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navie-ctm · 2 days ago

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simon riley x reader

18+

contains: no reader pronouns, survivalist themes (it’s not described what happened, but something has happened), mentions of hunger and eating, mentions of hunting animals, the smallest hint at cannibalism, poor hygiene, body odour, male masturbation, hints at dacryphilia, impressions of somnophilia, handjob, face riding (there is no description of reader’s genitalia), illusions to free use, mentions of penetrative unprotected sex, brief mention of urination, non-descriptive mentions of murder.

on the first day, there was nobody.

not a soul. not for miles, at least. still and dead and dead and dead quiet. if there was a pin around to drop? you’d have heard it.

but it was just you. it was hard to tell if that was reassuring or not.

the more there is nobody, the more there is a chance for somebody. an unexpected somebody.

the last person on earth hears a knock at the door- something like that.

but there is no knock, at least, not for now.

in the first week, there are still no signs of life.

you’re sure, from the direction of the sun, that you’re heading east.

you really hope you’re heading east.

what you’re hoping to find? anyone’s guess.

anyone if there was anyone out there.

you set up camp against the cold rubble of stone. it’s always cold now. it’s like, when the people went away, the sun followed.

you know the sun is out there, you’re following it- you can physically see it. you just can’t feel it.

maybe that’s a secret of the universe you were never meant to discover. many bodies means heat, maybe people were the key after all.

maybe it was always about company.

you remember company.

a distant memory. how long has it been since you’ve heard another voice? fuck-

how long has it been since you last spoke?

“hello.”

how strange is that? you know nobody is out there, yet the first thing you say just to test your voice- it’s a greeting.

a hoarse greeting, at that. rubs your throat the wrong way and it squeaks on its way out, sound broken by underused vocal chords.

nice to know you still have a voice, even if nobody is around to hear it. suppose the tree does make a sound when it falls.

your greeting to a vast and empty loneliness, you worry that you might’ve welcomed it in. you resign yourself to delusion when you hear it.

in the first month, the emptiness talks back.

“where’d you come from?”

the emptiness has a name, simon.

for a man all dressed in black with only a smattering of white, he enters your life in full screaming colour.

ironic for a man of so few words.

you both spend the first day together parallel to one another. silence, sat either side of the fire you’d been stoking since you’d arrived in this spot.

there’d been minimal exchange of words, no more than needed.

your names. where you came from. how you’d ended up here. what you had on you.

and, no- you hadn’t seen anyone else.

simon looks angry, as much as you can tell from his eyes. his balaclava looks like it stinks but it looks warm so it makes sense.

he looks tough, but he looks strong. well fed.

you wonder how he’s managed to remain the size that he has with the dwindling supplies he’d gotten his hands on. a paranoid part of you wonders if he’s hiding more from you.

it’s the rumbling of your stomach. when it gets quiet, it starts speaking to you- tells you to do things you normally wouldn’t.

you’d managed to get out of dodge with the bare essentials, with the time that has passed, you’re running on empty.

the hunger allows you to understand the previously unanswered. that, perhaps, some of the cruelest people of our times were just hungry.

once you snap out of it, you realise that what he produced from his rucksack was really just that. few tins, some muesli bars, some non-descript silver pouches.

you study the pouches like you’ve discovered fire, turning them round in your hands like squeezing the edges will tell you what you’re holding.

“it’s freeze dried cottage pie.”

oh, he’s military.

simon proves himself very useful.

strings you both a bivouac. keeps the fire going even when it rains. makes the food stretch for miles.

your stomach aches in a way that becomes less noticeable. it aches of an ungrateful privilege to have once been fed so well.

at night, you dream of standing in the refrigerator light with a handful of whatever you wanted. in your dreams, you eat with your eyes shut and don’t even care to see what it is.

when you wake, simon pushes a crushed snack bar into your hand and you look at it with both eyes. you eat it very slowly.

simon tells you that you need to move camp.

he doesn’t tell you why but he says it with such conviction that you don’t care to ask.

he slings your bag on his shoulder without asking. probably because it means nothing to him, broad shoulders carrying everything else you have to your names.

he makes you walk ahead of him. in the silence, you can only hear the crunch of gravel underfoot combined with the tide of his breathing.

