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astrxq · 3 months

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Amidst the Battle

jacaerys velaryon x healer!reader

words: 8k

notes: non-canon events! not following the show's timeline. warnings: kissing, talk of war and wounds (i think that's all) feedback is appreciated!!

The acrid smell of smoke and blood hung heavy in the air as you made your way through the aftermath of the battle. Your eyes scanned the field, searching for survivors amidst the carnage. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the war-torn landscape, when you spotted him.

A young man, barely clinging to life, his curled hair matted with blood and dirt. You approached cautiously, your heart racing as you realized who he was – Jacaerys Velaryon, the dragon rider, prince, and heir to the throne of Rhaenyra.

You knelt beside him, your trained hands quickly assessing his injuries. Multiple lacerations, a deep gash across his abdomen, and what appeared to be a broken arm. His breathing was shallow, each inhale a struggle. Without immediate care, he wouldn’t survive the night.

“Hold on,” you whispered, though you were unsure if he could hear you. “I've got you.”

With a strength born of necessity, you managed to lift him onto your cart. Your cottage wasn't far, and you prayed to the gods, old and new, that he would make it there alive. As you guided your horse along the bumpy path, your mind raced. Treating a Velaryon, especially one as prominent as Jacaerys, could have been seen as an act of treason depending on who emerged victorious in this war. But as you glanced back at his pale face, you knew you couldn't live with yourself if you left him to die.

The journey felt endless, but finally, your modest cottage came into view. With great effort, you managed to bring Jacaerys inside and lay him on your bed. You worked tirelessly through the night, cleaning his wounds, stitching gashes, and setting his broken arm. Your stores of herbs were nearly depleted by the time you finished, but as dawn broke, his breathing had steadied, and some color had returned to his face.

Exhausted, you slumped into a chair by the bedside. You allowed yourself a moment of rest, watching the rise and fall of his chest. In sleep, the hardness of battle faded from his features, revealing a young man not much older than yourself. With a wet cloth, you gently cleaned his face, wiping away the stains of dry blood and dirt from the battle.

As you continued to clean his face, you couldn't help but study his features more closely. His curled hair, now free from the grime of battle, fell in soft waves across your pillow. You noticed a small scar near his left eyebrow, wondering what tale it might tell. His strong jaw was softened in sleep, and you found yourself tracing the line of it with your eyes.

A sudden twitch of his hand startled you from your reverie. You held your breath, watching intently, but he didn't wake. Releasing a sigh, you realized how dangerous this situation truly was. Housing and healing the son of Rhaenyra Targaryen could have cost you your life if the wrong people found out.

Despite the dangers, you couldn't bring yourself to abandon Jacaerys to the impersonal care of a volunteer center. The prince's injuries were severe, and his condition delicate. Each day was a delicate dance of tending wounds, easing fevers, and ensuring he had enough nourishment to sustain his weakened body. The thought of him being at the mercy of soldiers or opportunistic enemies made your decision clear – his safety was worth the risk.

In the quiet moments between changing bandages and preparing meals, you wrestled with guilt and anxiety. Every noise outside your cottage, every unfamiliar visitor passing by, sent a jolt of fear through you. Would they discover him? Would someone recognize him?

You rarely left Jacaerys' side, tending to his wounds and watching for any signs of fever or infection. His condition remained precarious, teetering on the edge between life and death.

On the third day, as you were changing the dressing on his abdominal wound, Jacaerys stirred. His eyelids fluttered, and a low groan escaped his lips. You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as his eyes slowly opened, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they landed on you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could see the confusion in his eyes, followed quickly by a flash of fear and suspicion. His body tensed, and he tried to move away from you, only to grimace in pain at the sudden movement.

“Don't,” you said softly, holding up your hands to show you meant no harm. “You're badly injured. Any sudden movements could reopen your wounds.”

Jacaerys' eyes darted around the room, taking in his surroundings. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and weak. “Where am I? Who are you?”

His voice, while weak, sounded accusing, almost too sharp for it to match his tired expression. He could feel his throat dry and raw, each word an effort to push out. You reached for a cup of water nearby, offering it to him cautiously.

“Here,” you said, your voice gentle. “You need to drink.”

Jacaerys eyed the cup suspiciously, his gaze flickering between it and your face. You could see the internal struggle playing out in his eyes - the desperate thirst warring with his ingrained mistrust.

“It's just water,” you assured him, taking a small sip yourself to prove it. “You've been unconscious for days. Your body needs hydration to heal.”

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded slightly. You carefully supported his head, helping him take small sips. As the cool water touched his lips, his eyes closed briefly in relief. When he'd had enough, you set the cup aside and settled back into your chair. Jacaerys watched your every move, his body still tense despite the obvious pain it caused him.

“You didn't answer my questions,” he said, his voice a little clearer now. He ignored the grumbling of his stomach, having gotten used to being hungry because of the war.

You took a deep breath, considering your words carefully. The Prince's wariness was palpable, and you couldn't blame him given the circumstances.

“You're in my cottage,” you explained softly. “I found you on the battlefield three days ago, gravely wounded. I brought you here to treat your injuries.”

Jacaerys' eyes narrowed, suspicion evident in every line of his face. “And you just happened to stumble upon me? Why would you risk treating an enemy soldier?”

