in one of his oversized shirts that still carried his faint scent, you opened it at full volume, the screen glowing in the dim room.

The video started with Simon sitting back in what looked like a sparse hotel room, his tactical pants shoved down just enough to free his thick cock. His large hand wrapped around the veined shaft, your Tuesday panties from the office still faintly stained with your arousal were twisted around the base like a makeshift cock ring. You couldn’t help but grin at the sight, heat flooding your core as his heavy breathing filled the silence, ragged and shameless. He stroked himself slowly at first, the camera angled to capture every inch of his length glistening with precum that beaded at the tip and smeared down with each pump.

Your pulse raced, thighs pressing together as slick gathered between them. You immediately reached for the drawer on his side of the bed, fingers trembling slightly as you rifled through the toys. A vibrator or the dildo replica of his cock? The decision came quick, you grabbed both, the thick silicone molded from him feeling almost like home in your grip. You stripped off your panties, the shirt riding up as you spread your legs, positioning the phone for a clear view of his fist flying faster now, grunts punctuating the wet schlick of skin on skin.

The tension built like a storm, your pussy throbbing with need as you teased your entrance with the dildo’s blunt head, coating it in your dripping arousal. You pushed it in deep, the stretch mimicking his girth, walls fluttering around the intrusion as you turned on the vibrator and pressed it to your swollen clit. Simon’s video looped on your screen…his cock swelling, veins bulging, the panties tightening as he edged himself. 

You fucked yourself harder, the dildo plunging in and out with obscene squelches, your other hand working the vibrator. The pressure coiled tighter, breaths coming in gasps that matched his on-screen moans. When he finally came, ropes of thick cum erupting over his knuckles and splattering the panties in messy white streaks, your own release shattered through you. Your pussy clamped down on the toy, gushing slick that soaked the sheets and your thighs in a hot, slippery flood, the vibrator buzzing relentlessly against your pulsing clit as waves of ecstasy left you arching and shuddering, breathless and drenched.

It was as delicious as he’d believed it would be, the afterglow leaving you sated but yearning for the real thing.

Luckily for you, he was back Friday night. The plan hadn’t been to do anything that day, he was bone-tired from the trip, muscles aching under his skin but as you sat on his thigh in the living room, his arm draped loosely around your waist while he told you about the non-confidential parts of his mission in that slow, deep voice of his. The thigh riding just…happened. The solid muscle of his leg flexed beneath you, denim rough against your shorts and you shifted experimentally, grinding down with a subtle roll of your hips. Slick heat bloomed instantly, soaking through the thin fabric as the friction ignited sparks along your clit.

As tired as he was, Simon encouraged it, his free hand sliding to your hip to guide your movements, eyes half-lidded and dark with quiet hunger. 

“That’s it, love,” he murmured, voice gravelly from disuse, watching intently as you moaned softly and threw your head back, the tension winding through your body like a live wire. Your shorts grew damper by the second, the wet patch spreading as you rocked faster, chasing the pressure building against his unyielding thigh. His muscle tensed under you, providing the perfect ridge to hump against, your arousal seeping through to leave a glossy trail on his jeans.

The room filled with the soft sounds of your labored breaths and the slick slide of fabric, his grip tightening as your pace grew frantic. The coil snapped suddenly, your orgasm ripping through you, pussy spasming wildly as you ground down hard. You cried out, body trembling against him, nails digging into his shoulders while aftershocks pulsed through your core, leaving you limp and panting in his lap.

Weekend sex was arguably the best thing ever for both of you. You just loved dearly the unhurried indulgence after a week of stolen moments.

On Saturday, as he sat manspreading on the couch with a cold beer in hand, eyes fixed on the game flickering across the TV, you couldn’t resist. His cock strained painfully hard against his sweats from watching you walk around, the outline thick and inviting and you slid down onto it with a shared sigh, impaling yourself fully as you settled back against his chest. The stretch burned deliciously, your pussy walls hugging every inch of his girth, already clenching in greedy anticipation. Most of the time, if not all, you both talked about literally anything else, as if you weren’t joined so intimately, his hips occasionally twitching up to nudge deeper.

His hand rested casually over your clit and where you were connected, fingers splayed to feel the slick heat of your union. You became wetter by the second, arousal dripping down his shaft to pool at the base and soak into the couch cushions beneath him. He brought the beer bottle to your lips for a cooling sip, the fizz contrasting the building fire in your veins, before taking one of his own, the casual domesticity heightening the erotic undercurrent.

Conversation flowed about the weather, his next shift or your week at work but your body betrayed the distraction, inner muscles fluttering around him as tension simmered low and insistent. Eventually, your pussy walls began clenching around his cock, trying to suck him in deeper, unabashedly milking him for every drop of cum he had. He lifted his hand from your clit, tapping it lightly in a random rhythm, firm presses that sent jolts through your oversensitive nerves, waiting between each for your body to react. It was really like Morse code, yet it wasn’t words he was transmitting but pure, teasing control, each tap building the pressure without mercy.

After what felt like an eternity of that torturous play, you didn’t need rubbing to provoke an orgasm, it crashed over you unprecedentedly, your pussy convulsing in rhythmic squeezes that gripped his cock like a vice, flooding him with a torrent of slick that overflowed and trickled down his balls in messy streams. The release left you breathless, a sharp cry escaping as ecstasy hollowed you out, body shuddering against his chest while he groaned low, his own hips bucking once to chase the sensation, cum starting to pulse hot and thick inside you, mixing with your wetness in a creamy, slippery flood that leaked out with every aftershock.

Sunday, oh Sunday. It was so restful and quiet, a pause in the rhythm of the week where the world outside faded into irrelevance. You avoided the TV’s blaring commentary, the radio’s chatter, the endless scroll of dossiers and your phone if you could help it, the silence wrapping around you both like a shared secret, amplifying every breath and subtle shift of skin against skin. 

This part could happen at any time of day but it always did, an unspoken ritual that anchored the weekend’s indulgence.

In a corner of your living room, tucked away from the windows where sunlight filtered softly through sheer curtains, sat that really comfortable armchair, plush and wide, its fabric worn from countless hours of lazy reading and now, intimate surrender. Simon would settle back into it first, his broad frame sinking into the cushions with a low sigh, legs spread slightly as he tugged you toward him. Sometimes you were both fully naked, clothes discarded in a haphazard trail from the bedroom, your bare skin flushed and warm against the cool air. Other times, it was just bottoms off, his sweats pooled at his ankles and your panties kicked aside, leaving shirts or nothing at all to brush teasingly during the heat.

You straddled him without a word, knees digging into the cushion on either side of his hips, your pussy hovering just above his thick cock, already hard and leaking precum that glistened along the veined length. His hands found your hips immediately, large palms spanning the curve of your ass, fingers digging in just enough to guide you down. The first slide was always electric, your slick folds parting around his blunt head, stretching wide as you sank onto him inch by inch, the burn of his girth filling you completely until your ass rested flush against his thighs.

A shared groan escaped, low and guttural, vibrating through your joined bodies as your inner walls clenched greedily around him, already coating his shaft in a fresh layer of arousal that dripped down to his balls.

The rhythm started slow, your hips rocking forward and back, grinding your clit against his pubic bone while he thrust up lazily to meet you. But it built fast, the intensity uncoiling like a spring, moans spilling from your lips unbidden, mingling with his ragged breaths as the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. Wet, obscene smacks echoed with every bounce, your pussy slurping around his cock as you lifted and dropped, riding him with a fervor that left sweat beading on your skin. His grip tightened, thumbs pressing into the dimples above your ass, urging you deeper and harder while the chair creaked under the force of your movements.

You didn’t stop, not for a second, hands roaming everywhere, yours tangling in his short hair to pull him into a bruising kiss, tongues sliding messily as teeth nipped at lips. Even when the air grew thin, lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, you kept touching, hugging his shoulders close, bodies pressed so tight that every heartbeat thrummed between you. His mouth trailed to your neck, sucking marks into the sensitive skin while you hugged him fiercely, nails raking down his back in red trails that made him hiss and buck harder. The room spun with the haze of it, the quiet shattered only by your escalating cries and the slick glide of his cock pistoning in and out, arousal splashing with each plunge.

