nobuochboskyw

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.

You, with your sensual curves and smooth skin and sharp eyes. You, who took one look at the scuff mark he made on your very expensive-looking heels and laughed. You, who, as you now fully turn to face him, smelled faintly of warm rice and deep vanilla, spiced quince and smoked cinnamon. 

You. 

You, you, you. 

The girl he has been harboring the most, painful, humiliatingly pathetic crush on for the past two and a half years. 

A playful grin formed on your plush lips. Your eyes began to scan him over, assessing. The small stud above his brow glinted to you as if in greeting. His hair, which normally was tied up, was down today, the thick black frames he wore slightly obscuring the pinkish scar that ran across his nose, and his dark lashes were fluttering against his pale skin in a way that made him look so… soft. 

Choso could feel his eyes begin to widen as you took him in. His heart mobilized to his throat, his nape began to prick with cool droplets of sweat. Was he blushing right now or was it just hot? The bustle of the line all but faded away to him.

You began to speak, and it took him several moments before realizing that the pitched ringing in his ears were in fact, not his own deluded creations, but his headphones. His ridiculous, small, obscured headphones that were actively on noise-cancellation mode.

You were talking to him, and he couldn't hear you. 

Now, this wasn't the first time you and Choso ever crossed paths. The two of you started at the company on the same day, and the both of you were partners during the week-long onboarding program. You captivated him with your casual boldness, magnetic presence, and how just one word from you could command the attention of the entire group. 

He surprised you with his low voice, observing eyes, sharp features, and the way that he spoke his words with the kind of deep earnestness of someone who has never been burned. 

You were intrigued.

He was captivated. 

By the time the onboarding week finished, all the new hires went around the room stating their departments and their title. When it came your time to speak, and the words "Portfolio Management Director" left your oh, so pretty lips, Choso could feel the barriers going up before he could even fully comprehend it. 

When everyone began to filter out of the room, mingling with the peers they grew acquainted with during the program, all he could do was keep his head down. At the time, all he could think about was how foolish he was to hope that there could ever even be a small possibility with you.  

He ended up leaving without saying goodbye (admittedly not his best decision), and you watched him go with the smallest traces of hurt squeezing your chest. 

And so that's why Choso finds himself here, on this Friday morning two and a half years later, flustered, embarrassed, and scrambling to string together one coherent sentence for you. 

This was worse than his own personal hell. This was abuse and torture wrapped up in one single, harrowing blow. 

Choso could see you had stopped talking and were looking at him expectantly now. 

And honestly? You could handle scuff marks and damaged shoes. You could handle snarky colleagues and misogynistic execs. You've fought for your spot (if only everyone could've seen the state you left Zenin Naoya in...) and swiftly climbed your way up the corporate ladder. You were one of the youngest, and most favored, female directors at the company. You could handle your own and pretty much anything thrown at you - but that did not mean you took kindly to being ignored, especially by the regretfully attractive IT geek that somehow left such an impression on you all those years ago. 

The easy smile you wore slowly began to fall with every passing second of his silence. Behind you, the line began to march forward.

Choso was immobilized. He had to act, and fast. In his fantasies, he would've approached you with the kind of slickness and sex-appeal that Sukuna Ryomen (the notorious office rake) was said to employ at the weekly happy hours (allegedly, according to Satoru). Choso would have wow'd you with his intellect, he would have made you laugh. He would've apologized for his initial lameness after the onboarding debacle all those years ago. He would've found a way to finally get your number, dammit! 

Instead, all the words he wanted to say were competing for a spot of your attention, and something halfway between a choked groan and garbled sputtering was all that could escape his mouth. 

Your eyes slightly widened. 

Choso wished for death to strike him. 

He could feel the light tapping of the people behind him, urging him to move. 

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. A mix of something halfway between sympathy and disappointment flashed in your eyes, but you turned around too quickly before he could decipher it. And so he was left standing there, in the middle of the cafeteria with bated breath and a palpitating heart, as you walked up to the continental buffet without so much as a glance back. 

God, he was truly pathetic. And also so, so incredibly fucked. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

"Oh now that's fuckin' gold-" Satoru was barking at this point, laughing so hard his glasses slid down his nose, "-even I'm not THAT bad" his howls echoed throughout the entirety of the IT department's floor. Even Suguru, who was always so neutral in these situations, was chuckling and nodding in agreement as he listened to Choso's embarrassing retelling of this morning's encounter. 

Choso's face twisted in misery. 

If he was lamer than Gojo Satoru, who was generally considered as the office's "lamest", then he should just resign the rest of his life to virgin-hood now. 

Gojo: +10

Choso: -67

With a grumble of the most unsavory curses he knew, and a swift kick to Gojo's long shins (that, satisfyingly, shut him up), Choso got up from his desk for his shift at the tenth-floor IT help station. 

Which, to both his happiness and dismay, was where all the higher-ups worked. Where you worked. 

He rubbed his face once, his glasses lifting under his fingers, before staring up at the elevator ceiling. 

"Please pull yourself together, man" he whispered under his breath. 

The tenth floor IT "station" was moreso a glorified closet, in his opinion. The only attribute that made it a “station” was the one,  small service window that one would normally see at drive-thru’s. All Choso had to do for the next 3-hours was sit behind the window and wait for the digital clock to hit 5pm. And normally, his time at the counter would go as it always did: quiet and uneventful. 

