Miserable. That was how you’d describe your life right now. Jobless, barely functioning after finally escaping a toxic relationship, and most of your friends had taken your manipulative ex-boyfriend’s side. The few who supported you? They were busy tonight.

Thursday night. Not many people were willing to leave their houses for a “fun” night out with you. You were the only jobless one, after all.

Fuck it.

You grabbed your keys, locked your door, and before you knew it, you were sitting in your car, driving toward the nearest lively city: Manchester. It wasn’t your favorite, but Liverpool was even farther away, and you'd already have to drive thirty minutes. It’ll do for tonight, you’d thought.

Maybe it was your guardian angel whispering in your ear. You'd come to be grateful for choosing Manchester. 

The pub was shitty, dead, as expected on a weeknight. Most of the people were regulars, drunks, or teenagers sneaking their first taste of beer. 

Pathetic. 

But then again, so were you.

You’d made a small effort tonight. Dressed up, pretty, but nothing over the top. You weren’t even sure why anymore, not with the crowd here. Most of the men were pushing fifty. Not that you had a problem with older guys, but not that old. You drew the line at thirty-seven. Hell, maybe forty on a good day.

Going in strong, you ordered shots—straight vodka. It would help clear your mind, or at least blur it enough.

Checking your phone, you saw a notification from your ex. You opened the message just as you finished your fourth shot. A wall of insults greeted you, body-shaming, followed by sweet, manipulative words. He always did that. Tore you down, shredded your self-worth, then tried to convince you he was the only one who’d ever truly love you.

On bad days, he’d call your body disgusting. Say your stomach made him sick. Mock the scars on your arms like he wasn’t the reason they were there. He made you feel guilty over the smallest snack, shamed you for eating anything that wasn’t "clean." That guilt spiraled into disordered eating, your body crying out for what you denied it. Then came the binges. Hours spent eating everything in sight, followed by the cruel purge.

Leaving him hadn’t been easy, walking away from him was one thing, but walking away from his voice in your head was another. Still, it had to be done. You were killing yourself slowly. And something in you finally said: enough.

As you put down your fifth shot, your eyes landed on a man standing alone in the corner of the pub. Your brain was already fuzzy, drinking on an empty stomach never ended well. But something about him cut through the haze.

Even with his face hidden behind what looked like a skull-patterned balaclava, he radiated an almost unreal presence. Solid. Massive. Built like a mountain. And right then, with liquor courage pulsing through your veins, you decided a little climbing wouldn’t hurt.

Grabbing two beers—you had a feeling he was a beer kind of man—you started toward him.

The closer you got, the stranger it felt. His eyes had locked on you the second you stood up. There was an intensity there, dark, unreadable, magnetic. You could feel it even from the bar. Not even your ex had ever looked at you like that. It was unnerving. Thrilling.

Something inside you sparked. A tingle, low and electric.

As you went to put the drinks of the table, you almost spilled them, your body already on a drunker haze from the shots. The stranger stabilised both beers with one hand, while he grabbed the table with the other. How was a simple thing so hot? You might have been drunker than you thought. 

"Lost your way, eh love?" His deep voice resonated inside you, sending chills down your spine. 

Giggling like a schoolgirl, you plopped down across from him. He didn’t seem to mind—an amused glint danced in his eyes, catching the dim pub light just right.

Even in the shadows, with his hood up and his face covered by the skull-patterned balaclava, he looked handsome. Striking, even. His body seemed carved by some ancient god with a wicked sense of excess. From where you sat, you’d bet he was big everywhere.

He lounged with an easy confidence, arms stretched across the back of the worn-out sofa like he owned the place. His shirt clung tightly to a solid, soft-looking belly—strong and unapologetic, connected to even stronger pecs. Thick thighs were spread wide, his posture relaxed and unbothered, and it looked like his trousers were one deep breath away from giving out at the seams.

A gentle whistle brought you back to his face. You couldn't see it, but you knew he was smirking under there.

Distantly, you heard panicked voices coming from the TV. The usual football game had been replaced by a news broadcast for some reason—reasons you couldn’t care less about at the moment.

"I saw you… all alone," you slurred, the words sticking together a bit. "Figured I'd… y'know… keep you company. 'Cause I’m alone too." 

Your shyness had been eaten away by the liquor running through your blood—along with your shame—as you kept eye-fucking the stranger in front of you. In your defense, he didn’t seem to mind one bit.

Pushing one beer toward him, you went to lift yours for a sip when you were stopped by a strong, but soft, hand.

"I reckon I'll have that one too, love," the man said, pulling the second beer toward him.

In any other situation, you might’ve found his move patronizing, but in this moment, it was the hottest thing a man had ever done to you. Your brain was fuzzy and cloudy, and the fact that he wasn’t trying to take advantage of your state made you blush a little.

A small, deep chuckle could be heard as the man pushed his balaclava up, revealing a soft blond beard. You wouldn’t have guessed he was blond. A deep scar ran from above his full lips down to the bottom of his chin—a clean cut, surely healed for years. It should have scared you, but instead, it turned you on even more.

“Name’s Simon,” he said gently after swallowing about half of his pint. “What about you?”

For hours, you talked, as the bar was getting even quieter. About trivial things at first, and then about your ex, about your old jobs, about your shitty friends. He didn't talk much, he listened, making remarks here and there so you knew he was listening. Even if, you were strongly oversharing and trauma dumping. 

The beers were long gone, and you had been drinking water even since, while Simon sipped on a—now warm—whiskey. 

You were in the middle of your argument over why dogs were—objectively—better than cats when the distraught pub owner approached your table, sweating like crazy and begging you to leave immediately.

Admittedly, you were the last ones in the pub, but it was still a good hour before closing time. Neither of you responded at first, too weirded out by his body language, which was all aggression and panic, while Simon simply watched him in silence.