You met his gaze steadily. “I don't see enemies on the battlefield, my Prince. Only people in need of help. It's my duty to heal, regardless of allegiances.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face at your use of his title, but it was quickly replaced by a guarded expression. “How do I know you're not holding me for ransom? Or waiting to turn me over to my enemies?”

You sighed, feeling a mixture of frustration and understanding. “If that were my intention, I wouldn't have spent the last three days fighting to keep you alive. Your wounds were severe, my Prince. You very nearly died.”

He seemed to consider this, his eyes roaming over the bandages covering his body. A grimace of pain crossed his face as he shifted slightly. “And what do you expect in return for your... kindness?” he asked, the last word tinged with sarcasm.

“Nothing,” you replied simply. “Your recovery is payment enough.”

Jacaerys scoffed, wincing at the movement. “No one does anything for nothing in this world.”

You stood, moving to a small table where you'd prepared a simple broth. “Believe what you will, my Prince.”

He stayed silent, his eyes scanning your features. As you turned back to Jacaerys with the bowl of broth, you noticed his eyes following your every move. The suspicion in his gaze hadn't lessened, but there was a hint of something else now - perhaps curiosity, or simply the weariness of a man too exhausted to maintain his guard fully.

“You should eat,” you said, approaching the bed slowly. “Your body needs nourishment to heal.”

Jacaerys eyed the bowl warily. “And how do I know it's not poisoned?” he asked, his voice still rough.

You resisted the urge to sigh. Instead, you took a small sip of the broth yourself. “See? Not poisoned. Though I suppose if you're determined to believe the worst of me, you could argue I've built up an immunity.”

A flicker of something - maybe amusement? - passed across Jacaerys' face, but it was gone in an instant. He took the bowl from you with his good hand, careful not to let his fingers brush against yours. As you turned to take his glass, with the intention of getting him more water, you noticed him trying to push himself up into a sitting position. His face paled with the effort, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“Please,” you said, setting the bowl aside and moving to help him. “Let me-”

“Don't touch me,” he snapped, his voice strained. “I can manage on my own.”

“But-”

Jacaerys ignored you, gritting his teeth as he finally managed to prop himself up against the headboard. He was breathing heavily from the exertion, his good hand pressed against his bandaged abdomen.

You waited patiently for him to recover, then offered the bowl of broth once more. This time, he took it with a curt nod, though his hand trembled slightly as he brought the spoon to his lips.

As he ate, you busied yourself around the small room, straightening things and gathering fresh bandages. You could feel his eyes on you, tracking your movements.

“What's your name?” he asked suddenly, breaking the tense silence.

You turned to face him, surprised by the question. “It's Y/n,” you replied.

Jacaerys nodded slightly, his face unreadable. “You will be compensated, once I am fully healed.”

You shook your head gently, a small smile playing on your lips. “That's not necessary, my Prince. As I said before, your recovery is payment enough.”

Jacaerys frowned, his brow furrowing. “I insist. I won't be indebted to anyone, especially not...” He trailed off, seemingly catching himself before saying something potentially offensive.

“Especially not a commoner?” you finished for him, your tone mild but with a hint of challenge. “Or perhaps you meant to say 'especially not someone who could be an enemy'?”

The prince had the grace to look slightly abashed, though he quickly masked it with a scowl. “You can't blame me for being cautious. These are dangerous times.”

You nodded, acknowledging his point. “Indeed they are. Which is why I hope you can understand my reluctance to accept payment. I have no desire to be seen as profiting from this war, regardless of which side emerges victorious.”

Jacaerys studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching your face. “You're either very noble or very foolish,” he said finally.

“Perhaps a bit of both,” you replied with a wry smile. “Now, if you've finished eating, I need to change your bandages again.”

As you gathered the necessary supplies, Jacaerys watched you warily. “You never answered my question about where we are,” he said.

You paused, “We're in a small village near the God's Eye,” you said finally.

His jaw tightened, but he didn't press further. As you began to work on his bandages, he remained tense, flinching slightly at your touch despite your efforts to be gentle.

You could see him squirm from the corner of your eye as your hands removed the bandage that covered the gash on his abdomen, he moved his hand to the sheets, tightly clasping them as an attempt of relief at the pain.

As you carefully peeled away the bandage, Jacaerys inhaled sharply, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. You paused, looking up at him with concern.

“I'm sorry,” you said softly. “I know it hurts. I'll try to be as gentle as possible.”

Jacaerys clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above your head. “Just get on with it,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

You nodded, returning your attention to the wound. The gash was deep, running from just below his ribs to his hip. The stitches you'd placed held firm, but the skin around them was angry and red. You frowned, silently starting to clean it gently with a herb-infused solution, feeling Jacaerys flinch and hold back a pained grunt with each touch.

“How long might this take?” he broke the silence after you’d adjusted his posture on the bed to wrap the new bandage around his torso.

“I am almost done, my Prince.”

“No, how long until I can fight again?”

You paused, your hands stilling on the bandage. Looking up at Jacaerys, you saw determination burning in his eyes, mixed with a hint of desperation. You took a deep breath, considering your words carefully.

“My Prince,” you began gently, “your injuries are severe. The gash on your abdomen alone will take weeks, if not months, to heal completely. And that's not considering your broken arm or the other lacerations.”