So, was it divine intervention or cruel punishment that led you to walk over to the window at 4pm, your heels clicking against the polished floor as you stood before him for the second time that day?

"Mr. Kamo," you said in greeting. You were still a little peeved from the situation that occurred earlier in the day, and your usual easy tone was replaced with something a touch cooler.

"H-Hi," he breathed. Slick. He coughed before correcting himself, "what can I do for you?" 

His eyes flickered up at you and then down to his fidgeting hands. He knew he needed to explain what happened earlier. His earbuds, his chronic-lameness, his affinity with making a fool out of himself whenever you were within a four-meter radius. 

You sighed. "Seems like my laptop decided to give out on me," your lips formed a slight pout and your brows furrowed in cute concern. His heart thumped in his throat. "Think you can fix it?" You raised your eyes to meet his, and he suddenly became acutely aware of just how warm his face was.

He nodded quickly, jerkily. "I can certainly try." 

You say your thanks softly, just a touch distant, before silently handing him your computer. 

He flushed in embarrassment as he stumbled to take the device from you. The IT window, though useful, had a worktable on his side. So, he had to extend over the table to get to the counter of the window, where you had placed your laptop. 

Your eyes furtively stared at the way his surprisingly sculpted arms extended out to reach over. You noticed the soft outline of a scar wrapping around his mid forearm, and the veins that ran down from there and into his large hands. 

You clear your throat, trying to stop yourself from saying (or moaning) something stupid, and excuse yourself. 

He was able to diagnose your laptop in a matter of minutes. The internal cooling fan was clogged with dust, and all he had to do was blast it with some compressed air. It was simple, really. He anticipated it would only take him ten minutes to fix the whole thing.

And yet, he sat there stalling. 

You sat in one of the lounge chairs beside his window, your legs neatly crossed and your manicured nails tapping away on your phone. The sun was beginning to set, and the glow from its light was illuminating you in such a way that it would make it a crime not to stare. 

“Yes, Mr. Kamo?”

You didn’t glance up from your phone, but your brows held a light, inquisitive arch. His breath stuttered. 

“I am so sorry about earlier,” his voice was so gentle you almost missed it. You finally look up. “The breakfast line this morning. That time from onboarding two years ago-” the thumping of his veins was hard enough to staccato his speech, yet he could not stop now. “I am so sorry. For everything. For your shoes. For acting the way I did. For not saying goodbye. I had earbuds in and-god-I don’t know why I’m so…” 

“Shy?” You offer to him.

“Lame.” He mumbles. 

Your laugh is an angelic ring to his ears, and he watches as your hand covers your mouth as your eyes begin to crinkle. It was hard to stay annoyed when he was so endearing, so earnest with his words. The worry lines on his forehead began to ease, and a relieved smile slowly made its way onto Kamo Choso’s face for the first time today.

“All is forgiven-” your smile was small, perhaps even a touch shy. You hesitate, before saying, “thank you, Mr. Kamo.” It was your turn now to not be able to meet his eyes. And though you couldn’t bring yourself to say it, the implication of your words hung in the air. Thank you. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for your courage. 

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as the sun fully dipped into the horizon. You returned to your phone, and he returned to your computer. 

And when he finally opened up the casing to clean out your fan, he made sure to leave a section untouched in the hopes that maybe, just maybe you would come back to visit him again. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁

It was slow at first, but eventually you did return. And then again. And again and again. 

One time for a docking station. The next, for your headphones (you both laughed). He checked your monitors one week, and your cables the next. It would be something new each time you came rounding the corner. 

He would often find himself searching for the sound of your heels, like it was a message just for him; something sacred; a secret admission. 

And every time you came around, you stayed by his window as he worked. You liked to watch the flush that would inevitably creep onto his features, and he liked to relish in your closeness, the smell of your shampoo, the sounds of your bracelets clinking together, and the faces you made as you read through your emails. 

Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would catch you staring. He smiled more on those days. 

Somehow, somewhere in those two or so months, the two of you began to ease into each other. You talked more, he stuttered less. Your professional smiles grew into something more unreserved. His anxious hands gradually found peace. Over time, silence turned into polite niceties, which turned into conversations about weekend plans, which turned into gentle teases about music tastes, coffee order skepticisms, and pop-culture references. You surprised him by being a secret gamer. He surprised you by being a shameless sweet-tooth. 

After weeks of odd-repair jobs flew by, there was probably no other office supplies of yours that Choso hadn’t checked. 

He was sure that the final days of you visiting him were soon approaching, and the thought alone was enough to send him into an emotional spiral all week. He didn’t want whatever this was to stop. Your presence easily became the favorite aspect of his routine: a loud part of his normally quiet schedule that he looked forward to every Friday. 

He just needed to man up. Grow a pair. And if today was his last shot, then he would. And if you didn't show up to his IT window tonight? Then he would finally attend the company happy hours just in case you would be there. And if you were there, then he would approach you at the bar and he would buy you a drink. He would ask for your number. He would tell you to address him casually from here on out. He would, he would, he would. 

For you? He would do anything.

It was ten-to-five, and the twisting in Choso’s stomach was becoming unbearable. He was all but ready to pack up and sprint to the bar that all the employees went to on Friday nights when he heard the familiar click of your heels as you rounded the corner. 

His heart was pounding, and he could hear the blood rushing past his ears. 

“You’re going to hate me,” you started. 

Never, he wanted to say in reply. 

“Oh? How so?”