But when the owner suddenly reached for you, he was stopped by a hard hand clamping down on his wrist in a bruising grip.

Rising slowly, Simon stepped between you and the man, shielding you with his body.

“Oi, now,” Simon said, tightening his hold, “we’re off, yeah pal? No need to get physical, right?”

He released the man’s wrist, his eyes never leaving him, and then his hand appeared in front of you.You took it without a word, letting him gently pull you in front of him, guiding you toward the exit with a steady hand resting on the small of your back.

While the alcohol had mostly left your system, exhaustion had taken its place. Exhaustion and desire. A lethal mix that kept your heart beating just a little too fast as you became extremely aware of his height and build beside you.

“You wanna go home?” he asked gently, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Lighting one, the flame from the lighter flickered across his face, making him look almost ethereal.

When you didn’t answer right away, his eyes drifted back to you—like they had so many times that night. Heat crept up your face, and with a bit too much enthusiasm, you shook your head.

“No?” Simon teased, smirking as he exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “Want me to take you back to mine?” He emphasized the me, his soft mocking sending a thrill straight between your legs.

Stranger danger, right?

You didn’t care. Not a single bone in your body could’ve made you say no in that moment.

Biting your lip, you nodded. Your breathing was already picking up, and you pressed your thighs together in what you thought was a subtle, unnoticeable move—but Simon noticed. Of course he did. He’d told you earlier: part of his job was to observe people, to notice everything.

He nodded silently, extending his hand toward you—and you took it instantly. Laughing at your eagerness, he ran his thumb gently over the back of your hand before adding, “Your car keys, love.”

“Oh,” you breathed out, flustered. Your hands fumbled over themselves as you dug into your purse, finally wrapping your fingers around your fluffy keychain and pulling it out with an impatient tug.

Gently taking the keys from your hand, he waited for you to lead the way to your car.

You were in your own little world, eyes fixed on how small your keys looked in his hand, when they already felt pretty large in yours. Thinking back to the men you’d had in your life, none of them came close to Simon’s sheer size.

You’d always been chubby, and some past lovers had made a point of reminding you—commenting on your stomach rolls and dimpled thighs, making you deeply self-conscious. Your last ex certainly hadn’t helped you rebuild any confidence. But as you looked at Simon, desire warm in your chest, that cruel little voice, the one that always told you you were too big, that you’d crush them, was suddenly silent.

Patiently, the man smoked his fag in silence, letting your eyes roam over his figure. He’d never minded a pretty bird’s gaze on him—and after everything you’d overshared tonight, he sure as hell wasn’t going to make you uncomfortable with a shitty joke. So he let you look, subtly adjusting his movements just enough to make his muscles flex beneath the tight gym shirt and almost-too-small trousers.

He’d been home for quite a while now. The weight he’d lost on his last deployment had come back, thanks to the homemade meals he’d been cooking for himself. And as he exhaled smoke one last time and dropped the cigarette to the ground, he noticed something clear in your eyes.

Desire. Want. Heat.

His eyes on you made you suddenly realize you hadn’t moved in minutes. Gently turning around, you started walking toward where your car was parked. It was a short distance, but thanks to Manchester’s parking nightmare, it would still take you about five minutes.

A low whistle stopped you in your tracks.

Turning around, you saw Simon approaching at a lazy pace, like he had all the time in the world. Only then did you notice—you’d been rushing.

As he reached you, he gently guided you toward the shops instead of the road, his hand settling on the small of your back, just centimeters from your arse.

“Go on now, kitty. Strut away,” he teased, smirking.

There was a mocking edge to his voice, but it was playful, nothing like the cruel digs your shitty ex used to throw your way. Once again, a rush of heat surged straight between your legs. You prayed he wasn’t just all talk—but with the way confidence and quiet dominance came so naturally to him, you knew you were in for a good night.

On the way back to his place, your brain was still too fuzzy to fully register how dangerous this could be. Letting a man you’d known for only a few hours drive your car through a city you barely knew. For all you knew, he could take you to some dark forest, kill you, and bury your body.

Yet something about Simon intrigued you. And you trusted your gut.

Although... every time you’d trusted it before, it had led you straight into the arms of a gaslighter. Sadly, you’d never been the best judge of character. Naive, they’d called you. Easy to deceive. Easy to break down and reshape into the perfect doll for selfish men.

But Simon felt different. He seemed genuinely interested, not in some version of you, but you. And for the first time in a long while, you had a feeling that maybe, just maybe... he might like you exactly as you are.

Shaking your head, you reminded yourself—it was just a shag anyway. Hopefully a good one, but nothing more than that. The man looked good enough to kill… but he also looked like a killer. Brooding silent men had never really been your type. You usually went for the chatty, sunshine types, people like you. Sure, you had your dark days, but most of the time, you were a damn ray of sunshine.

Even if he wasn’t exactly your type mentally, his physique had nothing to envy from any man who’d ever crossed your path. 

Quiet music played in the background, your phone connected after you’d grown tired of the radio stations rambling about some epidemic, interviewing panicked voices even in the dead of night. You’d brushed it off and let your playlist take over.

Silently, your eyes traced the shape of his arms. You’d never thought driving could be sexy, but every time he shifted gears, something in your brain short-circuited. And his thighs—thick and flexing with every subtle movement—were impossible to ignore. You couldn’t even think about them without feeling your knickers grow damper.

It was a fairly short drive, you noticed, as Simon parked right in front of a fancy-looking building. As he rounded the car to open your door, you couldn’t help but notice how out of place he looked, dressed in all black, broad and built like a bodybuilder, standing in front of what looked like the kind of place filled with lanky finance bros.

"You're like... rich rich," you blurted out as you stepped into the building, instantly met with an elegant hall, a grand staircase, and a sleek, high-end elevator. It was all so posh, nothing you were used to.