Jacaerys' face darkened, his good hand clenching into a fist. “Weeks? Months? I don't have that kind of time. The war-”

“Will still be there when you're healed,” you interrupted, your voice firm but kind. “Fighting in your current condition would be a death sentence, my Prince. You'd be more of a liability than an asset on the battlefield.”

His eyes flashed with anger, but you held his gaze steadily. After a moment, he looked away, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“You don't understand,” he said, his voice low and tense. He didn’t say anything else, lifting his arms so you could start to wrap the clean bandage.

The silence that followed Jacaerys' words was heavy with unspoken thoughts and shared tension. His frustration was palpable, each breath he took a reminder of the pain he was in and the urgency he felt. As you continued to wrap the bandage around his torso, your fingers worked with practiced precision, yet you could feel the tight coil of tension in every muscle beneath your touch.

His skin was warm, the heat of fever not entirely gone, and as you wound the clean linen around his abdomen, you could see the fine lines of strain on his face, the way his jaw clenched against the discomfort. You tried to be as gentle as possible, but each movement seemed to draw a wince from him, a reminder of the toll the battle had taken.

“It’s not too tight, is it?” you asked, breaking the silence.

As you finished wrapping the bandage, Jacaerys gave a curt nod. “It's fine,” he said, his voice tight.

You could see the strain in his eyes, the way he held himself rigidly to avoid showing any sign of weakness. Gently, you helped him lean back against the pillows, ignoring his mumbled protests.

“You need to rest,” you said softly. “Your body has been through a tremendous ordeal.”

Jacaerys closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. When he opened them again, the anger had faded, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. “How am I supposed to rest when my family, my people, are out there fighting and dying?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart ached at the pain in his words. Carefully, you sat on the edge of the bed, making sure to give him space. “By remembering that you're no use to them dead,” you replied gently.

“I do not wish to rest,” he struggled to push himself onto a sitting position, trying to get his legs off of the bed. He let out a grunt and a small whine at the pain, immediately stopping to place his good hand over the newly placed bandage.

“See?” you said, “You can’t even sit without hurting yourself.”

Jacaerys clenched his jaw, frustration evident in every line of his face. “I've endured worse,” he said through gritted teeth, but he made no further attempt to move.

You sighed softly, understanding his determination but worried about the toll it was taking on his body. You stood, settling yourself before him and placing your hands on his shoulders. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve been resting for days!”

You gave him a look which made him shut his mouth. Before he could protest any further, you applied pressure on his shoulders, making his body follow suit to your moves, and you laid him back down on the bed. “I will get you more supper, my Prince.”

As you gently guided Jacaerys back onto the bed, you could feel the tension in his muscles, the reluctance in every inch of his body. His eyes, dark with frustration and pain, followed you as you moved away.

“I don't need more food,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I need to be out there, fighting alongside my family.”

You paused at the door, turning back to face him. The sight of him, pale and drawn against the pillows, made your heart ache. “My Prince,” you said softly, “I understand your desire to rejoin the fight. But right now, the best thing you can do for your family is to heal.”

Jacaerys let out a bitter laugh that turned into a wince of pain. As you busied yourself preparing the simple meal, you could hear Jacaerys shifting restlessly on the bed. His impatience was palpable, filling the small room with an almost tangible energy. When you returned with a steaming bowl and a chunk of crusty bread, you found him staring at the ceiling, his good hand clenched into a fist at his side.

Jacaerys allowed you to adjust the pillows behind him, wincing slightly as he leaned back. “I can feed myself,” he said quickly as you reached for the spoon.

You nodded, stepping back to give him space. “Of course, my Prince. Just... take it slowly. Your body is still healing.”

He shot you a look that was part irritation, part grudging acceptance. As he began to eat, you busied yourself tidying the room, keeping a watchful eye on him without being too obvious about it.

“Tell me about the war,” Jacaerys said suddenly, breaking the silence. “What news have you heard?”

You hesitated, unsure how much to share. “I... I don't know much, My Prince. We're quite isolated here, and news travels slowly.”

His eyes narrowed, sensing your reluctance. “But you must have heard something. Please, I need to know what's happening out there.”

Sighing softly, you perched on the edge of the bed. “The last I heard, the fighting had spread to the Riverlands. There were rumors of a great battle near Harrenhal, but I don't know the outcome.”

Jacaerys' face tightened, his spoon clattering against the bowl as his hand shook slightly. “What’s wrong?” you immediately asked. He shook his head.

Your hand quickly moved to his forehead, seeing that his fever had gone up since you last checked. Jacaerys' skin was warm to the touch, a worrying sign that the fever, which had seemed to abate, was now surging again. You frowned, your healer's instincts kicking in. He swatted your hand away weakly, but you persisted, feeling the heat radiating from him.

“You're burning up,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “I need to bring your fever down before it gets any worse.”

He sighed, relaxing onto the pillow, finally giving up trying to convince you to let him get up. You left the room to get herbal medicine and a wet towel, lowering yourself to the edge of the bed to place the cloth over his forehead. He shut his eyes at the contact.

The cloth felt cool against Jacaerys' fevered skin, and he let out a slow, shaky breath as his eyes closed. You could see the tension gradually easing from his body, though his brow remained furrowed with discomfort.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, barely audible, his voice thick with weariness.