“My work phone,” you frowned, “I’d hate to keep you late on a Friday night, but…” you softly waved the device in your hand. “Think you can manage?”

The turbulence in his body settled. You were here. He will get your number today. He will ask, after this. His eyes softened, as they normally did whenever you were near, and a smile graced his pretty features. “When have I not?”

You laughed and nodded, a touch flushed, biting your lip as your eyes lit up with something warm, something he couldn’t place.

A beat passes. Your gaze drops from his eyes, to his lips, then quickly up to the dark piercing by his brow. Were you too obvious? Was he too dense?  

"My savior." You said it like it was a secret. Breathy, earnest, purposeful. 

His ears turned another shade redder. 

You handed your phone to him wordlessly, and his fingers grazed yours. Where yours were warm and smooth, his were cool and calloused. He gulped. You grinned. 

As you settled down into your usual spot on the lounge chair, laptop opened to your email, he began to assess the damage on your phone. 

“Do you remember what applications were running before it broke? Helps give me a better understanding of the issue.” He was focused now, skillfully popping off the case and assessing the ports. 

You hummed. “The last thing I used was the camera - I was taking pictures of a merger agreement to forward to the legal team.” You checked your watch. “I was hoping to send it all over by 8pm at the latest.”

Though he nodded casually, he couldn’t help but be in awe of your composure, your effortless nonchalance with your power and position. 

As he finally got the screen on your work phone to power up, you began to get a video call on your laptop. You excused yourself, mouthing “Sorry, gotta take this” to him, before you turned and headed back to your desk. It looked like you were quite busy. He hoped you were taking care of yourself; that you ate something today. He made a mental note for himself to ask you later.

He fiddled with your phone for several minutes. After cleaning out your charging port, plugging your device into power, and doing other general troubleshooting, your phone screen finally lit up with its signature brand logo. 

Though it lagged, he was able to get to your home screen and look into your settings. After a general inspection of your storage, software system, and other miscellaneous settings, he moved on to your camera app to check if the app would crash like you had mentioned. 

He truly did not mean to pry. He was just about to close the app when he saw it - the small square photo cover of a folder in your camera roll. The preview was of you. Of your body. 

And, oh fuck- were these your nudes?

Fuck. 

He could feel the blood draining from his face...  

He immediately put your phone down. 

What the hell was he doing?

You were a distinguished senior-level employee. His colleague. His crush. Dare he say, friend? 

His very, very attractive friend.  

He gulped. He could feel his dick pulse in interest, a faint throb that blended with the beating anticipation in his heart.

He slowly picked your phone back up.

He wished he could feel more turmoil; he wished that his morality would kick in and tell him to stop, to tell him to show some sliver of respect for your privacy. But all he could hear was silence in the face of his insatiable curiosity.

You weren’t here right now. The call you took seemed important enough to go back to your office for. Perhaps… Perhaps he could just reaffirm what he thought he saw?

His pulse was beating so wildly that his heart felt like it was working on overload. With shaky hands, he clicks back into the folder. 

Fuck. 

He wanted to cry. He might actually cry. 

There were only seven pictures total. Before he could think too hard, he tapped into the first one and scrolled through. 

The first was of you laying on your side, your heavy tits barely held up by the flimsy pink lingerie you had on. His dick lurched in his jeans at the sight of your nipples barely caught on the lace. He could see the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, the light gloss on your lips. 

He could feel his hand reaching down to his crotch before he could register what was happening. 

The hell? This was you? Hidden behind all your smart clothes and persisting authority? 

His fingers involuntarily squeezed himself through his pants. He could feel the fiery pit in his stomach convulse. He tried to ignore the wet spot that was beginning to form where the tip of his cock kissed his briefs. He continued to scroll. 

More pictures of your tits, some with them squished together, some with them spilling over your purposefully small tops. Once he got to the ones of your ass, he had to stifle a surprised groan with a choked cough. The slutty thongs you wore almost made him pass out. One pair was made of only cross-linking satin strips. Another was just translucent lace. Regardless of material, he was transfixed by the way they got swallowed up by the expanse of your plump, juicy, impossibly round ass. 

And then he got to the video. The video. 

His heart was wild against his ribs. A vibrator was between your legs. Your thong shoved to the side. Your wetness was soaking the fabric so thoroughly it was see through, and your slick was coating the tip of the device until it shined. Your nipples were hard and peaking through the tops of your bra. One hand was pumping two fingers into your pussy, and the other held the vibrator to rub against your swollen clit.

It was so obscene. So dirty. So fucking erotic. 

He did not know what took over him, but he could not stop himself now. His pants were unzipped, briefs shoved down, cock fully exposed underneath his worktable. He was jerking himself off like he was possessed, drunk off of the way you looked on the screen. His dick was heavy, thick, and hot in his hand. The mushroomed tip was angry and red, rubbed raw by the friction of being trapped in his underwear. He was leaking such an embarrassing amount that he wasn’t entirely sure if it was pre or if he literally came untouched in his pants without realizing. 

He could hear your low pants coming from the screen, and the shlk shlk shlkkk of your nimble fingers fucking inside of yourself. He had to clench his jaw so hard that the veins in his neck were surely popping out, just to stop himself from making noise. Each time you rubbed the slickened vibrator against your cunt, and it partly disappeared between your pussy lips, his own dick bobbed with fresh waves of need. 

What the hell were these doing on your work phone? Was this even your work phone? 