Sure, you weren’t poor, but city rent was brutal. You’d ended up living thirty, sometimes forty minutes outside the city, in a small, cozy apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was yours—or at least, you’d made it feel that way.

Now, though, it was tainted. Stained with painful memories you’d been trying to outrun when you drove into Manchester tonight. You hadn’t planned to sleep out... but now, you were glad it worked out this way. At least tonight, you didn’t have to face the hole in your bedroom wall—left behind by one of your ex’s tantrums.

The soft ding of the elevator and Simon’s quiet laugh pulled you back to the present.

“Job pays well,” he said, watching your reaction. “Don’t have much to spend it on but rent.”

There was something in his eyes, something unreadable, that sparked a flicker of panic in your chest. Rushing to fill the silence, you blurted out your thoughts in a stream of anxious words.

“Not that I care, you know. It’s not like I knew before coming here! I would’ve come even if you were broke, seriously. I don’t care about money—never really did. You should see where I live, it’s pretty cheap—"

Simon gently cut off your ramble with a hand on your chin, tilting your head up. Then, without a word, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Just a small peck, enough to short-circuit your spiraling thoughts.

“Calm that little brain of yours,” he said with a half-smile, kissing you again, just as briefly. “Didn’t mean anything by it, yeah?”

Although his technique was a bit blunt, it worked. Your brain shut down instantly, and your body softened, leaning into his. Not that he minded.

He really hadn’t meant anything by it. You had been the one to buy him a drink, not the other way around. And it’s not like he’d shared much about his life—of course you’d be surprised to see a place this fancy. That didn’t mean you were a gold-digger.

Once inside his place, Simon settled on the couch, watching you. Like a stray cat he might’ve brought home, you began poking around—examining the furniture, the small decorations and bits of clutter, the books lining the shelves, the DVDs stacked beside them. He let you roam, curious little thing that you were. Every now and then, you’d comment on a book you’d read too, or mention a movie you’d always meant to watch.

What could you say? You liked to snoop. Always had, always would.

The flick of a lighter snapped you out of your snooping trance. When you turned back toward the couch, you nearly choked on air.

Here he was, lighting another fag, his balaclava tossed haphazardly on the coffee table. His brown eyes locked onto yours, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He was, without a doubt, the most handsome man you had ever come across in your short life. Blonde hair stuck to his head and forehead—a mix of sweat and pressure from the hood—full eyebrows, a strong nose, high cheekbones marked by acne scars, and a scruffy beard. His forehead and eyes were lined with faint wrinkles. He hadn’t told you his age, but from the look of him, you guessed he must be around thirty-five, or close to it.

“Like what you see?” he taunted, exhaling smoke in a slow, deliberate way. “‘Cause I sure do,” he added, his eyes roaming over your body without a shred of shame. They lingered on your chest before drifting down to your stomach and hips, darkening as they traveled.

You were about to approach him when sudden commotion and distant screams echoed through the hallway. Glancing toward the front door with a frown, you wondered how people could make so much noise in such a fancy place—especially at almost 1 a.m.

Looking back at Simon, you caught a flicker of confusion cross his face before it vanished behind his usual unreadable mask.

Still, he got up and made his way toward the door, gently nudging you toward the couch as he passed. When he opened it, he was met by his upstairs neighbours, both weighed down with baggage and rushing down the stairs in a panic. The two men were speaking harshly, urging each other to move faster—that they had to get out before everyone blocked the roads.

Frowning again, Simon figured there must be some kind of celebration tomorrow, something he’d forgotten about. Shaking his head, he brushed them off and closed the door, locking each bolt with care.

Better safe than sorry.

Turning back around, he was met with the sweetest sight, you, quietly seated on his couch, hands folded in your lap, looking up at him with wide, curious eyes. A gentle smile tugged at his lips as he walked over, offered you his hands, and softly guided you toward the bedroom. As if he was afraid he might break you.

Still silent, you followed, nervously biting your lip. It had been a long time since sex had felt like something to enjoy. For months, it had been all about your ex’s pleasure, your needs left in the background. You hoped Simon would be different, would see you, consider you.

He sat down first, watching you with a quiet softness as your curious gaze wandered once again, this time across his plain, undecorated bedroom. Simon had never seen the point in making it cozy. He wasn’t here much, and when he was, he spent most of his time in the living room or the building’s gym. No need for art or plants. They’d only die anyway.

Observing you, he thought about a certain Scot who was just as curious about him as you were. Shaking his head, now wasn’t the time to think about his sergeant.

Patience. He could do that. He was very good at that. He waited for you to get a bit more comfortable. He saw how your toes wiggled in what he assumed was a mix of excitement and anxiety. Same with your fidgeting fingers, and the way you kept biting your lips.

Behind your eyes, he could see how much you were probably overthinking everything, subconsciously tugging on your shirt to hide your belly.

Oh no.

He was a patient man, yes—but he wouldn’t let you fall too deep into self-conscious thoughts.

As gently as he could—careful not to startle you—he grabbed your hips and pulled you toward him. With a small push behind your knees, he guided you into his lap. Before any protest could leave your lips, Simon spoke.

“I had to carry one of my sergeants over my shoulder for an entire afternoon across the desert, and he was twice your size, darling.” His voice had shifted—deeper now, more commanding, more military. “Nothing about you is going to hurt me. Or disgust me.”

Taking your delicate hand in his calloused one, he guided it down to his pelvis, where you could feel the weight of his semi-hard cock.

“All this, already, just from you looking pretty in my room, yeah?” he said, though it wasn’t really a question. One brow arched in that calm, nonchalant way of his—almost commanding. “And now, I just want you to look pretty on my bed... and let me take care of the rest. Can you do that?”

This was new.