The first orgasm hit you like a wave crashing, your pussy spasming wildly around him, walls rippling in tight squeezes that milked his length. You shattered with a loud, keening wail, body convulsing as you ground down hard, clit grinding against him to prolong the ecstasy. Simon followed seconds later, his cock swelling impossibly thicker inside you before he erupted heavily, messily and loudly. Thick ropes of cum pumped deep into your core, hot and viscous, overflowing almost immediately to mix with your wetness and leak out in creamy rivulets that trailed down his balls and thighs. His groan rumbled against your collarbone, hips jerking erratically as he filled you to the brim, the excess squelching out with every residual twitch.

You collapsed against him then, boneless and spent, your face burying into the crook of his neck where his pulse hammered steadily. His scent, musk and clean sweat, enveloped you as you nuzzled closer, breaths syncing in the afterglow. Simon’s hands softened, no longer gripping but caressing, palms sliding up your back in slow, soothing strokes, fingers tracing the knobs of your spine before dipping to knead the muscles of your ass. He touched everywhere with reverence, one hand cupping your breast to thumb a hardened nipple gently, the other stroking your thigh, mapping the curves he knew by heart. Love poured through every motion, tender and unhurried, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple as you melted into him, the world narrowing to this quiet intimacy.

After a few minutes, when your heart rate slowed and the tremors faded to lazy pulses, one of his hands snaked between the two of you, careful not to dislodge where you were still seated comfortably on his cock, half-hard and slick with your combined release, nestled deep inside your fluttering pussy. 

His fingers found your clit effortlessly, swollen and sensitive from the earlier frenzy and he began to circle it gently, the pad of his thumb applying just enough pressure to reignite the embers. No words passed, just a soft hum from his chest encouraging you to relax into the sensation as you shifted slightly, inner muscles clenching around him in response.

The build was slower this time, a simmering heat that spread through your limbs like warm honey. His circles were calculated, varying the pace with light flicks that made you whimper and firmer presses that had your hips twitching involuntarily. 

You stayed impaled on him fully, never lifting more than a subtle rock, his free arm banding around your waist to hold you steady. Your body began to shake, subtle at first, then building to full quivers as the pleasure coiled tighter, your front arching into his chest while your face stayed pressed to his neck, ragged breaths hot against his skin. 

The orgasm crested without warning, ripping through you in shuddering waves as your pussy clamped down on his cock in vise-like pulses, grinding down hard to chase every spark as another flood of slick gushed out, mixing with the cum still leaking from you in a slippery, creamy mess that coated his fingers and dripped onto the chair.

He didn’t stop there, drawing it out with gentle laps of his fingers until you sagged against him again, boneless and panting. 

Simon loved this part, he loved making you orgasm, watching the way your body surrendered to him, the trust palpable in every tremble. He’d repeat it intermittently throughout the afternoon, fingers returning to your clit whenever the aftershocks ebbed, always ensuring your body never lifted fully from his cock during this period of overwhelm. Each peak left you more wrecked, more connected, grinding on him in desperate circles he adored, your cries muffled against his shoulder as he coaxed release after release, his own arousal stirring back to life inside you with every clench. Now this didn’t happen every week, the depth of it reserved for when the quiet demanded more, but he found comfort in you knowing it could if you asked that of him.

That was two years ago.

And ever since then, he’s been three steps behind you like a shadow. You were in his bed more nights than you were in your own, your things scattered around his house like they had always belonged there. He paid for your things even if you insisted otherwise, fixed your car without being asked, showed up at your door whenever something so much as creaked out of place. Your relationship was never labeled or announced, but it was understood.

And although Price never claimed you as his, it was a small town. Everyone knew he had some sort of claim on you.

You were made for each other — it’s a sentiment Price would constantly mutter into your ear when he was buried deep inside you. When he was so drunk off you that all he could do was babble your name between praises, swearing that no one else could ever feel like this.

That you were made for him.

He was certain you were completely his. In every way possible — heart and soul. He was a dog, completely loyal and enamored with his owner. And that was exactly why he never felt the need to label your relationship. He didn’t need a word for something that already felt permanent. You were both attached to the hip.

So why?

Why does he feel his blood boil and his thoughts run a thousand miles an hour just watching the new guy in town flirt up a storm with you?

He feels a sensation bubbling in his chest, a feeling he doesn’t recognize. It doesn’t sit like anger or irritation. It sits heavier. Like something pressing against his ribs from the inside.

There you were, all smiles and sparkling eyes, speaking to the man out of nothing more than politeness. It never bothered him before. Men look. They always have. He has never cared.

So why does it feel like something is being tested right now?

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You had only meant to stop by John’s shop to drop off his keys. It was supposed to be quick — in and out, maybe steal a kiss if he wasn’t busy. The bell above the shop door chimed softly when you stepped inside, carrying the faint scent of rain from outside with you. You rubbed the dirt of your boots on the matt, taking in the usual smell of oil and cedarwood, something that clung to your clothes long after you left.

“Hey, sweetie,” a voice worn with age calls from the counter. “How are ya today?”

You give him a warm smile. “I’m doing great, Mr. Fauly. How are you?”

“Eh, seen better days,” he jokes, jerking his thumb toward the garage. “Old man’s waiting on you.”

You let out a short laugh and nod, already turning toward the door. You don’t make it more than a few steps before you walk straight into something solid, the impact knocking a quiet uff out of you as you stumble back.

Hands catch you by the elbows before you can lose your balance.

“Careful there,” he says, steadying you with a grin that shows too many teeth.

“Wouldn’t want you falling for me that fast.”

You scoff while shaking your head, already stepping back, brushing invisible dust from your sleeve. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He didn’t seem deterred. If anything, it encouraged him. He launched into easy conversation— asking about the town, the people, about what there was to do around here.

And you, polite as always, answered.

That's one of the many things Price loved about you, truly. Though in that moment it made him ball his fist, nails digging crescent moons into his palm until his knuckles blanched white. His face remained carved from stone, but the air around him felt heavier, charged. Tools lay abandoned on the counter in front of him.

It takes everything in him not to walk over and pull you away.

Not to step between you and that easy grin. Not to rest a hand on your waist and remind everyone in the room exactly where you belonged.

But that’s not him.

He would never make that choice for you.

You weren’t something to be dragged or claimed in front of an audience. If you wanted to stand there and smile at another man, that was your right. He trusted you completely.

For a second, he just stands there, caught between instinct and restraint. The other man notices. His grin shifts slightly when he glances over at Price.

And then your eyes find him, and your expression softens the second you see him, you lift your hand, waving him over with that small smile that always gets him.

He unclenches his fists, shaking his head once — like your smile pulled him out of whatever he’d been thinking — before walking over, boots heavy against the shop floor.

You beam up at him like nothing in the room has shifted.

“Oh, look John, Harry here was just telling me how it’s only been like two weeks since he moved here and his car already gave out,” you laugh, placing a hand on his chest as you feel his warm, hand slide against your back. “Guess the town’s already testing him, huh.”

Harry.

The name lands harder than you realize.

Price’s eyes flick to the man. Irritation creeps in at the fact that you know his name now. That you’ve spoken it so casually.

“Yeah?” he flatly, completely disinterested in the man's life story.

Harry laughs, but it sounds thinner now. “Bad timing, I guess.”

Price nods once.

“Your car’ll be ready in about two days. Three max,” he says evenly. Already turning his face away like the conversation is finished before it started.

You blink between them, suprised at the sudden shift. Sensing something was wrong but you didn’t quite fully catch it.

You’re sure Harry sensed it by his quiet mutters of a thanks before stepping away, clearly understanding that whatever easy space he thought he had is gone.

“That was a bit rude, no?” you ask, giving him a face as you tap his cheeks lightly.

He looks down at you, feigning mild surprise. “You think?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, baby.”

He says it easily, that teasing smile you knew so well coming back, but you noticed his eyes flick toward where Harry stood just seconds ago.

“Right,” you roll your eyes playfully. “I’m gonna head back. I’ll see you at home, baby.”

He studies you for half a second longer than necessary.

“M’almost done,” he says. “Wait for me?”

“Of course,” you say, giving him a look of uncertainty before heading to his office, perched in his chair, watching through the open doorway as he goes back to work.