His forehead was lightly damp now. His chest was heaving. His face was so fucking flushed. His heartbeat felt so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear the faint clicking of your heels as you returned to him. 

“...Mr. Kamo?”

His face snapped up. You were standing directly across from him, the only thing separating the two of you being the service-window wall. A beat passes, and your video is still playing on loop in his hand. 

Your lips part in slow recognition, but the shadow of something indecipherable flickers across your features. 

The world around you both seems to still, the Tokyo nightlife all but muted in the bubble that formed between you and him. 

He sat frozen as you wordlessly walked up to, and opened, the door to his IT room. 

It only took you two steps inside before you slowly dropped to your knees, your eyes never leaving his. With your field of vision lower now, you could see his large hand still fisting his dick underneath the table. 

And… Holy shit. He was so… large. 

You don’t realize you're gulping. 

You don’t realize that you’re salivating. 

This fucking nerd was packing… what? Nine full inches and then some?

Your wide eyes look back up to him, and he stares back with something akin to both utter humiliation and desperation. 

“I never got to properly thank you for all your help these past few months,” you whisper. 

Wait, what? 

Before his delirious brain could process the implication of your soft words, you’re leaning in to lick up the salty pre that pooled at the base of his cock, slurping at the excess, and licking allllll the way up to the pulsing head.  

Your tongue was so soft, so ridiculously fuckin’ wet. 

And Choso was so taken by surprise, so dazed by the fact that this was his reality right now, that his jaw slackened, and a fuckin’ whimper escaped his throat. 

You began to trace the veins on his dick and he could’ve sworn he saw stars. 

You took your time, languidly finding a path up up, up. By the time you made it to the tip, he thought he was going to cry (he was unsure if he already was), until you wrapped your plush lips around the underside of his mushroomed cockhead, putting delicious pressure on his most sensitive area.  

“Put your hands on me,” you almost whined it out, the tip of his dick still bobbing shallowly in your mouth. Like you didn’t want to let go; like you didn't want even a moment of it not resting heavily on your tongue.

Before he could comply, the distant whirring of a vacuum echoed somewhere down the hall. 

“Oh fuck-” his eyes were wild, and his breathing ragged and erratic. Was it panic from potentially getting caught? Or was it the selfish idea that the thought of you stopping now might actually kill him? That whatever trance you both were under would break, and that you would walk out and take all of his heart with you? 

He looks down at you, and in his panicked state he didn’t realize you were grinning. 

“What are you-?” 

The whirring was getting louder. You crawled under the table and settled between his spread legs. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

He felt like he was going to go insane. 

You rested your cheek against his thigh, and looked up at him through your lashes. Your eyes were glazed, your lips rouged and spit-slickened. You were mesmerizing, and it almost killed him to look away. 

In the distance, he could see the nightly custodial crew rounding the corner and walking down the hall, their vacuums roaring loudly against the polished floors.  

You began to push his flared cockhead further into your mouth, until it was just kissing the smoothed back of your throat. He choked on a moan, one hand gripping onto the workstation ledge, the other flying to your hair. The echoes of footsteps were growing louder, and the roars of the vacuums were quickly nearing. And yet, this only seemed to make you needier, hungrier. 

Your head was bobbing rhythmically, unrelentingly, addictingly, under the table as you sucked on his hard length. He was just so warm, so thick and hot and heady, and you were beginning to lose your sanity over the feeling of his cock filling your mouth so completely and overwhelmingly, shutting you up. 

Your lashes were damp with stray tears. Choso wondered how it would look to paint your face with his cum, or if you preferred to take it down your throat-

“Would you like us to clean inside there, sir?”

He sputtered dumbly. “Huuh-?” 

The custodial team stood about four meters away, pausing their vacuuming activities briefly as they stared at him curiously. 

“N-no. No I’m good. All c-clean over here.” 

You made it a point to slurp lightly - just loud enough for him alone to hear. You were slobbering now, drool and spittle dripping from your chin, messily mixing with his creamy pre down the length of his cock, and all over his balls. 

He fisted your hair in warning, his jaw ticking with tension. 

He knew he probably looked ridiculous to the custodians right now, maybe even sick with how flushed and sweaty he was. He was pretty sure that his lower lip was split with how hard he was biting them. His glasses were slightly fogged on the lower edges, and his chest was heaving in a way that made him look like he just ran a marathon. 

From his peripherals he could see your wicked smile as you popped off his dick, gingerly mixing the wetness all over, two slippery hands jerking him off, twisting under the capped head, in a slow, teasing, mind-numbing pattern. 

The custodians shrugged, before turning around and heading off for the night. 

And as they left, something inside his mind snapped. Something possessive, perverted, and deranged.

“You playin’ with me?” His eyes were wild. Gone was his professionalism, his shy resolve nowhere to be found. His heart was pounding. He needed you.

“Finally got the hint?” You shoot back, challengingly. 

He huffed out a breath of warm air, before firmly gripping your throat and shoving your mouth back onto his cock. You readily latched on, sucking and licking and moaning, one hand massaging his balls, the other twisting over whatever exposed length was left of him. 

Your tongue was unrelenting, and he was bucking up, abusing your throat. He loved the way your throat bulged at every snap! of his hips, as he shoved his long, fat dick down, down, down. So far gone was the shy man you met every past Friday. His eyes were now glazed and glassy, his lips bitten completely red, sweat rolling hypnotically past his brow piercing and along his sharp jaw. He was drunk off the way your mouth felt. Drunk off the way his dick was using you. Drunk off the way you look; broken, teary-eyed, mouth gagged, and throat bulging with his heavy cock buried inside. 