Sex and you had always had a complicated relationship. It wasn’t something you enjoyed most of the time—but you knew that had more to do with your partners than with you. Every time you took care of yourself, it felt better than anything they’d ever given you.

But now, here was this god of a man, promising you pleasure and attention. You almost wanted to cry—he seemed so genuine, like nothing would make him happier than giving you exactly what you needed tonight.

Too quickly, you nodded in excitement.

Eager little thing you were.

“Need words, sweetheart,” Simon murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” you muttered.

“Good girl.”

And then his lips were on yours.

It was nothing like the quick pecks in the elevator. Those were desperate, starving, something else entirely. His hands were everywhere, gliding from your thighs to your hips, gripping the nape of your neck to pull you closer. They brushed over your stomach and your breasts, caressed your arms with a reverence that made your skin buzz.

You felt euphoric. No one had ever kissed you with this much purpose, this much enthusiasm.

When his lips left yours, you almost whined, would have, if he hadn’t kissed your jaw the moment his mouth broke away. With a rhythm that was both urgent and patient, he trailed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbones, even as his hands gently worked to lift your shirt.

As the cotton passed over your face, you couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes. Anxiety gnawed at your mind, whispering that you were disgusting. That he’d hate the soft rolls of your stomach, the faded scars on your wrists. That your breasts were too small, your nipples too strange.

One of your shitty exes had said that once—and the words had never really left you.

“Fucking gorgeous,” was all you heard before you felt his lips on the top of your breast, his fingers already toying with the clasp of your bra.

Looked like you weren’t the only eager one.

Two simple words, but somehow, they jump-started your brain. Your hands moved on instinct, tugging at his tight shirt, pushing him back just enough to free yourself from his mouth as he urgently pulled his own top off.

Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes took him in.

Scars. So many. Bullet wounds, stabs, burns… all mingling with tattoos scattered across his skin.

“Do you think it’s ugly?” Simon asked, though there wasn’t a trace of self-doubt in his voice.

“No,” you answered quickly, the word spilling out with raw sincerity.

“No?” he added, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Then, shaking his head slightly, he went on, “Then don’t go assuming your own disgust me, alright?”

Once again, he guided your hand—this time to his soft belly. The defined six-pack was long gone. At home, he didn’t care much for aesthetics. He ate well, hit the gym enough to stay in shape, but he didn’t obsess over it.

“You think that’s disgusting, love?” Another rhetorical question. You shook your head again, and he felt your fingers curl against him, gentle and hesitant, like a cat kneading a warm spot.

Then he brought his hand to your belly, massaging it with unexpected tenderness, rolling the softness between his calloused fingers.

“Well, I fucking love that,” he murmured. “I like my women fed and healthy. Don’t put those silly boy standards on me, kitty, yeah? I’m well past rubbing one out over a supermodel.”

As if to prove a point, he pulled you even tighter into his lap, grinding your clothed cunt against his now fully hard cock. You let out a breathy moan at the friction, a soft, helpless sound that made his grip on your hips tighten.

You might’ve been the cutest little thing Simon had ever had the pleasure of laying in his bed. And he was dead set on savouring every second of it.

Manhandling you with practiced ease, he laid you back against the pillows, your head cradled by the soft fabric, surrounded by the scent of him. When you closed your eyes and tilted your head slightly into the pillow, he knew you liked it. Good.

But he was certain you were going to like what came next even more.

Leaving hungry kisses and teasing bites along your stomach and hips, his hands roamed with purpose, searching for the zipper of your skirt. When he couldn’t find it, you guided his hand to it yourself. As thanks, he gave you another playful bite on your belly—earning a mix of a giggle and a moan from you.

Exquisite.

Once the skirt was gone, he settled comfortably between your legs, lifting them over his shoulders. He paused for a moment, admiring the damp patch on your cotton panties, and when your hands flew up to cover your face in embarrassment, he just smiled.

No one had ever given so much attention to what was between your legs.

Sure, past boyfriends had gone down on you, but it was always rushed, needed. Done more as a means to an end, never for the joy of it. Never for you.

But now?

You were soaked.

A soft kiss to your clit sent shivers all the way through your body. His fingers traced gentle patterns along your inner thighs, grounding you, comforting you, even as the other hand tugged down the last piece of fabric separating him from you.

Then, silence.

You peeked down at him, hands falling from your face, bracing yourself for the familiar sting of judgment. You half-expected some offhand comment about something else that was “wrong” with you.

But instead, Simon winked.

And then he dove into your cunt like a man starved—like he’d just found fresh water after weeks at sea.

Your back arched instantly, a strangled cry escaping your lips as your fingers twisted into his hair. Maybe a bit too hard, because he gave a small wince beneath you.

“Careful, lovely,” he chuckled against your skin. “Not going anywhere, don’t worry.”

His tongue was everywhere, spelling god-knows-what across your clit, licking and sucking, then diving lower to drink you in like he’d never get enough. The room filled with filthy, wet sounds. Your moans. His slurping, kissing, groaning—like he was truly enjoying himself, every second of it.

You didn’t see it—too lost in your own unraveling—but his hips were slowly grinding against the mattress beneath him. Harder with every taste of you on his tongue.

He was a man on a mission—and when he added his fingers into the mix, you were gone.

Soft, practiced strokes circled your clit while his tongue slurped hungrily at your entrance. Then he switched it up. His tongue flicked up to your clit while a single finger eased inside you, pressing against your warm, slick walls.

Working you open was effortless; you were so wet, the second finger slid in without resistance—and this one found the spot instantly. That’s when you let out the most pornographic sound you'd ever made.

Was he some kind of sex god? Or had all your past lovers just been selfish bastards?

“That’s it, kitty,” Simon murmured, his voice dropping low and deliberate. “Just let it go, yeah? I’m right here.”

He gave your clit another kitten-lick as his fingers picked up speed, curling with precision.