The wrench moves sharper now, metal clinking louder than it needs to.

His movements have more force behind them than usual. Where he’s usually smooth and almost lazy with it. You’ve seen him irritated before. Seen him tired. Seen him annoyed over stupid customers or long shifts. This isn’t that. He’s quieter, more in his head.

You catch yourself watching him longer than you mean to.

He finishes quicker than usual. Locks up without much small talk to the rest of the guys, keys jangling in his hand as he heads for the door like he’s already decided he’s done for the day.

You follow a step behind him.

He slows just enough to let you walk in front, then his hand brushes your lower back as he reaches for the passenger door, opening it like he always does.

Even with his head somewhere else, the way he treats you never falters.

The ride home is quick, and quiet aside from your chatter and the music humming softly through the radio. The occasional thump and whine from a bump in the road fills the space between your words. His large hand resting on your thigh, rubbing slow circles.

You seriously begin to question what was going when the truck rolls into the driveway and the engine dies. He gets out, walks to your side to open you door and help you out before pressing a quick kiss to your cheek — shorter than usual — and Instead of following you inside, he turns. Straight to the garage.

You pause in the doorway.

“Everything okay babe?” You call out

“Yeah, just gonna work on a few things don't worry,”

It’s been months since he’s spent any time there. He used to live in that garage — buried under tools and grease and half-taken-apart engines. But over the past year, he’s cut back. He’s still a workaholic at heart — always has been — but lately, the garage has been reserved for when his mates come over.

You watch him disappear inside, the metal door groaning shut behind him.

“Okay…” you drag the words.

He just had a rough day, you tell yourself.

That’s all it is.

You step back into the house, the familiar smell of both yourselves hitting you warmly. You kick off your shoes by the door, moving through the living room on autopilot. Dinner gives you something to do. You move around the kitchen, chopping, stirring, setting things out.

Usually, he’s there before the food is even finished. Hovering over the pot, hands sliding around you just to distract you. Touching your waist, your hips, your neck — stealing bites straight from the spoon before you can swat him away. He’ll press his chest to your back, chin resting on your shoulder, grumbling about being hungry even though he’s the one slowing you down.

You can almost hear his low chuckle in your ear, feel the way his fingers would trace idle patterns along your sides just to make you squirm. The kitchen always feels smaller with him in it — stolen kisses between stirring and seasoning.

Tonight, the kitchen stays empty.

“John!” you call out. “Baby, the food’s ready!”

Your voice echoes faintly down the hallway.

No answer.

You pause, listening to the faint thrum of music from the garage.

“John?” you try again.

Silence.

You wipe your hands on a towel and step out of the kitchen, heart beating a little faster than it should. It’s stupid to worry. He’s fine. He’s probably just lost in whatever he’s working on.

“John? Is everything okay?” you ask softly, knocking once before pushing the garage's door open.

You find him slumped back on the couch, head thrown back toward the ceiling, a half-empty beer dangling from his fingers while his free hand drags slowly down his face, like he's trying to erase something from memory.

Even with your fingers gliding over his back — slow, familiar strokes meant to soothe — his frame doesn’t loosen. His shoulders stay tight beneath your touch. His neck rigid.

He doesn’t melt into you the way he usually does.

“Hmm?” he hums, lifting his head and turning toward you. “Yeah. Of course.”

You narrow your eyes, studying him.

John’s never this short with you. Never this careful with his words. Not anymore at least. It hasn’t felt like this since the beginning of your relationship— back when he didn’t quite know how to let you in.

“You’ve just been acting weird,” you say softly. “I’m worried.”

Your mind drifts back to earlier, trying to connect the dots.

The morning had passed in its usual easy rhythm — shower together, eat together. Loud laughter. Familiar touches. Then he left for work, and you ran a few errands of your own. Everything was normal, nothing out of the blue.

Until the shop. Then Harry. Then laughing. The way he leaned a little too close.

Your stomach flips in realization.

“Babe…” you start carefully, stepping around to stand in front of him. “Are you…jealous?”

The word feels strange coming out of your mouth. You’re not even sure it fits. Jealousy wasn't an emotion he wore. At all.

He looks at you, eyes dragging over your face. “Don’t worry about me, lovie,” he sighs, adjusting himself deeper into the couch and spreading his legs.

“I really hope you’re not,” you murmur, tilting your head.

You inch closer, lifting one knee onto the couch beside him, then the other, settling onto his lap with a small huff. Your arms slide around his neck automatically, your body back arching gently as you mold yourself against him, settling into the familiar shape of his large body.

He softens instantly — you can feel it in the slight drop of his shoulders. But his hands hover for a moment before touching you, like he’s holding himself back, but it only makes you snuggle into him more.

“M’dirty, love,” he mutters, voice low.

“I don’t care,” you whisper, bumping your nose against his, loving the way his mustache scratches you just lightly.

That’s when his hands move. They slide up without hesitation this time, settling firmly on your hips before squeezing. The contact pulls a soft giggle from your lips, your forehead brushing against his cheek.

You pull back just enough to trace a finger across his face — over his brow, down the bridge of his nose, across his lips.

“M’serious though,” your voice turns serious.

“And so am I,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your wandering finger. “M’just thinking.” He offers a faint smile.

“Well, I wanna know what you’re thinking,” you pout, finger tapping at his temple. “Let me iiinnn.”

A quiet smile tugs at his mouth. He shakes his head “It’s nothing, sweets.”

Your brows knit together, crossing your arms as you straighten up. “It’s about Harry, isn’t it?”

There it is again. Your pretty lips and sweet tone uttering that name.

The reaction is immediate. His calloused hands tighten at your hips. His jaw flexes once. And you think you’ve found your answer.

“Don’t say his name like you’re mates,” His tongue presses into his cheek as he rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” you amend, a playful smile on your lips. “That guy.”

He grumbles, mood already ruined before answering, “Just don’t like his vibe,”

“When have you ever cared about another man's vibe?” you snort.

“I care.”

“Yeah, you care about a lot of things,” you tease, “Like those reality shows you swear you hate. Or fixing the first thing that creaks. Or those five-for-ten happy hours you act like are a life hack.”

You giggle, catching the way he turns his head to mask the smile creeping through, a soft huff leaving him in half-hearted protest.

Soon the garage fills with your laughter and his low grumbles. After a few quiet moments you blurt out, “But I seriously hope you’re not actually jealous.”

“Because i can’t even imagine being with another man.” You add, lower this time.

You study his face before leaning in and giving him a peck.

“Take such good care of me,”

Another kiss.

Before he can say anything else, you place both hands flat against his chest. Warm and hard under your soft palms. You let them move slowly — dragging down over his pecs, feeling the firm muscle tense under your touch. Down the ridges of his stomach. Over the familiar dips and scars you’ve memorized.

You slide your fingers down to the hem of his pants, pulling at them teasingly before dragging them back up, making sure he feels every slow pass of your hands. He tenses when you brush certain spots, biting his lip as his eyes darken, breath turning heavier.

You were determined now. You were his — entirely. And if there was even the smallest crack of doubt in his mind, you were going to seal it yourself.

“Not when I’ve got the most perfect man right here,” you murmur.

Your hands move upward again, slower this time. Feeling every reminder of the years he’s worked himself into this shape. You reach his face and cup it gently, your thumbs brushing along his cheeks. Your skin prickles under him.

You start planting soft kisses.

His neck.

His jaw.

The corner of his mouth.

His nose.

His ear.

His weak spot.

You let your lips brush against the shell of his ear — barely there, a whisper of contact. His breath hitches immediately, a quiet sound slipping from him before he can stop it. His shoulders tense as his hands move in slow, firm circles over your back.

You begin grinding down on him, panties beginning to stick to your pussy. His grip gets tighter as he hisses, pulling you impossibly closer. His eyes flutter shut for a brief second— and that’s how you know you’ve found the crack in his armor.

“Let me show you, yeah?” you whisper, feeling the familiar tent in his pants rise against you.

You nibble on his ear before dragging your tongue from his lobe to the top, circling once before drawing it into your mouth. Your teeth graze softly.

He goes still, mouth falling open. Each burning touch from you pulls him deeper into the couch, tension easing inch by inch. A low, strained groan escapes him, and the sound alone sends heat rushing through you.