he breathes like high tide, big chest with crashing waves. he doesn’t huff like he’s unfit, he just breathes loudly. he’s a quiet man but his presence is loud.

that and his breath fucking stinks.

you’re no sunday morning, either. water is reserved for drinking, the minute you can find camp near a running water source? that’s when you can wash.

until then, you’re both ripe and unpleasant to be around.

but maybe it’s all about company.

simon finds you both a flat piece of sod, tucked under an overhang. he fashions the shelter so that the rain will run straight off it.

he’s very useful.

makes you follow him on a short walk north-east of where you’d left your things. you can hear it before you see it.

running water.

he collects it in your bottles as you splash it across your face. wiping your face with your sleeve, it leaves a dirty streak across the fabric.

but there are no mirrors anymore.

and, well, simon doesn’t mind.

dinner is a quarter each of freeze-dried-something. like with most things, you both eat in silence.

until-

“you homesick?”

“uh, yeah.”

“right, ‘m sorry.”

“oh, thanks. me too, i guess.”

“nah, i’m used to this.”

what’s the opposite of doesn’t speak unless spoken to? speaks only when speaking to?

you study his side profile as he eats, really the only time you see him without the balaclava.

his nose is visibly broken but not in a way that it hurts. he’s got scruff but he has to be dry shaving, or maybe it just doesn’t grow. he’s got a few scars, that could be why.

you thought he wore the balaclava for warmth, you’ve started to figure it’s just a him thing.

as you settle in for sleep, you don’t know what possesses you to be the first to speak- to even ask him a question.

“do you think things will ever go back to how they were?”

“probably not.”

that’ll learn you.

at the first sign of sunrise, you head down to the water. you’d had a bar soap at the bottom of your bag since the first day. for a moment there, it had felt like a stupid possession, that was until you first ran it over your skin.

river water and bar soap felt like salvation.

the pristine white of the soap turned a murky grey at the first swipe. caked on dirt falling away with every drop of water.

washing every crease of your skin, the soles of your feet, the back of your neck. it was part of feeling human again.

it felt like an act of defiance.

they’d tried to remove all trace of humankind but here you were. soapy and smelly and alive.

there was a smell under your arms that’d outlast religion but the more you worked over it with the soap, the more it got lost to the aloe vera.

as you sat waist deep, your ears pricked to the sounds of of parted water. like breaking waves.

high tide.

you turned in time to see simon striding toward you, naked as the day he was born with one outstretched palm.

“i’ll get your back.”

fresh clothes, your others drying on a line beside the fire. your shirt, simon’s socks, your undies, simon’s balaclava.

exisiting in harmony.

the sound of crackling fire helped to hide the fact there were no birds, no bugs, nothing. it was easier to ignore when you were on your own.

fear heightened by your own solitude, your mind raced so fast it was hard to get a thought in edgewise.

simon quieted that down. his mere presence worked wonders for your anxiety. you’d like to see anything try get past him.

but when it got quiet, it allowed you a moment alone with your thoughts. if what he said the night before was right-

you couldn’t catch your first sob in time to muffle it.

“oh, what the hell? y’not crying are you?”

a weak apology only seemed to annoy him more, sitting up on his bedroll to look at you through the light of the fire.

you probably looked quite poetic, illuminated in orange with tears on your face and the soft flutter of foliage around you.

“jus’ stop crying- what’s got you in a fuss?”

you looked at him with a hint of exasperation.

“oh, you know, just the end of the world.”

he let out a big sigh, a large hand dragging down the length of his face.

“you’ll be fine- won’t let anything happen to you.”

you weren’t sure if you believed him but you weren’t sure if there was anything else to believe in?

he took one last look at you, bottom lip still stuck out in a pout and the saddest eyes he’s ever seen.

he rolled his eyes one last time before hunkering down.

“go the fuck to sleep.”

you had no way of knowing what time it was. pitch black and the fire reduced to embers.

it was cold, middle of the night cold. you could feel your teeth begin to chatter before you brought your shoulders to your chin.

you could hear simon beside you, breathing stunted and shallow. his sleeping bag rustled, your eyes adjusted just enough to see movement.

“are you wanking?”