Without thinking, you reached out, placing your hand over his. Jacaerys looked down at your hand, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might pull away, but instead, he took a deep breath, some of the tension leaving his body.

He swallowed the thick medicine, making a sour face before picking up his spoon again. As he resumed eating, you noticed a slight tremor in his hand, fatigue already setting in from the simple act of feeding himself. But you knew better than to offer help again, recognizing his need to maintain some sense of independence. Your hand was still in his, you tried not to pay much mind to it, he was wounded after all.

You watched Jacaerys closely as he struggled to finish his meal, concern etching lines on your face. The renewed fever worried you, a sign that his body was still fighting hard against infection. As he set the spoon down, his hand shaking with the effort, you gently took the bowl from him.

“That's enough for now,” you said softly. “You need to rest.”

Jacaerys opened his mouth as if to protest, but then closed it, nodding weakly. The fight seemed to have gone out of him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that tugged at your heart.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, his eyes heavy-lidded. “I thought I was getting stronger.”

You shook your head, adjusting the cool cloth on his forehead. “Get some sleep.” His fingers tightened around yours, a small gesture of acknowledgment. You sat there in silence, holding his hand as his breathing gradually evened out into sleep.

As dawn broke, you stirred from your uncomfortable position in the chair by Jacaerys' bedside. You hadn't meant to fall asleep there, but exhaustion had finally claimed you. Your hand was still entwined with his, and you gently extricated yourself, hoping not to wake him.

Jacaerys' face was peaceful in sleep, the lines of pain and worry smoothed away. His curls were tousled against the pillow, and you resisted the urge to brush them back from his forehead. Instead, you carefully checked his temperature, relieved to find the fever had broken during the night.

Jacaerys stirred slightly, a soft murmur escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake. You noticed the lines of tension easing from his face, his breathing steady and deep. It was a small victory, but in times of war, even the smallest victories mattered.

Leaving the room quietly, you headed to the small kitchen area to prepare breakfast. You moved with practiced ease, gathering the few ingredients you had. The war had made supplies scarce, and you’d been careful to ration what little you had left.

When you returned with a simple meal of bread, cheese, and a few herbs, Jacaerys was awake, propped up against the pillows, looking slightly less tense than the night before. His eyes followed you as you set the food down on a small table beside the bed.

“Good morrow,” he mumbled, reaching for the bread like a starved man.

You offered him a small smile, relieved to see him awake and seemingly better. “Good morrow, my Prince. How are you feeling?”

Jacaerys didn't answer immediately, instead taking a small bite of the bread and chewing thoughtfully. “Better,” he finally admitted, though his voice was still hoarse and weak. “Thank you.”

You nodded, pouring him a cup of water and placing it within easy reach. “You're welcome. Your fever broke during the night, which is a good sign.”

He grunted in response, focusing on finishing the bread. After a few moments of silence, during which you busied yourself tidying up, he spoke again.

“Do you live by yourself?”

“Yes, my Prince.” you nodded.

He furrowed his brows, making a face and stopping his chewing to shake his head. “Enough with the formalities, you’re not my servant,” he took a sip of the water, “Simply call me by my name.”

“Jacaerys,” you said softly, testing the name on your tongue. It felt strange yet oddly comforting to address him so casually. “And yes, I live alone here.”

He nodded slightly, seeming to relax marginally at the use of his name. “Why did you become such a good healer?” he asked after a moment, his voice still rough but curious.

You considered his question, moving to sit on the edge of the bed opposite him. “I suppose it was a calling of sorts,” you began, your gaze thoughtful. “I grew up in a small village not far from here. My mother was a healer herself, and she taught me everything she knew.”

Jacaerys listened quietly, his eyes fixed on your face. As you gazed at each other, something shifted in the air between you. Jacaerys' eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again.

There was a vulnerability in his eyes that belied the prince he was supposed to be, a young man laid low by wounds and circumstance. You found yourself drawn to him in a way that surprised you, a healer's compassion mixing with something deeper, something unbidden.

“My mother always believed healing was a gift,” you continued, breaking the silence that had settled between you. “She taught me that every life saved was a victory against darkness and despair.”

Jacaerys nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “And you chose to follow in her footsteps,” he murmured, more a statement than a question.

“No... I-,” you replied softly. “I am simply a commoner,”

“You’re not spoken for?”

The question took you by surprise, it must’ve shown on your face by the way Jacaerys scurried to clarify. “I was just curious-”

“I... no, I’m not,” you replied, caught off guard by his sudden inquiry.

Jacaerys hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering away before returning to meet yours. “It’s just... unusual, for someone like you,” he said carefully.

“Someone like me?”

He seemed to panic for a second, eyes widening for a beat before he cleared his throat, “I mean, you’re very kind.” he clarified, though his gaze remained steady on yours.

You felt a slight flush rise to your cheeks at Jacaerys' words. The idea of being courted had always felt distant and almost foreign to you. Life in a small village near the God's Eye had been quiet and isolated, focused on survival rather than romance or social niceties. Most of the men you knew had gone off to fight in the war, leaving little time or opportunity for such things.

“I... thank you,” you managed to reply, your voice a touch quieter than before.