Then, slowly — painfully slow — you slide down from his lap, lips kissing at the fabric of his worn uniform, inhaling him as you go.

You sigh as your hands trail along his chest and stomach as you descend, fingertips dragging, nails scraping. He watches you, his foggy dark eyes tracking every inch of you as his breath picks up.

You kneel between his legs, guiding them apart with your hands while looking at him through your lashes.

“Love, the floor’s dirty,” he says, voice rougher now — yet he doesn’t even attempt to stop you.

You smile faintly, pressing a quick kiss to his clothed thigh before your hand drifts upward, palming him through the fabric until he’s fully hard beneath your touch. A soft sound slips from him.

“I like getting dirty,” you murmur, fingers moving to his belt. You take your time with it, letting the quiet metal click echo between you as you undo it. Another slow kiss, but on his bulge this time.

His breathing turns ragged with every touch.

When you finally free him, you pause. Heart now pounding against your ribcage.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve had him — the sight still steals something from you. You exhale softly, eyes flicking up to meet his before you move to look at his throbbing, aching cock.

Fat, curved, and flushed a deep, angry red at the tip, the color stark against the darker tone at his base. The skin shifts subtly in shade. Dark, neatly trimmed hair rests at the bottom, framing him without hiding anything. The curve isn’t dramatic — but noticeable enough that your eyes trace it instinctively, following the line from base to tip. It never fails to make your mouth water like a slut.

Your hand wraps around him at the base firmly you can feel the weight. The warmth. The slight twitch beneath your fingers when you squeeze. He inhales sharply through his nose as you squeeze once. Then drag your hand all the way up.

Your thumb brushes lightly over his tip before you lean forward and press a messy, open-mouthed kiss there, then another just underneath his tip. You let your lips linger, tongue lapping at the salty precum drooling from his slit. His meaty thighs flexing under you.

His chest vibrates with a low sound. It goes straight through you. He throws his head back for a moment before looking down at you, tongue pressing into his cheek as his breathing picks up.

“Don’t tease me, lovie.”

You giggle, leaving wet kisses all over his length, your hand still moving at the base while the other moves to his balls, massaging them as you drag your tongue in a slow stripe upward, maintaining eye contact when you reach the top.

His fingers curl into the couch beneath him.

You take the tip into your mouth first, slowly, letting your tongue swirl around him before pulling back. His breathing is heavier now. Strained.

Your hand works steadily while your mouth moves with slow, intentional bobs, letting drool fall down his dick as you savor him.

His hand rests on top of your head as you begin moving at a steady pace. He brushes whatever loose strands fall on your face, wanting to see you clearly, your mouth stretched open just for him, slick with your spit.

You hum softly around him, and the vibration pulls a low, gritty groan from his chest. “You’re killing me, sweets.”

A small giggle slips from you before your tongue lays flat along the curve as you bob up and down, twisting and sucking the way you know he loves. The stretch of your mouth burns in a painfully delicious way. You keep moving, going a little deeper each time until you're gagging all over him.

You pull yourself off him slowly, making a show of spitting out what you gagged up and letting it fall down his length. You watch it glide lower, trailing down to his balls and dripping onto the couch. The sight alone makes you moan softly.

You look up at him through your wet lashes, offering a slow, seductive smile before gliding your hand up and down on his dick, spreading the mess over his skin. He grunts and tugs his shirt up, exposing his happy trail to your hungry eyes.

You looked so fucking lewd it completely messed with Price’s head. His thoughts blurred, chest rising and falling heavier as he watched you practically make out with his twitching dick, watching you make a mess of yourself just for him. But your next words are what truly make him hold his breath.

“My man’s so handsome,” you murmur, leaning in to press slow kisses along his lower stomach, just above where your hand continues its steady motion.

His head falls back, a deep, gravelly sound leaving his throat.

“He has the prettiest dick too,” you moan before lowering yourself down, your lips kissing until you reach his heavy balls, slick with your spit. You take one into your mouth while your hand keeps its work. You suck hard, then pull away, letting it fall from your lips with a sharp ‘pop’. You repeat the motion, watching the effect it has on him.

His thighs tense, knuckles turning white as he grips the couch. Mouth growing sharper as he lets out praises in between grunts. He’s trying to hold himself back — jaw tight, chest rising harder with every second — letting you have your way with him. But you can feel it. He won’t last much longer.

“Can’t take it anymore,” he growls lowly.

His hands move suddenly, gripping the sides of your head while the other guides himself back to your mouth. This time he takes control — and you let him. He lifts his hips to meet you, rough and urgent, no more restraint.

Your gags and choked sounds grow louder the more he uses you. You’re no longer in control, and it makes your heart flip and your cunt gush even more. His face contorts, sweat falling from his temple as he watches your eyes roll back, tears spilling freely down your pretty cheeks.

His balls slap against your chin every time the tip hits the back of your throat, the rhythm relentless. Your panties cling uncomfortably to you, the ache between your thighs growing sharper with every movement.

“Fuuuck, mouth feels so fucking good,” he groans, throwing his head back as veins begin to pop out. “Treat this old man s’ fucking good,” he babbles.

But you take it like the good girl he knows you are — eyes glossy, lips parted, hips grinding helplessly while your grip on his thighs turns almost desperate.

He pulls you off, and you’re left gasping for air, lungs burning as you try to balance yourself. He leans down suddenly, gripping your jaw with rough firmness that makes you whimper. His thumb presses into your cheek, forcing your mouth open before he spits into it without breaking eye contact. Some of it splashes against your cheeks.

Before you can even process it, his lips crash into yours — messy and hungry. The kiss is deep and wet, his tongue sliding past your parted lips, claiming the space without hesitation. It’s overwhelming in the way he takes control so easily, like he’s reminding you exactly who sets the pace. Your mind goes fuzzy, your body reacting faster than your pride can catch up.

One of his hands leaves your jaw, sliding down your neck and over your collarbone before traveling lower. His large hand curls around your breast, squeezing tight.

He doesn’t pull away from the kiss. If anything, he deepens it, swallowing your breath along with the quiet sounds you can’t seem to hold back.

He breaks it only for a second, mouth brushing yours as he mutters, “Rub my fucking dick while you kiss me.”

“F-fuck,” you whimper, breathless, your hands lifting automatically to wrap around him, twisting your wrists as you give him a messy, sloppy kiss.

“Back in your mouth, baby,” he grunts, a string of saliva connecting him to the mess of your face before guiding you back down.

He doesn’t even give you a second before thrusting in. One hand grips the back of your neck while the other presses flat against your forehead, holding you tight from both ends to use you like a little toy, pushing deeper with each thrust.

Your throat burns. Mascara runs down your face. The floor and couch are sticky with your mess, but you don’t care. You stay still just for him.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby,” he grits out. “Gonna cum down your thro—ngh, fuck—”

The mind-numbing orgasm rips through him, so intense he swears he feels it in every part of his body. His toes curl, teeth clashing together as a near-animalistic sound tears from his chest.

You squeeze your eyes shut, lashes clumped with tears as you let him finish down your spasming throat, your name falling from his mouth like it’s the only word he knows. He keeps you there a second longer until your breath stutters and your fingers dig into him — but you don’t pull away. You stay put, taking it like a good girl for your man.

Only when his body finally loosens does he let you go. You pull back slowly, chest rising hard as you catch your breath, watching the tension drain from him as his softened dick lands on his thigh with a wet thud, his body finally giving in.

You wipe at your face, still catching your breath, before looking up at him with a small, dazed smile. Your body feels loose in a way that’s almost weightless — overstimulated and warm, limbs heavy but buzzing at the same time. There’s a faint tremble in your hands that you can’t quite control.

“Bloody hell,” he breaths humorously before pulling you onto his lap. His lips meet yours in slow, lazy pecks. You cant help but smile against him. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. Both of you are still breathing hard, your chests rising and falling against each other in uneven rhythm until it slowly begins to sync.

Your fingers trace patterns along his skin without thinking, following the lines of muscle and ink. You don’t even realize you’ve gone quiet until his voice cuts gently through the room.

“You’d tell me if you wanted something different, right?”

The question makes your hand still.

You pull back slightly, blinking at him as the words catch you off guard — well maybe not the words, but his tone. There’s no ego in it. No teasing smirk following.