Before you know it, he's slipping out, one hand on your throat to keep you still, while the other wraps around the base of his cock. He slaps his wet dick against your cheek, before rubbing and sliding himself along your smooth skin. Your legs clench as you realize from base to tip his cock is as big as your head. And when you looked into his eyes, you could tell he saw it too. He wasn’t looking at you though, you realized. He was looking at himself. He wasn't just tapping his dripping cock against your flushed skin. This twisted motherfucker was measuring. 

“Heh- I’ve never felt a pussy before,” he continues his rocking against your face, “d’ya think it’ll fit?”

Your eyes widened. This man, with his pierced ears and studded brow, muscular arms and ginormous cock, was a fucking virgin? 

Surely, he was lying. He had to be.

But as you assessed him, his wrecked and earnest features, there was no doubt that he wasn’t telling you anything but the hard, honest truth. 

“I-” your heart does something funny in your chest, while a fresh wave of slickness soaks your already drenched panties. You address him with equal earnestness, “I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself, Choso.”

And oh, he was a goner. He loved the way his name rolled off your tongue, how casually you addressed him. He was completely and utterly at your mercy now. 

“Does the window close?” You ask. You were still under the table, and completely oblivious to the way his heart felt like it was exploding behind his ribcage. 

“Y-yeah,” he nodded quickly, jerkily. Dazed and partly delirious. 

He shoved himself back into his pants, not caring to button as he pulled his long, black shirt down enough to cover himself. He stood and leaned over the table, sliding the service window shut and pulling the metal security shutters down. You crawled out from under the table as he went and locked the door. 

It was well past 7pm at this point, and the usual office stragglers were long gone by now. The two of you were alone. 

He lends you his hand and you take it. Your manicured fingers swallowed by his scarred and calloused ones. 

Your knees crack as you stand to your full height. He reaches to wrap his hands around either side of your throat, his thumbs lightly caressing your cheeks. 

“Let me kiss you,” 

It wasn’t even a question. His brain was too consumed in the haze of you, you, you. 

Your chest rose and fell. Your hands found his biceps, and you slowly slid them up, up, up to his shoulders, then to his chest, feeling the hidden muscles of his upper body. 

You hooked your finger in the collar of his shirt, before tugging, bringing him close enough that your lips were brushing his.  

You looked up at him through your lashes, a sly smile creeping onto your features, “I’ll think on it.” 

He groaned. His forehead pressed against yours. The tip of his nose softly tracing yours. You were both so close to each other that your lips would brush from the smallest of movements.

His fingers moved from your throat and into your hair, and you could feel him rutting and rubbing his throbbing erection against your leg in the most desperate, pathetic way. 

“Fuckin’ tease.”

Your heart was beating so traitorously loud against your chest, and the pressure building in between your legs was making you ache, your pussy clenching at the feeling of being without.

You smile at him wickedly. “Earn it then.” 

And before he can think, you’re dragging his shaky hand between your thighs, your skirt riding up, up, up past your legs, before scrunching around your waist. 

He might pass out. 

Because here you were - tits pressing against your tight button down, nipples raised through your bra, lace covered cunt exposed, and ass only half-covered by your bunched up skirt.

And when he finally, finally dips his trembling fingers just underneath the absolutely soaked lace of your panties, grazing your poor, neglected pussy, you sigh out the most breathy, sinful sound in his ear. Could one get infinitely times harder? He couldn’t tell. But he was starting to feel lightheaded with how much blood was rushing from his head to his cock, which was flaring with the freshest waves of need. 

“I- I’ve never done this before,” he said it as if in a trance. His eyes were glassy. He looked hypnotized, almost possessed by the way the tips of his fingers were drenched in your wetness, how your pussy lips were greedily sucking him in so desperately, how they made the prettiest squelch! as his finger got devoured, inch by fucking inch, by your warm, velvety walls. 

Your eyes rolled back and your mouth parted in the most sensual “o” that he’s only ever seen from stuff online. He felt the air get knocked out of his lungs. All of his college “experiences” (if he could even call jizzing untouched and awkward blow jobs milestones in his sexual portfolio) paled in comparison to the display that your pussy was showing him right now. He used his thumb to spread your lips apart, watching his fingers disappear in and out, in and out. 

Fuck.

And then he was everywhere. 

He has your shirt ripped off in seconds, your bra shoved down. His unoccupied hand is squeezing one of your tits, while his mouth latches on to the other, sucking and biting your nipples in a way that has your toes curling, and - did Kamo Choso have a tongue piercing?? 

Below, his one finger became two, jamming into your tight, tight hole, before pumping in and out, in and out in the most depraved way. And when he accidentally crooked his fingers, massaging and fucking into your most sensitive spots, you moaned, your red nails scraping against his broad shoulders. 

“Touch me here too,” you all but gasp out, your delicate hands moving his thumb to rub circles against your clit, just as you had done in the video he watched of you on your phone earlier. 

Ever the most astute student, he listened to your every word. He made note of the things that had you going stupid, and changed gears when you tapped him on his biceps. He was a quick study (a bona fide geek after all), and soon he found the most relentless, ruthless, dumbifying tempo that he had you fucking squirting and spraying all over his wrists and down onto the floor below.  