“You’re so fucking pretty, taking my fingers so well, lovie…” His voice dropped even deeper, a low rumble that vibrated straight through your core.

Your senses were wrecked. You couldn’t form words anymore—only moans, whimpers, and gasps poured from your lips. Nothing had ever felt like this. Not your fingers, not your toys, and certainly not anyone else.

That strange, overwhelming pressure began building in your belly—rising fast, heavy, desperate. Your thighs trembled against his head, and it took one of his hands to pin you down gently, keeping you from clamping too hard.

“Wait—wait—” you panted, the words tumbling out between moans. “Gonna… gonna pee.”

“No, you’re not, sweetheart,” Simon cooed with a soft laugh, licking your clit again with care. “Just let it go. Don’t worry.”

“No, no, please—” you tried again, but that strange feeling was intensifying. His tongue went back to spelling maddening patterns on your clit. You tried to push at his head weakly, but he wouldn’t relent.

“Simon, I—I—I… oh… oh God…”

And then, stars.

Stars burst behind your eyes as your thighs locked around his head, your cunt clenching around his fingers in pulsing waves.

“There you go… That's it.” Simon whispered, his voice all praise and warmth, fingers still working you through it. “Good girl. My sweet girl.”

When he finally withdrew his fingers, he replaced them with his tongue—eager to taste every last bit of you. The moment your cry shifted into overstimulation, he relented.

Pushing up onto his haunches, he licked his fingers clean and drank you in.

You were blissed out. Cheeks flushed and damp, eyes barely open with tears at the corners. Your neck and chest glistened with sweat, your thighs still trembling against his own.

From everything you’d overshared, about shitty exes and disappointing nights, Simon had assumed you’d never had a real orgasm before.

He’d been right.

Palming his painfully hard cock through his pants, he ached to be inside you. To fill you, stretch you, ruin you for anyone else.

As you watched his hand, you figured it was a silent message to reciprocate. So, still on shaky thighs, you began to lower yourself onto your knees in front of him, ready to thank him.

That was how it worked, right?

Raising an eyebrow at your submissive posture and the way your hands reached toward his zipper, a strange anger surged inside the soldier.

There was something in your eyes that set him off—something that made him feel sick. Like you had been conditioned to believe he only did this to get something in return.

A bit harshly, he grabbed both your wrists with one hand, stopping you.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice tight.

He would’ve gladly let you suck his cock, if he didn’t feel like it was automatic for you. Like a debt to repay.

“What do you mean?” Your voice was still shaky, your body trembling with aftershocks. He could see how your thighs were still spasming now and then.

“I don’t want you to do that,” he said bluntly. Given your fragile headspace, he probably should’ve phrased it more gently, but something about the look in your eyes made him furious at the world.

How could shitty men break something so sweet? Make you think your pleasure had to come with a price?

Not here.

Not in his bed.

Not with him.

When tears welled in your eyes, Simon cursed himself for the sharpness in his tone. Pulling you toward him, he kissed you gently, no urgency—just care.

“None of that, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing away a tear that slipped down your cheek. “Don’t want you to suck my dick ‘cause you think you have to. That’s what I meant.”

He held you close, running a soothing hand down your shaking spine.

“Now lay down for me, yeah? If you still want to do this. You can say no. Won’t get mad, love."

Nodding your head, you let yourself gently fall back against his pillow. A funny feeling stirred in your belly, a sense of safety, of finally being seen and worshipped. Usually, you were the one doing the worshipping, and you were tired of it.

Brushing the tears away, you watched as he finally took off his trousers and briefs. His dick sprang free, bouncing slightly, making you giggle a little—tears long gone now. It was an angry red, the tip leaking pre-cum as it begged for attention. He was a bit bigger than average, but feeling the wetness between your thighs, you had no doubt he would fit just fine.

Slowly covering you with his own body, he kissed you again. Those kisses were soft—little promises of what was to come. He wouldn’t hurt you; he’d take care of you. Like he did before. You made out for a little while. It was soft and gentle, nobody was rushing, you had all the time in the world. Sometimes, you felt his dick brush over your belly. He would let out little airy whines, and you'd be lying if you said it didn’t make you wetter.

Once Simon felt like neither of you could take much more, he shifted onto his right side, reaching toward his bedside table to fish out a condom. You watched anxiously as he rolled it down his length, giving his cock a few strokes, like he needed more stimulation. Another giggle slipped from your lips.

Smiling gently at you, he kissed you again. “Get on your side for me, baby.”

Oh, that was new as well.

Spooning felt almost too intimate for this situation, and yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking it was meant to be. Like two puzzle pieces fitting right in.

All thoughts about intimacy vanished the moment Simon raised your left leg over his and slowly guided his length inside of you, letting out a low groan directly into your ear.

Ever the observant one, he felt you clench around him at the sound. He did it again, and felt another clench. Sensitive, you were. And very warm and wet. It was perfect. God, he wished he could’ve gone in raw, but that would’ve been too much.

Giving a tentative thrust, Simon was rewarded with another one of your sweet sounds. That, combined with the earlier stimulation, made him go rogue. His hips took on a mind of their own, rutting against you like a mad dog. His lips kept licking, kissing, and biting the back of your neck, your shoulder, your back—anything he could reach.

Yours were no better—biting at his bicep, the one he had placed beneath your head like a pillow, while your nails dug into his arm and thighs.

Getting carried away after a few minutes, Simon pushed you completely onto your belly, laying you flat on his soft sheets, never once pulling out. When no sound of discomfort or hesitation came from you, he resumed his thrusts. His rhythm was messy now—far messier than just a few minutes ago. He was close. The feeling of your cunt clenching hard around his dick was intoxicating.

He let out another groan at yet another clench, almost like it hurt him. But it was quite the contrary.