For a man who just took control so completely, the vulnerability feels almost startling.

You cup his jaw with both hands, thumbs brushing slowly over the sharp line of it. You can see it there, the quiet doubt he won’t say out loud. The need to hear it from you.

“I’m exactly where I wanna be,” you say, voice steady.

He closes his eyes, focusing only on the softness of your touch — the warmth of your skin against his, the steady flow of your breathing. With every inhale, he nuzzles a little deeper into you, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling.

“Marry me then,”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

© all content belongs to httpxyeager 2026. do not modify or repost.

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.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

© all content belongs to httpxyeager 2026. do not modify or repost.

Grey dull skies. An enmity of snowy clouds. Barely audible patters of snow smear the concrete. Frost fragments fracturing the roads. Small cracks. An icy cast. Slippery. Polished by the freezing air, reflecting a cold blue-grey.

The town is quiet. People retiring to their homes. A combination of flats and houses. Bricked. Semidetached. All lifeless and ashen now painted in snow.

It’s December. The cold’s really taking root. You’re in a small cabin just a few yards away from the main road. Dark wood, white stained trees looming around, making it seem like you're buried deep into a forest. Luckily, you live close by to the nearest town centre. English weather was never really nice.

You’re in your kitchen. Pastel yellow coloured walls, adorned in small beautiful plant paints. Pictures of flowers you’ve taken over the years. Paintings you’ve bought. Small counter top, bluey-grey marble board at the surface with white coloured sides. You’re wearing your white turtle neck paired with a long black silken skirt and black Mary Jane flats. All covered by a long black trench coat. The week’s coming to a close. You’re running out of ingredients.

Black pen in hand tapping slowly at your bottom lip, a small note in the other.

Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, go to pharmacy.

You’re missing something. Eyes squinting in annoyance. Brain raking, it’s bothering you. You’re getting lost in the walls around you, trying to figure out what this thing is. You repeat the list again.

Meats. Vegetables. Fruits. Water bottles. Pharmacy.

Ah.

Suppressants.

You rolled your eyes scoffing at yourself. You’ve been a bit forgetful lately. Waiting until your suppressants are nearly out. You’re checking your cupboard. One..two pills left you count. You sigh.

“Tomorrow.” You say aloud.

You’re used to this little life you’ve created. Weekly shopping, Sunday cleaning. Wake up 5am. Earphones in. Jog, eat, shower, work, repeat.

Like clock work, you’re awake. Still black out. Alarm panging, dead on five. Screeching in your ears.

You’re laying in your long sleeve bunny pyjamas belly flat on the bed, head turned, pressed into your pillows. Brows screwed, eyes squinting, sleep lines etched on your face. Crust stuck at the corners of your eyes. Your nose crinkling in annoyance. Sniffing. You bring up your right elbow from its disfigured but comfortable position and smack it down on your alarm clock sitting on the bedside table.

Groaning, you rise slowly. Stretching your back, tiptoeing, arms up high now folding behind you. Heading to the bathroom, you’re splashing cold water on your face. A slow deep breath. Arms steady, hands holding either side of the sink. You meet a tired you in the mirror. Opening it, you reach for your scent repellent. Just two sprays. Now you’re ready for your day.

Shutting the front door behind you, earphones in, you stretch a bit. Left arm swinging, right arm under it. You do it the other way. Back bent downwards, legs straightened, arms elongated, touching your toes, the ground almost. With a gradual rise and a long exhale, you’re on your way. Unhurried, lazy runners pace. You maintain that for a lap around your cabin. Then you’re headed to the main road. ‘Nettles’ by Ethel Cain playing softly in your ears. Low melodious. Pace still measured, arms shifting each step. You’re a few metres in, flats, houses forming in your peripheral. A corner shop open. Bright. Vivid.

You could use a drink.

You head down further into town, body directed at the shop. Eventually meeting the door of the shop, your body slightly adjusted to the frozen air. A ring of the bell is heard as you enter. The male shop keeper notices you, his face resting in one of his hands, eyes heavy. Sagging. A purple brownish colour engraved below them. His head falling and quickly rising. His eyes lighten fairly upon seeing you. Waving sluggishly at you. You give a soft smile and wave back.

Heading to the drink section, you grab a five hundred millilitre bottle of water from the fridge and walk up to the till. Placing your bottle down on the counter, you pay shortly after.

“Have a nice day.” You say. Short, soft, concise.

“And you too.”

-

The sun had already risen. A pale whitish sphere, faintly piercing through. 9am, the clock read. You were in your home, had already showered, eaten. Although your fridge was practically begging to be full. Only a couple red peppers remained. ‘More shops will probably be open.’ You thought.

You were out the cabin, car keys in hand on your way back to the town centre. A small, red Mini Cooper sitting slumped in heavy snow just outside. You open the drivers side, snow falling off that side of the car, and sit down. Plugging your keys into the vehicle, wind shields wiping away at the snow covered front window. You drive steadily into town.

Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, pharmacy — must go!!

A vivid image of the note you made flashed. It repeated in your head, chanting almost.

First stop, the supermarket.

-

A cold quiet morning. Harsh crispy air brushing against your cheek. Your eyes crinkle at the feel of it. You’ve parked your car in a nearby parking garage.

Not so often you see the supermarket this silent. You’re dressed warmly in a loose white shirt underneath a grey jumper. Straight legged dark blue jeans covering your black uggs. All hidden under your black trench coat.

Boots crunching in the snow, you’re walking in. Automatic doors sliding open for you. You grab a basket and begin your search.

-

Heavy bags weighing down at your sides. Full of fresh ingredients, meats.

Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, pharmacy.

“Alright.” You whisper, cold air passing through your lips, pleased with your small achievement of the morning.

Second stop, small shop.

You enter the shop, a bell sounding as you do so. There’s a few people in the shop. About four if you bothered to look. You pay no mind though. Just solely focused on one task at hand. That task being water bottles. You’re pacing around the shop, eyes raking up and down the shelves. The bottles. Finally. Placed on the grey marble ground, in front of a transparent fridge directly reflecting the shop door. A free mirror, you think. You crouch down, hands out and ready to grab one pack. For a reason you couldn’t explain, your eyes glance up to the fridge, unfocusing, you see a few people walking by, their figure cutting out where the fridge ends. Still looking around, you see the trees, how they’re no longer green but white. The no longer brown wood, eyes trailing down the trees back to the public. Eyes- you notice deep hazel eyes staring as if staring at your open skeleton itself. Fixed on yours. You let the thought of the transparent fridge fool you into believing no one could see you. A coincidence.

Shrugging, you pick up either end of the pack of water bottles and stand to your full height. Out of curiosity, you eye the see-through shop door.

Khaki coloured eyes. Closer now. Black jacket. Hooded up. A man that seems to be in a balaclava?

He’s huge, you ponder. Biceps nearly bursted at the sides of his black coat. His lower half is covered by bushes. Your face contorts into a puzzled look. There’s no way he saw you. You don’t want to believe it. Looking away you head over to the till and pay.

Exiting the shop, hefty bags carrying all your shopping, a litter of bumps gather on your skin. You want to believe it’s from the cold. A low lump sitting at your belly. A warning maybe.

You head over to the last stop on the list. The pharmacy. Suppressants. Your brain reminding you once again.

It’s a cramped place. Medicine stacked on the dark wooden shelves across the room. Chalky walls. Ashen almost. The lights flicker a bit. Must be old. There’s a man at the other side of the till. Got a gloomy look to him. Thin glasses hanging at the top of his bridged nose. Crinkled skin. A small bruise on the side of his cheek. Eyes droopy.

“Can I help you?” You hear his tired voice ask.

You give a small smile.

“I’m here for a replenishment.” You keep your eyes on his, still smiling as you readjust a bag on your arm.

“Your name please.” He responds dryly. Your face falters a bit.

You give him your name. He types away at the old white desktop on his right. He reaches over to a small brown plastic bag and hands it to you.

You hear a smile chime of the pharmacy bell but don’t pay too much mind to it. There’s heavy thuds behind you. A hefty musky smell, woody almost with a hint of an orange peel. A citrusy smell meant something. A near heat or rut possibly. A familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach. Fear? It's only footsteps, probably getting their suppressants. You’re still focused on the man in front-

“Have I seen you ‘round here before?” A deep baritone voice sounding behind you. Close to you. You spin around, eyes all wide at the sound of him. The pharmacist immediately drops into a crouched position. He knows that voice. Can’t let this customer see him.