As he finished the last of the bread, Jacaerys set the plate aside, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table. His eyes, still heavy with fatigue but clearer than they had been in days, studied you with a mixture of curiosity and something else you couldn't quite identify.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he said softly, breaking the silence that had settled between you. “How did you come to live here, alone?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by his sudden interest. “It's not a very exciting tale, I'm afraid,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips. “After my mother passed, I inherited this cottage. It's been my home ever since.”

Jacaerys nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. “I am sorry, she sounds like a very kind woman,”

“It’s alright, it was years ago.” you paused, his chest heaved, lost in thought he bit the inside of his lip.

“I’m sorry about your brother.”

He was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he smiled. It was a small thing, just a slight upturn of his lips, but it transformed his face, softening the hard lines of battle and pain. “Thank you.”

Over the next few weeks, as Jacaerys' strength slowly returned, you fell into a comfortable routine. You would bring him meals, change his bandages, and help him with gentle exercises to regain his mobility. And in between these tasks, you talked.

Jacaerys, you discovered, was insatiably curious. He asked you about your life, your work, your thoughts on everything from the changing seasons to the intricacies of herbal remedies. At first, you were hesitant, unused to someone taking such an interest in your opinions. But gradually, you found yourself opening up, sharing stories of your childhood, your mother's teachings, the quiet joys and sorrows of your solitary life.

In turn, Jacaerys spoke of his own experiences, though he was careful to avoid mentioning anything too specific about the ongoing war. He told you of his love for flying, the exhilaration of soaring through the clouds on dragonback. He described the beauty of Driftmark, his family's ancestral home, with its shimmering waters and grand halls.

As the days passed, you found yourself looking forward to these conversations more and more. There was something about Jacaerys that put you at ease, despite his royal status. His quick wit and genuine interest in your thoughts made you feel seen in a way you never had before.

His arm had healed, the gash on his stomach still required careful tending, but it was gradually mending.

One day, as you were tending to the herb garden outside your cottage, you heard the sound of footsteps behind you. Turning, you saw Jacaerys standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on a makeshift cane you had fashioned for him so it wouldn’t hurt to walk. He looked stronger, more resolute, though still pale and somewhat fragile.

“You're up,” you said, a hint of surprise in your voice. “I didn't hear you come out.”

Jacaerys offered a small smile, his gaze sweeping over the garden. “I didn't want to disturb you,” he replied. “You looked... peaceful. I thought you might need some company,” he said, his voice lighter than it had been in days.

You smiled warmly, gesturing for him to join you. “I could always use an extra pair of hands,”

He nodded, making his way slowly to where you were kneeling among the herbs. He grunted as he joined your position, hand cradling his bandage in discomfort, “What shall I do?”

As Jacaerys settled beside you in the herb garden, you couldn't help but notice how different he looked in the soft afternoon light. The sun caught in his curls, giving them a golden sheen, and his eyes seemed brighter, more alive than you'd seen them since he first woke in your cottage.

“Here,” you said, handing him a small trowel. “We need to thin out these chamomile plants. They're growing too close together.”

Jacaerys took the tool, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment. You felt a small jolt at the contact, but quickly pushed the feeling aside.

“Like this?” he asked, carefully digging around one of the smaller plants.

You nodded, watching as he worked. His movements were slow and a bit clumsy, but he approached the task with the same determination you'd seen in his eyes when he spoke of returning to battle.

“You're a natural,” you said, offering an encouraging smile. “I imagine it's quite different from wielding a sword or riding a dragon.”

Jacaerys chuckled softly, the sound warming something deep inside you. “Indeed it is,” he replied.

You worked in silence for a while, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Every so often, you'd steal a glance at Jacaerys, marveling at how at ease he seemed in this simple task.

“Tell me,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence, hands threading the weeds as he stole glances at your own hands to mirror your movements. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

The question caught you off guard. You'd never really thought about leaving your small corner of the world before. You hummed, “I... I'm not sure,” you admitted. “I've never been far from here.”

Jacaerys looked up from his work, his eyes meeting yours. “Surely you must have dreamed of other places?”

You considered for a moment, your hands continuing to work almost of their own accord. “I suppose... I've always been curious about Oldtown,” you said finally. “The Citadel, with all its knowledge and learning. It must be amazing.”

Jacaerys nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “It is,” he said softly. “The libraries there are unlike anything you've ever seen. Shelves upon shelves of books, stretching as far as the eye can see.”

“You've been there?” you asked, unable to keep the awe from your voice.

He smiled, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Once, when I was younger. Before...” he trailed off, his gaze turning distant.

You understood. Before the war, before the weight of his responsibilities had fully settled on his shoulders.

“Perhaps...” Jacaerys began, then hesitated. “Perhaps when this is all over, you could see it for yourself.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. The idea was so foreign, so impossible, and yet... the way he said it made it seem almost within reach. The thought of Jacaerys showing you around Oldtown, of exploring those vast libraries together, sent a thrill through you that you couldn't quite ignore.

“I... I would like that,” you replied softly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and something else you couldn't quite define.

Jacaerys smiled, a genuine expression that reached his eyes. “Good,” he said, his voice tinged with warmth. “It's a promise, then.”

Jacaerys' eyes met yours again, and for a moment, you felt as if you were teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken possibilities.

But then Jacaerys winced, his hand going to his side where you knew his wound still pained him. The moment shattered, reality rushing back in.