“go the fuck to sleep.”

the morning has a strange way of changing everything.

every shadow that was sure to harbour something nefarious was really just a tree.

every sinister sound whispered beside your ear was really just the wind.

and sleep can really make you delirious. where you know you’re awake but you’re still so tired that even forming a thought is hard.

so you wake up with nothing on your mind.

you used to know what day it was, now you don’t even know what time it is. you’re unsure of how long it’s been like this or how long you’ve known simon.

all you know is, at breakfast, he starts talking about hunting. he’s going to have to start catching stuff if you’re both going to eat.

“what do you want me to do?”

he looks at you like you piss him off. you’re not entirely convinced you don’t.

“whaddya’ mean?”

you’ve taken to having crushed up muesli bars in water for breakfast, so you finish your spoonful of that before you speak up.

“do you want me to help or anything?”

simon looks you up and down before letting out a big sigh.

“you stay here and you don’t move, alright?”

it’s not really a question, as much as an order. you wonder again if you’ve pissed him off but then he’s taking your bowl off you to wash it with his.

maybe it’s about company.

he’s got a knife strapped to his thigh and a whittled stick on his back when he’s ready to set off.

you aren’t really sure what you’re meant to do while he’s gone, so you mention washing down at the river.

“don’t- don’t do that til’ i’m back.”

right.

you don’t argue, just shrug your shoulders and watch him as he walks off into who knows what direction.

he’s only gone for a matter of moments before the lonesome sets in.

under any other circumstances would you have taken in a stranger so easily? would you have missed him so quickly?

you hear simon’s boots before you see him, trudging back up the rise towards your camp. he finds you cross-legged on your bedroll, weaving.

weaving what? fuck knows.

but you feel busy.

he easily overshadows your efforts, a young buck slung over his shoulders with its throat open.

poor thing, simon moves so quickly and so quietly. it probably never saw him coming.

he stops before you, shifting his weight and slinging the animal further up his back.

“what’ve you got there?”

you hold up your grass strands, you’d managed to make quite a bit of progress on your creation in his absence.

“uh, a mat- maybe?”

simon nods, he turns his head like something in the distance catches his interest. he looks at you again before he leaves.

“good job.”

your heart hammers in your chest just once before you stand to follow him. you’ve always struggled to keep up with his pace but, thankfully, he doesn’t go far.

he’s found some clearing to lay the kill, it’s under a tree with a large branch. he stands to unfurl the rope he’s had around the top of his arm.

he slings it over the tree before returning to the animal. he knows you’re over his shoulder, he always knows where you are.

“this is going to be grim, go finish your mat.”

and you do.

without a word, you take back down the path you’d just come from and you settle back under the shade.

you hum to yourself as you weave grass. its a song you think you might’ve known once. when was the last time you’d heard song?

simon returns with a plastic bag filled with meat. the blood drips down his arms and some has flecked across his forehead.

he doesn’t look like someone you’d want to run into deep in the middle of nowhere.

“get y’soap.”

the running river becomes paradise, that’s absolutely certain. they’ve taken everything from you but they haven’t taken this.

they’ve left you this and they’ve left you simon.

he who washes quickly to spend the rest of his time laying on warm stone. it looks uneven and uncomfortable but you don’t think he minds.

you figure he’s slept under gunfire. he could survive anywhere.

so far, he’s made that look easy.

he lays outstretched and it makes him appear taller than usual. he puts an arm behind his head, tilts it towards you so he can keep watch.

you know he stares, you don’t mind.

you think you like it.

the hand that isn’t behind his head rests on his stomach, amongst scars and a tattoo that says “in case of apocalypse create woman from this rib.”

his other tattoos flex as he scratches his stomach. there’s a skull that winks at you, flames that dance around his wrist.

he’s so rough around the edges.

you’d finished washing long ago but you allow yourself to splash about like you’re a child again. it’s almost true, you’ve certainly got no responsibilities and there’s an adult watching you.

but everything is different now.

tipping back until the crown of your head is submerged, the water rushes past your ears as your fingers stroke the stones below you.

they’re so smooth around the edges.

as you angle yourself towards simon, he shifts a hand to adjust himself. a simple gesture that fires the synapses in your brain.

you sit up in an instant.