And then he’s pushing you until your ass is leaning against the workdesk. He spreads your legs apart and drops to his knees. When he stared up at you, he looked so, so gone.

His glasses were smudged and pushed up, the tip of his scarred nose nudged your clit, and his pink lips opened to dip his soft tongue against your folds. The cool metal ball of his tongue piercing the only solace against ur blazing skin. It’s his turn to slurp you up, and god how you tasted- 

One of his hands is firmly gripping your thigh, his face disappearing completely as his mouth is on your cunt, kissing and licking and sucking and massaging. The other is fisting his leaking cock. You tasted so fuckin’ good on his tongue. So warm. So wet. So sweet. He could do this forever. He would beg to do this forever.

“Have I-” he hiccupped, “have I earned it yet, sweetheart?” His glasses are wet with your juices. He’s panting, warm puffs of air hitting your core. 

You were shaking. Yeah, yeah. He earned it. 

“Yes, yes Cho-” your praises of him blended together, spilling and slurring out of your mouth without pause.

“Thank god.”

And then he’s back at it, eating you out so good, his tongue bullying inside of your tight hole. The scar on his nose fully rubbing against your clit, finding home on your body. And you feel it - your legs beginning to shake, your heart pounding in your throat. You’re panting, whining, holding his head to you like you’ll keep him there and suffocate him. The overwhelming waves of your orgasm crashing into you as he fucks his tongue into your greedy pussy, lips latched on and giving the sweetest suction. 

Your hands are in his hair, your vision blurred and teary, you’re calling out his name like its religion. 

And him? He’s trying to memorize the way your walls clench around his tongue, begging for him to stay, keeping him inside you. He’s trying to burn into memory the way you’re fuckin gushing wetness all over his chin, the way your tits bounce up as you arch your back in the most sinful way. 

Only after you come down from your high, Choso finally stands. He rests his two palms on the table space on either side of your thighs, caging you in, before resting his damp forehead in the crook of your neck. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your skin, his soft lips kissing against your jugular. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” you tease. Your hands find his hair, lightly running your fingers through his scalp before saying, “we aren’t even close to being done.” 

He looks up at you curiously, innocently. “We… can do more?”

Oh, so he seriously was a virgin.

“Cho…” His knees weaken at the nickname. “We’ve just barely begun.” 

He involuntarily bucks his hips at your response, rubbing his painful erection against your leg. His briefs were wet and stained with pre. You lifted his shirt above his head. He pulled your soaked panties down your damp legs. 

You were still sitting on the worktable, your legs ajar, and your pussy a sloppy mixture of your release and his own saliva. He nudges the tip of his length to kiss against your hole. A deep, choked sigh escapes his mouth at the softness of your pussylips, the slipperyness of your wetness, the warmth that radiated from your core and onto his weeping dick. 

He slips his cock against your folds, teasingly gliding against your clit as he pulses against your skin. Choso’s lips catch your own, his tongue massaging yours, while his hands grope your sensitive, swollen breasts. 

“F-fuuuh,” he’s whimpering into your mouth, lips wobbling, so fuckin’  overwhelmed by the insane sensations of your pussy rubbing against his dick, your mouth moving against his own, and your tits, god your tits, in his large, shaky palms.

And he can’t help it, really. 

His dick was still jerking like crazy from the head you gave him earlier. Your soft pussylips were slathering him in your juices, your tongue licking his tongue piercing like you did his cock, and your nipples so peaked he wanted to suck on them. 

So it’s no surprise, really, when his meaty dick started to leak slow ropes of his sticky, thick cum against your outer folds. 

And you were still making out with him when you realized, the warm gooey feeling spurting out onto your hole was coming from him, that your breath caught in your throat - a soft gasp leaving your mouth as it got swallowed by his languid tongue. 

He was so pathetic, he thought. 

He just came before he even stuck it in.

He pulled away from your mouth. “I-” he was humiliated, face burning with shame, glasses fogged and head facing towards the floor. He was searching for the right words, when you grabbed his still hard penis and gave him the same smile he saw before. The kind of smile you gave when you got on your knees and crawled under the desk. 

You lightly push him until he’s sitting on his wide, creaky work chair. You slide off the worktable gracefully, before joining him. You’re straddling him, tits skimming his chest, his dick standing tall between the two of your legs. Though you haven’t said it outright, the implications of your actions hang heavy in the air; he knows - he realizes what you want, what he wants, and what will inevitably happen. 

“If you don’t want this, say it now,” you say.

His eyes were big, and he’s staring at you so reverently, like you were a goddess, his goddess. He shakes his head. 

“Use your words, Cho,” you rest your hand on his throat, your manicured thumb parting his wobbly lips. 

He was pathetic. But you loved it. 

He had tears in his eyes and he had no idea why. Perhaps from humiliation. Perhaps from overstimulation. Perhaps from the fact that the hottest girl he’s ever laid eyes on was about to fuck his brains out and leave him stupified beyond belief. Probably most definitely the latter. “I want this,” he gasps out. “I want you - fuck - I need you, to be inside you, ple-”

You shut him up with your mouth, massaging and leading and biting. Your hands slowly traverse from his neck and down his hard chest, past his abs, before resting at his base, fingers tangling in the tufts of dark hair there. He was still covered in his own cum, white and warm and sticky against your palms. 