“We should get you back inside,” you said, your healer's instincts taking over. “You've been out here too long.”

Jacaerys nodded, allowing you to help him to his feet with a pained sound from his throat. As you made your way back to the cottage, his arm around your shoulders for support, you couldn't shake the feeling that, even though he was still in pain as of now, he’d eventually have to leave for war again.

Your thoughts raced as you helped Jacaerys back inside the cottage, his weight leaning heavily on you despite his efforts to remain upright after having strained himself into a bad position for his wounds. The image of him in pain, yet determined to return to the battlefield, haunted you. You knew his wounds were healing, but not fast enough for him, not when his heart and mind were still with his family and the war effort.

Inside, you guided him back to the bed, where he eased himself down with a grunt of pain. His face was drawn, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he settled against the pillows.

“You shouldn't have pushed yourself,” you said softly, your voice tinged with concern as you adjusted the pillows behind him.

Jacaerys spoke, his voice strained. “I can't just stay idle while others fight and die.”

You sighed, sitting beside him on the bed. “I understand your need to fight, Jacaerys. But you're not yet strong enough. Rushing back into battle could do more harm than good.”

His eyes searched for yours, frustration and determination warring within them. “But every day that passes, I feel more useless,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You're not useless,” you countered gently, your hand reaching out to grasp his.

Jacaerys sighed heavily, his fingers tightening around yours.

For a long moment, Jacaerys was silent, his gaze fixed on some distant point. The tension in his body slowly eased, his fingers relaxing slightly around yours. “I don't want to be weak,” he admitted quietly, almost to himself.

“You're not weak, Jacaerys,” you said firmly, meeting his eyes. “You're healing,” you continued softly, squeezing his hand gently. “It takes time. And taking the time you need now will make you stronger in the long run.”

Jacaerys looked down at your intertwined hands, his expression conflicted. “I've always been taught that strength is in action, not in rest,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

“Strength is also in knowing when to rest,” you replied gently.

As Jacaerys looked up at you, his eyes softened. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out with his free hand to gently cup your cheek. Letting out a sound that sounded almost like a plea, he pulled your face down to meet his.

The first brush of his lips sent a shiver through you, a gentle exploration that spoke volumes of unspoken emotions. Jacaerys' lips were warm and soft, molding against yours with a hunger that mirrored your own. His fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, as if afraid to let go of this fragile moment.

You responded instinctively, leaning into him, your hand finding its place against his chest. Beneath your touch, you felt the steady beat of his heart, strong and steady, echoing the rhythm of your own pulse. The scent of earth and herbs mingled with the subtle fragrance of his skin, creating a heady mix that enveloped you both.

He furrowed his brows, trying to focus on the kiss and not his inexperience. He’d spent most of his teen years fighting in wars, after all.

His lips moved tentatively against yours, a mixture of desire and uncertainty evident in his touch. His hand remained on your cheek, his thumb gently caressing your skin as if trying to commit every detail of this moment to memory.

His touch is tender, and his kiss carries a mix of uncertainty and desire. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your hand. Perhaps he's been so focused on duty and honor that he's only now allowing himself to explore softer, more vulnerable emotions. He kisses you as if it’s the last thing he will ever do, not hungry enough to be lust but soft enough for your mind to swirl with possibilities of why your heart feels fluttery in your chest.

But then, as Jacaerys shifted his position ever so slightly, a sharp intake of breath escaped him. His hand instinctively moved from your cheek to clutch at his side, where the lingering pain from his wound had suddenly flared up.

You pulled back immediately, concern etched on your face. “Are you alright?” Your voice carried a mixture of worry and compassion.

He winced, his features tense with pain. “It's nothing,” he managed through gritted teeth, trying to reassure you even as he struggled to catch his breath.

“I just... I wanted...” Jacaerys's voice trailed off, frustration evident in his eyes as he looked away, unable to finish his thought.

You gently placed your hand on Jacaerys's shoulder, silently urging him to rest against the pillows. His brow furrowed with pain as he settled back, his breathing still labored. The moment of intimacy between you both had faded into the background, replaced by the urgent need to tend to his worsening pain.

“It's alright,” you assured him softly, your fingers brushing lightly over his forehead. “Just breathe. Let the pain pass.”

Jacaerys closed his eyes briefly, focusing on regulating his breath. You followed the usual routine, giving him pain-killing medicine, stepping out of the room while he changed into your old father’s clothes, and continuing to provide the healing and care he needed in the following days. The conversation about the kiss was long gone.

As the days passed, Jacaerys continued to heal under your careful attention. The gash on his stomach gradually closed, leaving behind a thin scar that was appearing. His arm, once injured and immobile, regained strength. He was practically healed.

As Jacaerys's physical condition improved, a palpable tension grew between you both. The memory of that tender kiss lingered, unspoken but ever-present in the air. You found yourself stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn't looking, your heart fluttering at the sight of his tousled curls or the way his brow furrowed in concentration as he read one of your few books.

Jacaerys, too, seemed more aware of your presence. His eyes would follow you as you moved about the cottage, and his hand would often linger a moment too long when you passed him things. Yet neither of you spoke of what had happened, as if addressing it might somehow break the fragile peace you had found.

One morning, you awoke to find Jacaerys standing by the window, his posture tense and alert. He ran his hands through his hair in stress, wearing the same clothes you found him in the day you took him into your care. Your heart sank as you realized what this meant.