Feeling he was approaching his climax, he let his weight rest on you, only his forearm keeping him from crushing you.

Cooing encouragement into your ear, praises spilling from his lips like chants, Simon felt your cunt tightening as you neared another orgasm. Words poured out of his mouth—probably more than he’d spoken in months at home—but he didn’t care. He could feel how much you loved his voice, loved when he spoke into your ear, loved when he lowered it, almost growling his words.

"That’s my fucking good girl, taking me so deep. Fucking perfect cunt on a perfect body—fuck, you feel so fucking good." He grunted as sweat dripped from his hair onto your back.

To push you over the edge, he slithered one hand down to your cunt, almost coming when he felt where his dick was entering you, then moved a bit higher, toying with your already overstimulated clit.

You clenched so hard on his dick, he came instantly. Deep groans whispered into your ear, coupled with frantic thrusts and skilled fingers that triggered your own climax.

It was unlike anything before—even better than when he was between your legs.

Still floating, you felt soft hands pulling you gently back onto your side, then onto your back. Gentle fingers brushed away tears you hadn’t even noticed fall and pushed strands of hair sticking to your sweaty forehead aside.

Watching him with half-open eyes, you saw his lips moving, but your ears were still ringing, and you couldn’t catch what he said. Bits of praise and coos reached you, enough to relax your body completely. His lips pressed softly to your temple as a hand patted your hips, demanding your attention.

Focusing on him now, you concentrated to understand his next words.

“I need you to go pee now, alright? Can you do that for me, kitty?” Simon asked, his voice low and gentle, as if speaking to a scared child.

“I don’t—I don’t think my legs work,” you replied bluntly.

“Okay.” The man chuckled softly at your words.

Carefully, he rose from the bed, took off the condom, tied it, and threw it away. Approaching you again, he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, and you were too tired to care anyway.

After he set you down on the toilet, he left the bathroom, telling you to take your time, and that you could take a shower too, if you wanted.

Making your way back toward the bedroom, you felt a bit self-conscious, walking around his place completely naked. But the sight you stumbled upon was truly mouthwatering.

Simon, relaxing in his bed, under the covers. Eyes closed, body completely at ease, basking in the lingering rush of endorphins.

As quietly as you could, you began picking up your knickers, eyes scanning the room for your bra. Your little treasure hunt was interrupted by a low whistle coming from the man just a few meters away.

When your eyes met, Simon shook his head in quiet disapproval before beckoning you over with a finger.

Awkwardly, you made your way around the bed. With a small, exasperated sigh, he grabbed you with ease and manhandled you back into the bed, tucking you under the covers and pressing your soft body flush against his.

"Rocked your world that hard and you still want to walk out on me, sweetheart?" he teased gently, pulling you tighter into his arms. "Thought your legs didn’t work, how were you planning to drive back, huh?"

With anyone else, the mockery might’ve stung. But Simon’s words felt different—genuine, laced with warmth. It was his way of saying he wanted you to stay, without actually saying it. And it was sexy.

You pressed your thighs together, a soft moan escaping your lips in response.

Kissing your shoulder like a quiet promise, Simon added with a chuckle, “Don’t worry, you’ll get plenty more tomorrow. Now go to sleep.”

There was no room for argument—especially not when a light smack landed on your ass cheek.

Giggling with excitement, you finally felt the exhaustion creeping in. Eyes fluttering closed, you buried your head into his bicep—your makeshift pillow—and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt truly warm.

Warm and safe.

That’s how you fell asleep—wrapped in his arms, as the world caved in

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ next chapter.

If anything, your slumber is more of a power nap.

You’re disoriented of how much time has passed, but it is still dark when you wake up. Like a cat in heat you seek John out in the darkness-  not that he’s far away from you. 

Rolling over towards him takes a fair bit of effort, pawing at him in your half asleep state.

His snoring stops, broken by a sharp huff as he’s reaching for you in turn. He really is rather clingy. Your nose burying in the crook of his neck, soft needy whines of his name helping wake him up.

Propping one knee over his legs, your pawing hands drift to his waistband. Your eyes focus on your hands in the poor lighting so you don’t notice as he starts to fully wake up just yet. 

“Mmm,” that baritone rumbles through you. “Need me to take care of you again, Love?”

It’s honestly not so much him taking care of you that has you so wound up.

“Wanna make you feel good,” you purr at him, kissing across his neck before gently pushing at his shoulder. 

“That so?” He complies easily, falling onto his back.

You hum in satisfaction, making your way down his torso. 

Having already pulled his cock out with your earlier pawing, you set to work straight away.

The lighting is poor, but enough for you to see what you’re doing- what you’re working with exactly. 

Your hands and your body are already acquainted with the girth of him, but there’s still a jolt of surprise when you see John’s cock. Jesus, how did you get that thing to fit in you?

Your jaw is not going to be happy with you once you’ve completed your mission. Regardless, you remain undeterred from your original task as you lap up the length of his cock. Stroking the base of him with one hand as you lavish attention on the tip with your mouth, you can’t help but be pleased with yourself as he hisses and bucks his hips. 

The light illuminates just enough that you can see John’s face, eyes locking on yours as you look up at him while gagging on his cock.

You’re welcome, you think smugly to yourself as he groans and tells you “Good fuckin’ girl”.

Hopefully your stamina won’t give out before he gets off, because you are a woman on a mission but there is only so long your body will put up with your efforts. In the meantime though, it’s sweet how John reaches for and pets you as you put your mouth to work.

Unfortunately for your curiosity, you don’t end up finding out whether or not you can get John to cum before your jaw starts to protest too much. Your complaints are minimal, however, when he’s pawing at your hair to make you stop.

“Need you, lovely,” he instructs, and you happily crawl into his lap. Like a woman starving, your hands grasp at fabric and flesh, more than content to get to work.