“Don’t worry,” you were almost purring against his red, swollen lips. “I’ll take good care of you.”

And now you’re tipping the head of his cum-covered cock towards your glistening hole, and he feels like he’s going dizzy. 

Holy shit, this was it. It’s happening. 

You break away from him, and the two of you stare as you drag his gooey-covered cockhead allllll around your pussylips, leaving even more mess in its trail. And when his hard length dips slightly into your folds, his mushroomed tip kissing against your entrance, he could swear he almost blacked out. 

“You’re so big, Cho” you cutely pout. His dick throbs before swelling even larger at your words. “It’s even better than I’ve ever imagined.” You say the last part quietly, reverently, almost shyly.

And, holy hell, that does something to him. 

Choso involuntarily bucks at the thought of you thinking about him, about his dick, just as how he thought of you for all these years, and the tip of his cum-covered cock slips right into the tight ring of your pussy without warning. 

Your head knocks back as his own falls forward, the two of your hot breaths puffing into the heady air. 

You were gasping. Even though it was just the head, it felt like you were being stretched beyond belief, your walls wrapping around and latching onto his length so snuggly,  so… deliciously, that it had Choso whimpering into your bare tits. 

You were greedy, slightly possessed, and fuckin’ hungry. You roll your hips forward slightly, pushing his throbbing cock another inch deeper into your gummy pussy, and his hands find purchase on the fleshy curve of your ass. “C’mon now,” you say slyly, “I know my good boy can take it.”

His dick jerks at your words. You have Choso seeing stars. He thinks his hearing was starting to go in his left ear. He’s drunk, he’s addicted, he’s… he’s not even halfway inside you yet and he feels like he is teetering on the edges of his sanity. 

“S-stop teasing me,” he almost cries it out. His fingertips kneed into your ass. He wants to bottom out completely inside you. He wants to feel so impossibly close to you that he forgets his own name, that he forgets where his body ends and yours begins. 

And you comply. You always would, for him. 

He watches as his dick gets swallowed by your stretched lips. The residual cum on his cock from earlier either smears inside you or begins to froth at his base. And you feel so fuckin’ good, your greedy cunt sucking up every inch of him until he’s finally, finally, bottoming out into your warmth. 

“Thaaat’s it, Cho,” you can feel his leaking tip smooching against your cervix, the veins on his dick pulsing against your gummy walls, the residual cum from earlier clinging to your clit. You’re gushing new waves of slick, and he feels how you convulse around him, squeezing tight against his meat like a fuckin’ sin. 

You don’t even give him time to breathe, to even think, because you begin to ride him like a fuckin’ animal, like a goddamn pro. Your tits are bouncing in his face, your ass clapping against his thighs, his cock filling you up like it’s ritual, and his tip fucking into your g-spot savagely, ruthlessly, unforgivingly. Before you know it, he’s bucking his hips up to meet yours, the obscene sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the small space of the IT room. 

He’s panting your name like a prayer, his hands holding you like you were something sacred, and his heart pounding against his ribcage like he’s at confessional.

And yeah, he may have never done this before, he may have never felt the embrace of a woman’s pussy on his cock - but he knew immediately, decisively, that yours was the best. He knew that everyone else’s would pale in comparison. And he knew, deep down, that when this is all over, he would be jaded and lost from mourning the feeling of you. He knew yours would be the only one he would search for in his life. 

“Cho,” you whisper, voice catching and breaking with every thwk thwk thwk! of his balls slapping against your ass. “You’re doing so well,” you hiccup, partially delirious. “I can feel you allllll the way up here.” And then you drag your manicured nail from where the two of you were connected, juices wetting your fingerpads, as it rose all the way up, up, up, to the slightly protruding bump in your belly. You press your hand on it lightly, and he realizes that the bump is from him, from where his achingly large cock was shoved inside you and pressed against your womb. 

He can feel his cock rush with blood, growing larger in your belly, filling and stuffing you even more fully - completely. And you feel it too. He breathes through his nose, small traces of drool slipping from the sides of his mouth. You squeeze your tits together, giving him a show. 

He’s dangerously flushed, sweat (or was it tears?) running down his cheeks. You’re gushing fresh wetness all around his dick, your warm walls clinging to him so needily, almost possessively, as the tip of his cock pounds against your most sensitive spot until it's bruised. And he’s leaking so much pre that the mixture begins to slather so messily around your glistening hole, frothing at his base and running down his balls. 

It was so filthy. So dirty. So fucking addictive. 

His mouth finds the sensitive buds of your nipples, his piercing flicking over the stiffened peaks. One of his hands rubs your combined juices into your swollen clit, while the other grabs on to the fleshy parts of your ass. 

Its your turn to cry out, to whimper at the sensations of his steady hands against your blazing skin, his pulsing cock inside your squeezing pussy. 

“Thaaat’s it pretty girl,” he breathes. He leaves your nipples to suck on the sensitive skin by your ear. “My pretty girl. This what you were lookin’ for?”

He snaps his hips up, balls spanking your ass. His thick cock burrowing impossibly further inside of you.

Your words come out garbled - halfway between pleading and praise. 

He grins at you. 

“Use,” he pulls his cock out almost completely, your quivering pussy squeezing so tightly around the head of him, as if begging him not to leave. 

“Your,” he finally pulls away with a grunt.

“Words,” he smacks his fat, heavy, dripping cock against your entrance. The sound it made left your ears buzzing. 