“Jacaerys?” you said softly, approaching him.

He turned to face you, his expression a mix of determination and regret. “Y/n,” he began, his voice low and serious. “I must return to the war.”

A part of you had anticipated this moment would come, but you dreaded it. You had known from the beginning that Jacaerys was not just any injured soldier seeking refuge – he was a prince, with responsibilities that extended far beyond the confines of your quiet garden.

You approached him slowly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Jacaerys, rushing back into battle–”

He cut you off gently, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of gratitude and resolve. “I need to do this,” he said firmly. “They need to know that I haven't abandoned them.”

You sighed softly, “I understand,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jacaerys's expression softened, his hand coming up to your chin. His eyes scanning your face for a few seconds, trying to memorize every freckle, every detail he possibly could before he left again.

For a moment, you both stood there, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. Then, with a sudden urgency, Jacaerys leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, his eyes fluttering closed as his lips met yours. The kiss was urgent, passionate, filled with all the unspoken emotions that had built up between you. His lips were warm and soft against yours, moving with a newfound confidence and intensity.

One of his hands cupped your face gently, his thumb caressing your cheek, while the other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the steady beat of his heart echoing your own racing pulse.

The kiss deepened, Jacaerys tilting his head slightly to better capture your lips. There was a hint of desperation in the way he kissed you, as if he was trying to memorize every sensation, every taste, every feeling. His tongue gently traced your bottom lip, seeking permission, which you granted with a soft sigh.

As the kiss intensified, you found your hands moving of their own accord - one threading through his soft curls, the other gripping the fabric of his shirt at his chest. The scent of him enveloped you - a mixture of herbs from your garden, the earthiness of the forest, and something uniquely Jacaerys.

Time seemed to stand still as you lost yourself in the kiss. It was bittersweet, filled with the joy of finally giving in to your feelings, but tinged with the sadness of knowing it might be a goodbye. Jacaerys kissed you as if it was both the first and last time, pouring every ounce of his gratitude, affection, and regret into this one moment.

When you finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Jacaerys rested his forehead against yours. Silently, he moved his hands to your wrist, gently untying one of your bracelets and nudging your fingers with his. He held the bracelet in his hand for a moment, running his thumb over the woven threads.

“May I keep this?” he asked softly, his eyes meeting yours.

You nodded, unable to find words as emotion welled up in your throat. Jacaerys carefully tucked the bracelet into a pocket, as if it were a precious treasure.

He grasped your face in his hands again, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. Lingering, he moved down to your cheeks, your nose, the corner of your mouth. He kissed every inch of your face, his eyes furrowed close as if he was trying to forget where he was going – if he was ever going to see you again. Finally, he reached your mouth again, giving you a slow kiss.

Jacaerys stepped back. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as if preparing to face the world beyond your cottage. Unable to trust your voice to respond, you reached out and gently squeezed his hand, conveying your own gratitude and a silent farewell.

With a final, lingering look, Jacaerys turned away and made his way out of the cottage, his steps steadier than they had been in weeks. You watched him go, feeling a mix of pride and sadness as he disappeared from view. Alone once more in the quiet of your cottage, you leaned against the doorframe, your heart heavy with the weight of his absence. The memory of his touch lingered on your skin, his kiss still warm against your lips.

Months passed in a blur of uncertainty and waiting. As the war waged on, your heart remained tethered to Jacaerys, hoping and praying for his safety. You tended to your garden with a quiet determination, finding solace in the familiar rhythms of nature amid the turmoil beyond your cottage walls. Everytime a new black soldier came for aid at the care center, you’d sneakily ask about the war, for news, for numbers of wounded and dead – anything you could grasp onto.

News of the war's eventual end arrived like a bittersweet whisper, bringing relief mingled with sorrow for the lives lost. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as you continued your solitary existence, never quite giving up hope that one day Jacaerys might return.

Then, on a crisp morning that carried the promise of autumn, a knock echoed through your cottage. Startled, you set down your gardening tools and hurried to the door. When you opened it, your breath caught in your throat.

There stood Jacaerys, his once-pristine armor now battered and bloodied, a testament to the trials he had faced. His hair was unkempt, his face lined with weariness, but his eyes held a familiar spark of determination and relief as they met yours.

“Y/n,” he breathed, his voice hoarse but filled with emotion.

A rush of emotions flooded through you – joy, disbelief, and an overwhelming sense of relief that he had returned to you. Without a word, you threw your arms around him, holding him close as if afraid he might vanish again.

Jacaerys held you just as tightly, his arms wrapping around you as if seeking reassurance that you were real. “I'm here,” he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with exhaustion and gratitude.

Together, you stepped inside the cottage, the weight of the past months hanging in the air but overshadowed by the sheer relief of being reunited. Jacaerys sank into a chair, and you fetched a basin of water and a cloth to tend to his wounds. As you cleaned the blood and grime from his face and hands, your touch was gentle, conveying a silent understanding of all he had endured.

Once cleaned up, Jacaerys looked around the familiar surroundings of your cottage, a sense of peace settling over him. “It feels like a lifetime since I was last here,” he admitted softly, his eyes meeting yours.