You’re eager if not a bit clumsy- it’s not like you can see what you’re doing very well. However you remain dauntless in your task to mount John.

If he was laid out flat on his back, perhaps you’d be inclined to ride him the standard way. But given how his back is resting against the headboard, you decide the easiest course of action for your plan is to do reverse cowgirl- give yourself some room to ride him into the mattress. 

One of his hands lands heavy on your hip- soothing and warming you in equal measures. 

The other helps you get everything together- John hissing and you giving a soft whimper as you sink down on him. 

John’s hands are warm and roaming- groping and squeezing at you, sliding under the fabric of your dress for more access.

You try to be good- keep your whines quiet as you ride John to your own pleasure. The way his fingers tweak and tease one nipple has your voice pitching in pleasure. Clearly he’s still heeding your earlier warning of being gentle with you, because your breasts are so sensitive. It’s enough to drive you crazy, working yourself into a frenzy on his lap as you bounce.

“Good girl, lovely,” he praises, free hand helping guide you up and out of his lap before you sink back down again. “That’s it, take what you need.”

You’re trying very hard to ignore the burn creeping up your legs, instead focusing on the pleasure. Your breathing is more labored, borderline feeling hot as everything threatens to boil over. “John,” you plead softly, attention locking in on the orgasm you are so close to having.

Everything burns, and you’re not sure what’s pleasure and what’s leg cramps and what’s you needing to breathe and relax.

Your weight settles back into John’s lap and for the life of you, you just cannot muster the strength to get up again. Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, tears of frustration welling in your eyes with just how close you are.

It takes John a moment to realize that your impromptu break is not planned on your end. The hand on your hip smooths up your back in a soothing gesture, “What’s the matter, Love?”

“I’m tired,” there’s no sexy way to answer that question. You’re keenly aware of the fact that he’s still hilted inside of you.

You can’t help but feel his answering coo of “Oh, you poor thing- Here, I’ll take care of you” has an edge of patronization to it, but you are clearly in no state to do anything about it. You can’t even summon the energy to brat up on him. Especially when he’s offering to handle this horrid, empty ache you have.

John guides you how he wants you, although changing positions has you feeling as graceful as a beached whale. Your belly has completely shifted your center of gravity and somehow is still constantly in your way even though you’d think you’d be used to its presence by now.

You’re on your hands and knees now, a pillow shoved under you for additional support as John mounts you from behind.

“John,” you keen and rock your weight back into him while he placates your needy whines with gentle shushing.

“I already told you, lovely- I’ll handle it.” His tone is softer, less smug as he steadies you with one hand and lines himself up with the other.

You’ve always had a penchant for riding your partners into the sunset, but being face down in a pillow with your ass perched in the air certainly has its perks too. John’s low groan reverberates at the same time that you’re whining again, trying to muffle your noises with the pillow.

Fuck he knows what he’s doing.

“R-right there,” you moan through the pleasure, feeling John shift his grip on you so he can keep hitting that spot.

You can practically feel the vibrations from his pleased hum, clinging to the pillow like a lifeline.

“That’s it,” his voice rumbling low in your ear has a shiver shoot down your spine. Your leg is shaking, your grip on the bedding the only thing keeping you in place. 

“Taking me so well, pet,” he praises as you muffle your whine below him. “Good girl- just like that.” 

Him talking to you- talking at you more like- does the trick. Your orgasm has you squealing into the pillow, biting down on the fabric to quiet yourself. 

John drags you across the finish line before changing the tempo in his thrusts- no longer focusing on your pleasure now that you’re a limp heap underneath him. His face buries in your hair, groaning low as his own orgasm hits.

Blissed out, you quickly fall asleep, and hours later as the sun begins to rise you’re very reluctant to leave the little cocoon of warmth enveloping you.

In the days since John has begun herding you into the same bed as him, he is typically awake and out of bed before you. You’re not sure what time it is (relatively speaking, anyway), or how long you’ve been asleep for, but you’re very cognizant of two things; John is behind you snoring up a storm with a territorial arm across your belly, and your child once again is sitting on your bladder.

The bathroom is the most pressing issue for you at the moment. As much as you’d like nothing more than to roll over and burrow further under John for warmth, mother nature is calling you.

Unfortunately for you, John perpetually seems to be keyed into your every movement despite him currently being unconscious.

Much like the first night, no sooner have you actually gotten any distance between the two of you before he’s huffing and grabbing at you with an efficiency that has you (once again) convinced he’s actually awake and just fucking with you. Unlike the first night, you’re not merely scrambling in a bid for propriety to clear your head. You need to pee God damn it, with the urgency only a late term pregnancy can produce. Thus you are not amused. At all.

You squirm, or try to- an honest bid to slip out of his hold that doesn’t escape him in his sleep. The man is clingy even though he’s asleep.

“John!” you hiss, trying to hit just the right decibel where you can wake him without being too loud. His snoring stops which is a promising sign, although it takes another jostle for him to actually wake up. 

“Let go, I need to go to the bathroom!” you instruct now that he’s actually aware of his surroundings. Once you’re free you…aren’t exactly bolting because speed is not your forte at the moment, but you move as quickly as you can given your current predicament. Meanwhile, John’s clearly in that half asleep-half awake limbo, mumbling something in his half-sleep as his bleary eyes track you across the room.

You’re fine, and make it across the hall without issue. Once finished and making the trek back to the oh-so-warm bed waiting for you (and deciding that you are going to crawl underneath John if it’s the last thing you do), something catches your attention out of the corner of your eye.

At the top of the stairs you’re able to see down to the front door, the opaque windows just beginning to be lit up by daybreak.

Which means you can clearly see the shadow of someone moving on the porch. You freeze, suddenly not giving a damn about the cold.