“were you wanking last night?”

simon barely reacts. he opens the eye that was previously shut and he gives you a good look before he cuts you loose.

“y’look nice when you’re all upset.”

the venison dinner is nice. the meats tough but it’s cooked through and it leaves you feeling full.

bedtime might be your favourite time.

it’s different to wash time, it feels closest to home.

like you could be at home. with simon beside you.

it’s colder tonight, you’re smart enough to know that winter is on its way. the leaves were brown right before everything changed.

this was to be expected. it’ll only get colder from here.

soon, wash time becomes near impossible.

there are no warm stones and no wading. it’s a bowl of water and a torn rag, you start to dread the water touching your skin.

how quickly it can change.

simon takes to simmering your water over the fire, he prepares it for you one day without you even having to ask.

“clean yourself by the fire, too cold out there.”

he watches the colours dance on your skin as you wash yourself, your shadow broad on the overhang behind you.

you wonder if, at this point, you’d do anything he tells you to?

who else is there to listen to? what else is there to do?

it’s a particularly cold night and simon’s hardly sleeping. he’s awake every hour on the hour to stoke the fire, you could set your watch by him.

not that you’d know, you’re blissfully unaware in slumber- snoring gently and only shivering between breaths.

breaths that he can see, it’s that cold.

you hardly wake when you feel him behind you, his sleeping bag slipping against yours as a strong arm pulls you back to him.

he’s firm but he’s warm and you feel it consume you in an instant.

by morning, he’s got both your sleeping bags in his lap. he’s unzipped the both of them and he’s feeding the teeth of your bag through the zipper of his.

he sees you watching him.

there was probably a time where he would’ve explained himself to you.

that time was lost to, well, time.

you understood well enough, really, you welcomed it. you look forward to sleeping in the curve of his front, the man shaped furnace protecting you from the elements.

he looked up from the bags to see you weave another few strands across your mat. when he catches your eye, you smile ear to ear.

it isn’t lost on you that there is no evolutionary purpose to simon looking after you.

that from the moment he stumbled across you, it probably would’ve suited him better to kill you. he would’ve had your supplies, one less creature to worry about, meat.

but he didn’t.

he stayed at your camp before taking you with him and now he washed your back and kept you warm when you slept.

there was no benefit to his survival having you around.

but maybe it was all about company.

you both sleep better in your conjoined sleeping bags. he doesn’t need to stoke the fire and you’re warm all night long.

he’s very warm.

cold disposition but he radiates a heat like nothing you’ve ever felt. you feel most comfortable under his left arm.

your head lays on his chest and you raise your leg up over his, almost hanging off him.

he sleeps with his hand splayed over your hip and when he’s in deep sleep, he grips it and releases it almost in a rhythm.

the smells don’t concern you any longer. you’ve come to associate his musk with safety. you burrow your nose into his skin to keep your face warm and the tang of his sweat is almost sweet to you.

you miss it in the day time.

sometimes, when he’s cooking or whittling, you’ll appear behind him. he’s never startled by you, he always knows where you are.

you’ll rest your chin on his shoulder and he’ll teach you about what he’s doing, without prompting.

when your nose nudges behind his ear it makes him shiver, you must feel it as you’re close enough to be a second skin.

but you never mention it.

you’re both dozing off when you do notice it.

he’s hard, again.

“d’you mind?”

“no, go ahead”

you say it with a yawn and it makes it twitch. he licks his palm before he puts it down his underwear, stroking himself almost routinely.

he’s measured, like he is with everything. it’s obligatory more than pleasure.

you usually sleep through it, only occasionally rousing to spit in his hand or give him the okay to pull your top down.

he just needs something to work with.

his chest is under your ear, you can hear his trapped breaths as he twists his wrist around himself. he’s getting nowhere fast.

“simon?”

“yeah? say it again like that, please?”