“Pretty girl.” He’s shoving into you so fast you feel him in your fucking lungs.

He’s gripping your hips, using his strength to fuck your body on his cock. He was handling you like you were a sex doll.

What the fuck? This was the same nerd from before? 

Your tongue meets his, and you’re messily making out with each other: you lick his tongue like you’re licking his dick, and he grabs your throat to pull you away, before spitting into your mouth. Drool spills from your lips and onto your chins. He’s pulling you onto his dick like you were a toy, only pausing briefly to spank your ass and feel it jiggle against his thighs. 

Your actions were getting clumsier: nails scratching randomly at his chest, tongue licking messily up his throat, moans echoing off of his damp skin. His hips were beginning to stutter: his dick was fucking into you in a broken rythm, mushroomed head blooming with every pulse. You both were teetering around the edges of your sanity, and the only sounds between you were sharp breaths and the slapping of your soaking cunt against his soaked cock.  

“Fuck, I’m-” his throat squeezes, every word a battle to get out. He forces his bleary eyes open to watch his dick disappear inside you - fucking into your womb again, and again, and again. He feels his balls beginning to tighten, his shaft becoming taught. He needs to cum. He needs to pull out. 

And he starts to - when your hand tightens around the back of his neck.

“Don’t you, oh,” there's tears streaming down your face, your eyes glassy, your head spinning with how cockdrunk you were, “don’t you fuckin’ dare, Cho.”

He’s so dumbified it takes him several moments to register the implications of your words.

“I-inside?” He’s stuttering, trembling.

“Inside.”

And then he breaks, and you break around him. He’s releasing so much of his thick, gooey cum inside you that it swells in your tummy, bloating your core. He watches as you squirt and spray and spasm around his base, fresh waves of wetness soaking the expanse of skin between you both. His hips keep snapping up with each peak of your orgasm, fucking his seed deeper and deeper, fucking himself so hard into your body until it feels like you can taste him in your throat. 

Neither of you say a word, both of you transfixed on the way that the other feels. You were so stuffed that his cum began to leak out of you, slowly falling and pooling at the base of his cock. 

“You… you are so divine,” he whispers, his hips still lightly rutting inside you, catching the last waves of your peaks, as he kisses along the base of your jaw. 

You can’t speak, your throat felt too hoarse, you were too too dazed, too fucked-out. But you nudge your nose against his, your lashes fluttering against his clammy skin.

Gently, he lifts you from his cock. He watches as you slowly release his dick, before a gush of his seed spills from your swollen pussylips. 

“Holy shit,” he muttered, his thumb immediately catching the gobs of his oozing seed. 

Without a word, you catch his careful fingers, and he watches in fading confusion as you push his thumb back inside you, bringing his cum along with him. 

“No waste,” you whisper. 

Oh.

And after some recuperation time, you both stand and begin to dress in silence. Something tender hangs heavy in the heady air of the IT room, but Choso can’t help but feel the pricks of anxiety blooming in his chest with every passing second.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he asks for your number.

And your swollen lips break out into the prettiest smile, your eyes twinkling up at him. 

“I’ll think on it…” you tease. He grins, his hands find your waist to pull you closer to him. 

“What do I gotta do to earn it this time?”

You tap your chin in mock thought, your smile light and warm. “Come get dinner with me tonight.”

And for you? He would do anything.  

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ “₊ ݁.

Several weeks have passed, and Choso’s morning genuinely could not have gone better. 

Not only did his 6AM alarm go off, but you had slept over last night (and yes, falling asleep cuddling with his dick inside you did contribute to both of your fantastic moods). His morning routine was now a mixture of staring at your pretty face whilst in peaceful slumber, going through a 6-step skincare routine (courtesy of you), and picking up Toji’s overpriced top-line coffee for two. 

Though the train from his neighborhood to Chiyoda City was packed full today, he did not mind. It gave him more of an excuse to huddle closer to you, hands brushing together, one of his earbuds in your ear (the other in his) as your joint playlist hummed in the background. Your chest was lightly pressed against his, two wild hearts beating to the same, familiar tune. 

And of course, the cherry on top was that it was a Friday. The two of you had agreed that it would finally be okay to get breakfast together today, and maybe even sit and eat at a window table afterwards. 

And Choso? Choso was the happiest he has ever felt. Largely due to you. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny part due to the fact he got to see Gojo’s ridiculously large mouth fall to the floor at the sight of you and Choso walking in together today. 

Gojo: 0.

which is why you find yourself in a dark room, a bright light just above you, blinding as you try to remember what happened to you and where the hell you are, you try to rub a hand over your tired eyes but your limbs are tied up? an alarmed noise falls from your lips and it’s like the man in the corner was waiting for that as his cue to step closer and speak

he coos at you, strokes the side of your cheek with a gloved hand, the smell of the plastic on his hand making your nose itch and you try to move away, ask where you are, why you’re here, who is he?! anything, but you find that your tongue is weak and you can’t really speak, so it comes out all mumbled and messy

he clicks his tongue, fingers moving to your lips and pulling them open under the guise of ‘inspecting’ your mouth and why it seems you can’t speak (he leaves out the fact he has drugged you with that exact purpose)

he steps so he’s standing above your head, his face tilted down to watch you and give you a break from the light hitting your eyes and you can finally catch a glimpse of him, or his eyes anyway, his head is covered in a weird hood that only shows his beautiful eyes and… the way it looks like he’s smiling?