It’s a zombie. You tell yourself the most logical option. It’s the zombie apocalypse- there’s gonna be zombies outside. It cannot get inside. They’re not smart enough to open doors, and John has them locked and-

You can hear the sound of the doorknob turning. The hair on the back of your neck raises up, a chill running down your spine like someone dumped ice water on you.

Zombies aren’t smart enough to open doors.

That is not a zombie on the other side of the glass.

Your fight or flight kicks in, instinct demanding you hurry back to John’s side. The door is locked, but that doesn’t guarantee the interloper won’t still try to get inside. You don’t even know why this is spooking you so badly, but if there’s one thing the end of the world has taught you, it’s to not question your instincts.

“John!” The distress in your voice must cut through whatever sleep still clings to him, because he jumps immediately from a sleepy acknowledgement of your return to being wide awake.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s someone outside- I heard them trying the door.”

He freezes for a nano second before throwing the covers back and getting out of the bed. “Did they see you?” he asks as he dresses with impressive efficiency.

“I-I don’t think so- I was at the top of the stairs. I just saw the shadow through the glass- I-,” you stammer.

“Stay here,” he instructs firmly- that’s an order you were anticipating from him, and one you fully intend to comply with.

He places the pistol you’d been carrying the first night in your hand. “I’ll go look. Either scare them off or see what they want. Anyone comes up the stairs who’s not me, you fire, understood?”

You nod, feeling a bit more settled now the initial adrenaline dump is fading. Right- they don’t necessarily have to be a threat. You certainly hadn’t been much of a threat to anyone when John caught you skittering around in the kitchen. That already feels like a lifetime ago.

But you also aren’t stupid- there are people who would not hesitate to steal your supplies and leave you for dead, either. Or just happily kill you both for the thrill of it. 

“Stay here,” he reiterates, pulling you in for a kiss goodbye before stepping away.

“Be careful,” you caution him, knowing full well he’s far more equipped to handle anything going bump in the night than you are.

“According to the map, it should be straight ahead, the entrance is on the right.”

“I know the way, Sher.” You reply, slightly more passive-aggressive than you wanted, but you can’t take back what you said.

“Just making sure you know, it’s been a long time since you’ve been there.”

Raccoon City Police Department.

Looking completely destroyed after the explosion that hit it.

It’s been years since you’ve been back there, it looks almost unrecognizable. Almost.

You try not to let your thoughts get cloudy, thinking about the day your partner. Your good friend.

Oh boy, how you miss him so.

“___? You with me?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m here.” You replied to her, “I’m here..” This time it was muttered under your breath more so the remnants of what’s left the building, you were once so happy to work in.

You walk up to the door and hovered your hand over the doors handle.

You’re about to open up a whole can of worms, that you’re not even sure you want to open. But you came here for a reason, the mission is that reason, saving Grace is that reason.

Whether or not you want to go inside, you have to do it. For Grace.

You open that door and immediately started, fanning the area around your face, as dirt and dust was kicked up. Just from opening the door.

“This place really did get the shit end of the stick.”

“What does it look like?”

“Still RPD, just with a bunch of debris and broken glass everywhere.” You walk around the front desk, and notice the typewriter—broken, but still intact somehow.

You see there’s a desk and some intel from, what you believe is the BSAA’s doing.

“Sherry, there’s a map here. Looks like the BSAA set up shop.”

“Is it abandoned?”

“I’m not sure..” You were too busy looking at the map, and reading a note that said “You can’t save anyone,” to notice the big decorative sign on the draping onto the floor, by your feet.

Memories come rushing to the forefront of your mind, and before long you were reminiscing.

You hold up a portion of the sign to yourself, and smile ear to ear with pride.

And as if on cue, Senior Police Officer Marvin Branagh walked into the room.

“I just finished the sign, sir. What do you think, Marvin?”

He looks down at you, wondering if you had lost your mind calling him by his first name. “I mean Lieutenant Branagh.”

He shakes his head and laughs wholeheartedly, “You better not let Irons catch you saying that, but it looks great. You did a good job.”

“Now to figure out how to set it up.” You stated, Marvin takes one end and looks around and spots Officer Edward, “Come help us with this.”

“Yes, sir.” He says, and within no time, the sign was hanging in the office area in front of the desks.

And that point, it was unfortunately time for us to go back to work, but I had hoped the new recruit liked it.

A light from something a little ways ahead of me shown in my face, and I noticed it was a camera.

Showing some guy, presumably Zeno and Grace.

“I found Grace..”

“Is she in the building with you?”

“Seems like it.” Once you got the location, you were well on your way to save Grace.

You went through the offices, where your sign once hung, and made your way into the hallway.

You jumped as you seen a undead officer, made its way around the corner, on its way to you. You never jump, but you thought this place had been completely abandoned.

Expect for Grace and Zeno’s presence.

“I’m sorry, officer.” You held up your gun and fired a couple rounds into the head of the zombie, and watched it fall.

Sadness welling up in your chest, you had probably known this officer once upon a time.

But do him being zombified, you couldn’t tell who it was exactly.

Nevertheless, you hope he can rest in peace now.

You stood up after mourning the fallen officer, only to feel hands on you. You instantly push the hands up off you, forcing the person to the ground.

Your gun aimed for the head, but you don’t fire.

You killed the zombie before with ease, why couldn’t you kill this one.

“Leon..?” You spoke almost breathlessly, due to being confused and wondering if you’re feeling delirious.

“Sherry?” You said into the mic, “I found him..”

“Who? Is it the guy with Grace?”

“It’s… It’s Leon.. He turned..” You back up and watch as Leon, slowly placed his hands on the floor, in an attempt to stand up again.

Still wearing his RPD uniform, though dirty and tattered. Despite the building’s fallen debris, how much he’d gone through, you would always recognize this man.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of him.”

“You don’t mean—”