“no, i meant- do you want a hand?”

literally.

you could whisper in his ear or let him look under your clothes all he liked- or he could get it at the source.

it was a kindness, really. he sounded tired, least you could do with all he does for you.

simon concedes quickly, replacing his hand with yours and already starting you off how he likes.

you’ve felt it enough to know, but you appreciate his direction. it’s come to be a staple of your relationship.

relationship? means of survival? existence.

simon cums the moment you touch his balls, the sound he makes is wretched and pathetic and you feel a tension in your stomach you haven’t felt in a long time.

it’s hot and it hits your core and there is a moment where you aren’t sure what it means.

it’s been so long since you’ve felt anything that wasn’t necessary to your survival.

something tells you to crawl down inside your sleeping bags and lick the spend off simon’s stomach, his muscle clenches under your tongue as you do.

he tastes acrid- he tastes like he smells.

but you don’t regret it.

simon is very useful.

wakes you, feeds you, bathes you, warms you.

you have no doubt in your mind that you’d have died if he hadn’t found you.

when it’s quiet, in your mind, you tally up the things you’re grateful for in case you’re only left with them tomorrow.

simon.

shelter.

simon.

food.

simon.

water.

simon.

what’s left?

it’s in the still of a cold night, you’d tugged him off and licked your hand clean when you finally mustered your courage.

“can you touch me?”

you weren’t sure where you want to be touched or why. but you knew you wanted it.

you’d felt it coming on strong when you’d watched him whittling arrows to fill the quiver you’d weaved him.

he’d pressed the point till blood gave way on the tip of his finger, the one he’d wrapped his lips around.

you wanted to know what it felt like. to be under the tip of his finger.

but he had other ideas.

he wanted to show you what it was like to be on the tip of his tongue.

“simon, i’m filthy.”

“y’not, i wash between these legs every day- think i haven’t wanted to give you a taste?”

simon gets all the way out of bed to get his polar fleece, slipping it over your shoulders and pulling his woollen socks over your feet.

he gets back into the sleeping bag before he’s manhandling you up his chest, doesn’t stop till you’re hovering over his broken nose.

he sees the breath that escapes when you speak his name, quietly and just to him. he unfurls his balaclava from his fist, wrestling it over your head until all you can smell, and see, is him.

simon has you cum three times on his face until there are tears on your cheeks, only then will he relent.

almost like he gets what he wants.

his big hands had held your hips firmly where he wanted them, one had snuck up under his fleece but the other had slipped down to the split of your ass.

his stubble left you sore and his mouth had left you worn out. you didn’t know it was possible to feel like that again.

“if you’ve ever felt like that before, i don’t want to know about it.”

you nodded at his words, he always struck you as the jealous type even before he laid a hand on you.

the possessive type, what’s his is his and what’s yours is also his.

you fall asleep in the socks, everything else back off so he can feel you. likes to sleep with a hand up your top and your breath on his skin.

likes to know you’re still there. don’t go where he can’t follow.

when you remove all of society, so does go all of its rules.

simon splits you open in his lap as you watch the sunrise.

he puts your back to his chest as he sits on the stump he’d turned into a stool. he’d slipped your trousers down enough to slip inside and it never occurred once to you that you’d be seen.

you hadn’t seen another person in who knows how long. why would they show up now?

you let him take you wherever he likes. it’s not reserved for bedtime.

when you’re foraging for food, he bends you over against a tree.

when it gets warm enough to go back to the lake, he tastes the soap off your skin.

when he returns from a hunt, you put him in your mouth while he tells you he missed you.

it becomes ritualistic. if there are no rules as to when and where, it becomes all of the time.

and simon needs you all of the time.

joined at the hip, he doesn’t like you out of his sight. he leaves you behind when he hunts but that is purely it.

when he goes for a piss, he often makes you hold it. just to know that he can.

how quickly you’ve let him, how quickly you’ve become dependent on him. did you always want someone to come find you?

where would you be on your own?

maybe it’s all about company.

simon makes you walk ahead on your way back from foraging. he tells you that this is the way he came from his last hunt.

you feel closer to him, being out here where he never lets you go. you feel yourself becoming him, losing the place where you end and he begins.

through the long grass, the toe of your boot knocks against something that makes you stop.

you follow it through the grass until you come to see the shape of it, the arms and legs flattening the foliage.

their rucksack is emptied, anything they might’ve had already taken. already back at your camp.

you can hear simon approaching as you look into the person’s dull eyes.

poor thing, simon moves so quickly and so quietly. it probably never saw him coming.

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