“Uh—uh…” You stutter. Lip quivering.

You know him. Know exactly who this is. Simon Riley. Or what the town calls him, ‘Ghost’.

The whole town knows of him. They know to steer clear of him. Never get in his way. Avoid him if you can. Don’t let him get you. A menace. Killer. All sorts of nasty comments you haven’t heard before. He’s got a familiar balaclava on. Almost looking like the one you saw earlier. Squinting eyes staring deep into your wide ones. Head tilted slightly, amused by your reaction. You can’t tell though.

“Can’t talk?”

“Uhm no—no. No you uh haven’t.” You’re shaking your head looking everywhere else but at him. There’s a thin line of sweat forming at your forehead. You try not to wipe it.

His broad frame, blocking everything in front of you. You finally look up at him, eyes all doey, scared.

“Hm.” He grunts, gives you a slow look over. Eyes falling slowly down your frame then back up to your nervous face. Cute.

He turns back around and exits the pharmacy. You heave a sigh of relief. Ghost? Talking to you? You nearly don’t believe it. Not until the pharmacist behind you speaks.

“H—here. Please leave. Quickly.”

Weight bags on either side of you, you’re walking over to your parked car. The cold air, still lingering. You’re heart patters in your chest. Simon Riley. Absolutely no way.

You make it to your car, fiddling with your bags arms scurrying deep in each one to find the key. You hear it unlock and you’re carefully placing the bags at the back seat, then heading quickly into the front. Door slamming shut. Locked. Both hands on the wheel. Knuckles losing then regaining colour.. You’re brain still lagging. You look around yourself, assessing the area. You see him. Again. Your breath stutters when you notice him. He’s staring deep at you. He’s to your right, body slightly hidden by a tall bush. You’re tapped in place, body hypnotised, regulating. Registering something deep. Pooling low. A small warmth. There’s no way. Your body recognises him as compatible. You have his full attention.

Your breath’s still stuck in your throat.

“Simon.” You breathe out finally. It’s almost as if he heard you because he’s walking now. Quick measured steps toward you. You’re shaking. Yet you can’t move. Hands still plastered at the wheel. He’s nearer. Walks over to the passenger's seat window. One two firm taps at the window. Eyes still fixed on him. He never left yours. Your body responds before your mouth can. A needy smell illuminates you. Lemony. Citrusy. Your eyes are fully dilated. The omega in you keening. Inviting. You want him. Your brain hasn’t caught up yet. His scent now etched in your body. You didn’t even realise he had been warming you up to his smell this whole time.

A whisper of a faint musky orange peel surfaced your brain. It was when the autumn air still lingered. That citrusy smell you couldn’t get enough of. You’d perch over your opened windows, eyes all closed as you relished the smell. He was scenting your home and you didn’t know. You recall hearing small cracks of sticks but it could’ve been anything. Except it was Simon.

Your right arm moves to open the passenger door. He opens it and sits his burly body inside your car, shutting the door as he does so.

You’re still looking at him, mouth parted slightly. You can’t understand why your body is reacting this way. He’s still staring. Eyes heavy, low. You don’t know what it is but you start the car, engine roaring quietly. You’re driving home now. A hidden command from him. Your omega wants him in your space. Wants him to invade your things. Invade you. Is it your heat? That’s not until a couple— days. You wanted to think weeks. But your body has found a compatible mate. It just so happens to be the worst person you can think of.

You park in your entry, turn off the engine and slowly look to your left. Eyes hazy, breathing hesitant. A whine stopping at your throat. Trapped in your esophagus. He knows you want to. Doesn’t need to ask you.

You’re both stumbling into your cabin, his tongue deep in your mouth. Balaclava bunched on his crooked nose.

He’s ripping your coat off your body. Biceps contracting. Your black trench falls carelessly on your floors. Green veins running up his large hands holding the back of your neck, your waist. One of his hands drifting down, gripping your arse. Groaning into your mouth. Spit mixed. Your odours intertwine. A ripe lemon and orange peel staining the air.

You're whining. Teeth clashing. He’s biting at your bottom lip. Strong arms wrapping you. Engulfing your body.

“Been watching you for weeks.” His voice came out heavy, breathy.

You can’t respond with anything other than a mewl. Your hands haven’t left the fabric at his chest. You’re clutching at him. Body all needy. The warmth at your lower belly blooming into a vicious heat. White hot pleasure taking hold of you. Body seizing up. You're stunned. Eyes all wide and wet. Breath coming in fat heaves.

“Si—” You whimper out. Knees bending. Betraying you. Submission. He sees your body submitting to him before you can even voice it. You really want to. Badly.

Beefy arms pull you up and into him. Your legs hanging off his forearm, head lulled out, falling backwards.

He knows where your room is. Knows where everything in your home is. He knows exactly where you keep your suppressants, your diary. He’s read it all. You’ve never heard anyone enter your home at night. Yet he’s always there. Watching you sleep. He admires how your tits puff out when you breathe in, how you drool a bit. A few snores. Fucking obsessed with your body. The fat of your thighs. His alpha knew you were his.

You’re trembling, snivelling into his chest. He sets you down on your bedsheets, body going slump. He stands to his full height, pulling down his balaclava back over the rest of his face and just watches. Hidden again.

He’s slow to take his jacket off. Pulling the zip down in a long stroke. Shoves it off his body.

“I need nghh~” You’re moaning out, hands attempting to take your top off. Too weak. There’s a little drool spilling at the side of your mouth.

He doesn’t bother to take the rest of his clothes off. He’s come too far in this to focus on himself.

“Shh.” Your body, listening immediately.

He hauls your top off for you, now left in just a black lace. Sweat glistening on your chest. Beads rolling down.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” He curses low.

His arms circle your body, taking the lace off. Tits spilling out, the air wafting over your hardened nipples. You sob. Body clutching in on itself. He doesn’t let you. His large hand, pushing you down at your shoulder.

“No movin’.” A warning.

Your arms are flat on the bed, hands resting above you, fisting the pillow. He removes your lower clothing in one strong pull. Your hips lifting instinctively. Your insatiable need to please your mate.

Panties gone. You're vulnerable before him. Hairs decorated around your wet pussy. Weeping. Leaking. A bead of slick sliding down from your hole onto your arse. Hips twitching.

Your body’s flushed, waiting. He’s being too slow. He has to savour this moment.

“Please.” You whimper out.

“A talkative bird ain’t ya.” He voices, still low toned.

“Gotta please this pussy, don’t I?” Taunting you. Letting out a low, mocking whistle.

He’s got his knees pressed into your bed, hands on your inner thighs, pressing into them. Your pussy parting each time. A tear slips out of you. Your head’s thrown back into the pillow. Lips tightly pressed, suppressing the moan trapped at your throat. Eyes shut tight.

He presses in once more, and you can’t help the noise that left you. You bring down one of your arms, scratching at his, trying to bring it where you need it most.

“Want me there, hm?

My fingers in your cunt?”

You’re vigorously nodding. A string of ‘please’s leaving your wet, kissed stained mouth. He doesn’t remove your hand. Doesn’t need to. You can’t move someone as big as him.

You still can’t see his face fully. Only his eyes. But you know he’s smiling at you. You make out a small dent under the balaclava. His alpha pleased at your omega. You want to see more of him. But your heat won’t let you form the sentence.

He doesn’t care though. He’s going to take you.

He brings his rugged thumb, circles it on your throbbing puffy clit.

“Angh!”

Your hips twitch towards him. More beads of slick fall out your drenched pussy. A few more tears rolling down your face. The heat nearly consuming you.

His thumb moving slowly up and down your clit, inching towards your gaping hole. Your hips follow on instinct. Rolling with his hand.

“Fuck sakes.” You’re a sight. His tip leaking heavy drops of pre.

His thumb finds your soaked hole, another bead leaking out coating it. He pushes in slow and deep. Long thick thumb stretching you out.

You scream. Back bowing. Toes curled into the sheets, fingers still scratching at his arms. Your head is lulled to the side, the whites of your eyes on display.

He’s thumbing your hole. Quick deep strokes of his thumb.

Squelch squelch.

“She’s a loud twat, ain’t she?” Voice rugged.

You’re moaning loud, your heat making it feel way better than it’s supposed to.

Fuck you’re close. Body heating up even more, twitching, writhing. Leaving moon shaped dents on his forearms.

“You markin’ me already?” He’s cackling low.

“Ngh c—close!”

“I know.” You pussy throbs.

His voice has such an intense effect on you. He’s been scenting your clothes so you get used to his smell. Needs your body reacting before you do.

One…two..three pumps of his thumb and your convulsing. Body quaking. Mouth hung open in a beautiful ‘o’ shape, brows squinted. You silently cry out letting your orgasm wash over you. Long waves of heat spread over your body.

“Need you.” Voice all gone, yet you managed to whisper out.

“You’ll ‘ave me.”

He slowly pulls his thumb out and stares at it in awe, glistening in your cum. You’ve marked him as yours, now he has to return the favour.

Not giving you any time to recover, he plunges two thick long fingers deep into your pussy. You let out a shocked scream. Hips jerking at the sudden stretch. He leans his body into yours as he pushes his fingers as far as they could go. He’s close to you now. Face just a few inches from yours. You're breathing out hefty breaths, fanning his hidden face. Eyes fully dilated.

“Got a deeep cunt on ya.” He praises. You moan in response. Your arms feel heavy, your trembling fingers attempting to hook the edges of his balaclava and pull down. It comes off revealing messy blonde locks. The two of you reach forward, lips meeting in a sloppy kiss. Mouths open, breathing heavy. Tongues rolling against each other. He’s pistoning his fingers fast. Quick deep strokes making it hard for you to kiss him back. It’s too messy.

He’s grunting into you, you’re whining into him. One hand gripping the hairs at his nape. The other gripping the hairs at the middle of his head. You're rolling your hips into his hand. His thumb bumping your clit every stroke. He’s fucking at your g spot, fingers curling, scissoring your pussy. You break the kiss with a loud moan.

“C—can’t take it! Simon—”

“You will. Didn’t wait this long for you to tap out.” He sounds so rough.

“Anhh! Hngh.”

Another few scissors of your pussy and you’re sooo close again. You’re whinging, body twisting, turning away. You want to run. Want to scream at him. Fight him.

You’re smacking at his chest, he’s still too close watching your face so intently. He needs to see what makes it contort. He likes that you fight back. Makes him harder. He’s straining at his boxers. Cock twitching, itching to be inside your needy cunt. He knows you need his knot.

You're slapping his shoulders, hands balled up in fists, punching at him. He curls his fingers just right and you’re screaming. White blinding pleasure. You’re clutching at him now. He’s fucking his fingers at that exact spot. Engrossed in the way your brows contorted, the way your cheeks deepen in colour. How your wet lashes stick to the top of your cheeks.

“F—fuck fhuck!” Your orgasm, ripping through you.

Your arse pressed deep into the sheets, back arched, pussy gushing out ruining his hand. Arms flailing.

Squelch

His hand sliding out slowly from your bruised pussy. Admiring your work on his fingers. Shining wet. He sees your pussy lips flutter in the corner of his eyes.

“You’re something else.”

He brings his stained fingers to his mouth, sucking them deep, relishing the taste. Groaning deep. Eyes fluttering shut.

“Knot. Y—your knot please.” You cry out. Head still planted to the side. Arms wobbly, you reach out to his dark grey joggers. Fingers tugging at the top of it. His happy trail peeking out. He helps his dick out of his joggers, his boxers next, not taking them off fully. It’s so big. Thick veins running up a few sides, dark red at the tip. Angry. Purple almost. So girthy. Leaking so much pre. He’s so wet for you.

Your omega hungry at the sight. The orangey peel stench, very prominent now.

“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”

“Please.”

He lines his fat cock at the opening of your cunt. Rubs it slowly up and down your clit. You’re hips jutting, bucking away from him.

The tip pops into you in a slow, deep stroke. He stalls for a moment. Hot pulsing pussy pulling him in.

“Fuck—”

He pushes further in. Still slow. You feel every vein on his cock, every curve. Every inch, stretching your walls out. Your mouth, watering at the fullness.

You push at his lower hard stomach, a few hairs tickling your fingers. He’s fucking huge. You can’t take it all at once. You’re weeping, tears spilling at the sides of your face, tits puffed out.

“M’gonna make you take it.”

He hikes your thighs on top of his, pushes himself further into you, digging your knees into your chest. He sinks in another few inches. Your squinted eyes peer down at where you’re both connected, there’s still so much more. Your head falls back as you sniffle, a tiny noise leaving your lips.

He pulls his hips back all of a sudden, you gasp at the loss. Your head comes up quickly. Watching.

“Noo. Simon, fuck—”

Slamming his cock deep, hips grinding into yours. His hairs nudged right against your clit. A bulge forming at your lower belly. Your head collapsing back onto the pillow, brain fogged. Your eyes forced back, body quivering. Quick heaves of your chest, your mouth left hung open, more drool spilling out.

Plap plap

He’s fucking you so deep. Big burly body rocking into you, your pussy sucking him in so tight. So wet. So hot. The room’s filled with the mix of your bodies, your sweat, the smell of your pheromones. Blooming. Inviting him even more. He takes it.

Cock, pistoning so good. Fucking at your spots. You're wailing against him, scratching at his chest, his hard rigid stomach, his neck. Leaving red crescent marks all over.

“Anngh!”

“Such a good bird huh? Taking a stranger's cock so well.”

“Y—yeah nghh ahh.”

He’s grinning at you, a few teeth on display.

You’re gone. So far gone. You're grinding your hips into his, grabbing behind him, his back, pulling him into you. He slows. Deep long strokes now. You can’t do anything but feel it. The dent of your stomach, more evident at every rock of his body into yours. Simon places one of his hands on the bulge. Pressing. Pushing it.

You scream, your juices squirting out of your uncontrollably. You’re shaking so much. Crying. Head stretched back, you're pushing at the bed, jolting away from him.

“Thereeee’s a girl. Thaa’s it, squirt all on me.”

He’s still fucking you slow and deep, riding you through it. The bed, soaked in your cum, your sweat.

“Knot! Knot me please.” You beg. Voice strained, gone from pleasure.

Sitting up, his arms come to the neck of his sweat stained shirt. All sticky. Dark wet patch on lower part of it. He’s taking his shirt off now.

His broad hairy chest on show. Ample. Decorated in various tattoos. You’re in awe of his body.

A few wet hairs stick to the top of his forehead, cheeks dusted pink. Eyes heavy, low. He’s ogling at your scent gland, right by the curve of your neck and shoulder.

“M’gonna mark you.” His eyes gestured at the gland. You can barely hear him through your heat.

He moves both of your legs on his shoulders, pushes closer to you. Breaths mingling. He pulls his cock out to the knob, then rams into you. Quicker, harder than before.

“Ouuh fuck.”

You’re breathing all over his face. Cheeks deepened in colour.

Chasing his own high now, on the brink of release. Cock brushing at your cervix on every thrust. Did he get bigger? Your eyes widening at the thought. There’s a swollen feeling at the bottom of his— knot.

“Want my thrust knot hnyeah? Tell me girl. Thrust. Tell me how bad you wan’ it.” His voice, straining. Low, deep. Grunting.

“I wan’ it. Want it so bad. Please. Please. Please—”

He angles his face at your neck, his mouth a breath away from your gland. One hard heavy thrust into your pussy he’s finally cumming. He bites down hard. Your gland, blooming. Blood spilling from the corners of his mouth, his eyes rolling back. You shriek at the feel. Your breath comes in short, rapid pants. Eyes shutting tight. More tears spilling. It hurts so good. Burning sensation washing over you. White hot. Scorching.

White blotchy spurts of his cum flooding you deep. Throaty groans leaving his mouth. You're soaking, drinking it up. There’s so much cum, it’s spilling out. Dropping on the sheets. His body nearly collapsed on yours. Your body can’t take the weight on you. He’s so heavy. Your omega yearns for it, wants the weight on you.

His knot, plugging your cunt, trapping you together. You sigh in pleasure. Satisfaction. Content. You still feel a twitch of his cock, small spurts shooting into you.

A few beats pass, his knot finally deflating. Cock only half hard now. He’s pulling out of you slowly. Beads of his cum following suit. It catches on his tip.

His breathing ragged as he brought his face down to your bruised pussy. It throbs under his burning stare. His mouth inches closer. Wetting his bottom lips, he lunges into you. Sucking, circling, licking at your pussy.

You’re whining, mewling, bucking your hips away from him. He’s quicker. Pining your hips down with two large hands. He’s eating his cum out your pussy.

“T—too much!”

“Mmh.” Groaning, voice vibrating through your over sensitive pussy.

He brings one of his hands, two fingers plugging it back in. Deep. Fucking his cum back in. You’re on the cusp again. Hips hiking up. Back arched in a beautiful bow.

His tongue curling, circling on your clit. You’re seeing stars, everything’s all blurry. You’re cumming again.

“Simon!”

His fingers slow. Just strong unhurried thrusts. You’re coming down. Breath haggard. Eyes blown.

“Can’t leave me now.” He tells you, voice quiet.

You're his.

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A/n: I literally need that dih so bad.

Thank ya for 2000 notes <33

You know teachers aren’t supposed to have favorite students, you tell each and every one of your students that you don’t have favorites, that you adore all of them equally. But Gabriella O’Hara holds a special place in your heart.

“Did you see, did you see?” She asks excitedly, running up to you, dark curls tumbling wildly around her shoulders.

You kneel down, and brush the hair back from her face, still smiling brightly. “I did, that was amazing, who taught you that?”

“My dad, he helped me practice.” She says, giving you a toothy grin, one front tooth missing from where she’d knocked it out eating an apple yesterday.

A tear-filled lunch that had been until you reminded her that now the Tooth Fairy would come visit her. The idea of a sparkly fairy leaving her money in exchange for her tooth dried her tears quickly, and soon enough she was proudly showing off her lost tooth (safely contained in a Ziploc bag) to anyone who would listen.

“Well, it seems like your dad is a very good teacher, then.” You say, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze before her friends dragged her back onto the playground.

You stood back up and rejoined the other first grade teachers.

“She’s adorable.” Janey says, nodding at Gabi who was playing tag with a few other girls.

Janey taught in the classroom next to yours. You started teaching at the same time, but she’d been hired at Steve Rodgers Elementary a year before you. Janey was the first friend you made when you got hired, and you soon became close friends inside and outside school.

“She’s so well-behaved, too; I wish I knew who her mom was, so I could thank her.” You say, a slight grimace on your face, when you watched two boys from your class begin to shove each other.

You called out to them, and they stopped, giving you guilty looks before running towards the swing sets.

“There’s no mom, she walked out on Gabi and her father after she was born.” Melissa says, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched her kids.

Melissa was a senior teacher at Rodgers Elementary. A tough love works the best teacher with the confidence of a god, and a nose for gossip like you couldn’t believe.

“Oh, that’s so sad.” You say, your heart hurting for the sweet little girl who always wanted to sit next to you during story time. Gabi had told you about her dad many times, but never mentioned her mom, you just assumed she was away for work often, or that they didn’t have many things in common.

You looked at Gabi, watching as she helped one of her friends tie their shoes. Sitting beside them and patiently demonstrating on her own sneakers. How could anyone walk away from her?

“It is, but her dad…he’s hot, I’ve seen him in the pickup line, he’s like a male model or something.” Melissa says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

You gave her an incredulous look. “Melissa! That’s a parent you’re talking about.”

She shrugs. “Hey, I’m married, I’m not gonna do anything, but one of you could.”

Janey turns her head to hide her laughter, and you smack her arm. “Janey, hitting on a child’s parent is wildly inappropriate, besides I have Todd.”

Melissa snorts, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Todd was not a popular man around the school, especially after what he pulled on your birthday.

The bell rings signaling the end of recess and your kids begin to line up, ending your conversation as the three of you are pulled in different directions.

There’s a knock at your door, and you look up from grading papers, to see Janey. “Hey y/n, Gabi’s father is here to see you?”

You shoot her a look of confusion and begin to tidy up your desk, then stand, smoothing out the wrinkles in your baby pink dress. “Oh, yeah, sure, let him in.”

Janey disappears, and the space is filled by a giant of a man. He towers over the desks, making them look even tinier than they already were. His shoulders are massive, his biceps you swear are bigger than your thighs, though you could be exaggerating, but you’re honestly not sure, and when he fixes those dark brown eyes on you, and suddenly the floor beneath you feels unsteady.

“Mr. O’Hara, how can I help you?” You manage to get out, motioning for him to take a seat in front of his desk.

“I’ll stand.” He says curtly. His voice is deep, settling in your bones, the faint whisper of an accent, and confidence behind his words makes you nervous for a moment, then you recognize the feeling, not nerves…something else, something much more inappropriate.

“Oh—okay, is there something you need, is Gabi okay?” You ask, realizing she isn’t in the classroom with him.

“She’s fine, just sitting outside with her book.” He explains, his eyes piercing straight through you.

“Margaret and Margarita, right? Your daughter an exceptional reader, in both English and Spanish, you should be very proud.” You say, giving him a smile, hoping the compliment will soften his expression and make it seem like he didn’t want to murder you.

Melissa was right, Mr. O’Hara was gorgeous. With a strong jawline, high cheekbones, a mess of thick dark hair, and perfectly formed lips, all tapering down to the body of an Adonis, clothed in a white button up that stretched across his broad chest, and black slacks that clung to his muscled legs like it was their job and rent was due next week. But his expression was flat, his eyes cold, his stance rigid.

“Why did you lie to my daughter?” He asks flatly, looking down at you, as if you were a bug on his windshield.

You blink up at him in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“You should be.”

An indignant expression flashed across your face before you could stop it, and you saw Mr. O’Hara’s lip twitch. “I’m not apologizing, I’m asking for clarification.”

“You told Gabi that the Tooth Fairy was going to visit her, I wasn’t going to do the Tooth Fairy , she doesn’t need false hope.” He snaps, leaning forward slightly, towering over you.

The hair on your arms stands up, but you brush it off as a stab of guilt goes through you. He was a single dad, maybe he couldn’t afford such frivolous traditions. “Mr. O’Hara, if this is a financial issue, I am so sorry. I should’ve tried to comfort her another way, my sincerest apologizes.”

“This isn’t a financial issu—comfort her?” He stops midsentence, his brows furrowing.

“She was upset because she lost her teeth, it’s her first one, a ton of kids get a little scared, but the promise of a reward usually clears those tears right up.” You tell him, holding your hands up in a pacifying way as you talk.

His eyes dart down to your hands, then back to your eyes, lingering for a moment on your lips. “I didn’t—Gabi didn’t tell me she was scared.”

“She was probably a little embarrassed. She talks all the time about how brave you are and how she wants to be just like you when she grows up.”

His expression softens.

“I actually—”you turn to rifle through your desk until you find Gabi’s latest assignment—“have something for you.”

He takes the paper from you, and you can’t help but notice how his hands dwarf yours, his tanned skin is scattered with small scars, and his calloused fingertips brush against yours. “What is this?”

“I had the kids draw a picture of their hero and then write a few sentences about why that person is their hero. I think she was one of a few who didn’t draw Spiderman.” You laugh softly.

He cradles the paper and a soft smile spreads across his face as he reads her writing under his breath. “Porque mi papá lucha contra los monstruos en mi armario.”

“I had to look that one up, my Spanish is terrible.” You admit sheepishly, watching as he reads her words over and over again.

“Thank you, for this, and for comforting Gabi.” He says, folding the paper carefully and sliding it in his pocket.

“Of course, I love Gabi, she’s such a pleasure to have in class.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and you’re struck by how similar he and Gabi are. They have the same nose, the same almost curls that frame their faces, and when he tilts his head ever so slightly to the side you almost burst out laughing. You can’t count how many times you’ve seen Gabi do that exact same thing.

“You know Gabi talks a lot about you, how pretty you are, she was right.” His voice is low, smooth, and sends a jolt through you. Then he takes his leave, with you standing there stunned, wondering what the hell just happened to you.