You nodded, sitting beside him and taking his hand in yours. Your instinct made your hands immediately go to his forearm, a cut that was no longer bleeding on it, tenderly tracing over the healed wound, feeling the scar that marked him.

“I'm glad you're back,” you murmured, your voice filled with a mixture of relief and lingering concern. He took your hand in his, his eyes searching yours with earnest intensity.

“I want to stay,” he said quietly, his voice steady yet filled with vulnerability. “Here, with you.”

You squeezed his shoulder, a grin plastered on your face as he mirrored your movements.

“Let me tend to your wounds,” you said softly, guiding him to sit by the hearth where you had once helped him find refuge. Jacaerys lowered himself gratefully, wincing slightly as he settled, his armor clinking softly with the movement. The air was thick with unspoken emotions, a delicate balance of relief and the weight of their shared experiences.

You fetched fresh water and clean cloths, moving with practiced care as you began to clean the grime and blood from his face and hands. Each gentle touch spoke of the months apart, of your worry and hope intertwined.

Jacaerys watched you silently, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude, much like the first time you had tended to him.

#jacaerys targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #prince jacaerys #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys x reader #house of the dragon #jace velaryon #harry collett #hotd

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rowarn · 1 year

Text

MONSTER (m.)

neighbor!simon riley x reader

tags: zombie apocalypse au, neighbors to lovers, afab!reader, no pronouns, hurt/comfort, smut, NO MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH

cw: description of corpses, simon is aggressive towards you, but also very soft!simon, protective!simon, violence, simon does murder someone, lots of kissing, wet&messy sex, multiple orgasms, edging (simon), missionary position, mating press, fingering, cunnilingus, creampie, breast play, squirting, overstimulation, dirty talk, pet names, eye contact, praise, teeny bit talkin u thru it

note: i think that's all the neccessary warnings but if u think smthn else should be added, let me know. please enjoy this MONSTER fic!!!

; you find yourself hiding out in your apartment as the undead begin walking. luckily, you have a well-trained military operative as a neighbor who is more than willing to keep you safe.

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“Residents are advised to remain in their homes. Authorities are unsure what is causing the severe aggression in people but the military has been called in nationwide. Please stay tuned as more information becomes available.”

That was the first news broadcast. They reported people getting sick-- airborne is what they had said. Stay inside, and stay away from other people.

So you did just that – stayed hidden away in your apartment, glued to your television for every possible news cast that you could get.

It was only a week later that the whole story had come out.

The airborne strain is what caused the first swell of infections. Anyone who was susceptible to the infection would have already become sick by now. But those who were infected by the airborne strain turned…feral. They became like wild animals, barely human. Their skin rotted around them while they were still alive. Their brains died but their hearts remained pumping. They were walking corpses that had a vicious hunger for human flesh.

The bites are what caused the following wave of infections. Something in their saliva turned you into whatever they were.

You were scared. When you looked outside your window, down just a few floors to the ground, you could see hordes of people stumbling around, shuffling and shambling.

Sometimes you would hide in your bathroom as the sounds of gunfire filled the city. It was the worst when it was the middle of the night.

You weren’t equipped to deal with a disaster of this level – humans turning into disease spreading killers. You were having to ration your food, waiting for the day that there would be an announcement that it was safe.

You wanted it all to be over.

Then the news broadcasts stopped, cell service dropped, and the populace was left in the dark.

You kept the lights off in your apartment, scared that the wandering hordes outside would see it and find you.

You had no idea how long you had been hiding in your apartment, spending most nights with your knees to your chest as you watched the static on the TV. You held out hope that the news broadcast would come back, but it never did. You spent the days and nights in mundane monotony, hopelessness settling in.

The only interruption was a heavy knock on your front door, practically making you jump out of your skin at the sound of it. You hadn’t expected anyone to actually approach your apartment in search of you. It terrified you that anyone could be out there at a time like this.

With wide eyes and trembling hands, you grabbed a kitchen knife off of your counter and tiptoed towards the front door. Peeking through the peep-hole, you let out a heavy sigh of relief.

Throwing the door open, you were faced with the familiar balaclava of your neighbor across the hall.

“Simon…” you whispered in relief.

He wasn’t lunging nor did he have the milky-white eyes of the undead that you had seen on the news. He was normal.

“What’re you planning to do with that?” he asked, eyeing the kitchen knife still in your hand.

“Oh!” you gasped, quickly placing it on the table by your front door, “Sorry, you– you– startled me when you knocked. Would you like to come in?”

His lidded, brown eyes gaze around your apartment behind you before landing on you again, “You have anyone else in there?”

You blink and slowly shake your head, “No, I’m alone.”

His brows furrow at that, “You’ve been by yourself this whole time?”

You shrug and nod, “What else was I supposed to do? The news reports said to stay inside…”

He hums, “Are you sick?”

“No, I’m fine,” you respond quickly, “Why?”

Suddenly there’s a hand on your forehead and you realize he’s checking your temperature. You remain still and allow him to do it before he's shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“Fever’s the first symptom,” he explains, “I’m goin’ door to door to check on everyone.”

“Oh!” you gasp, smiling, “That’s very nice of you, Simon.”

You knew that Simon was in the military. He was often out on long deployments and sometimes he had tasked you with keeping an eye on his apartment since you were right across the hall from him.

He was a nice enough guy, if not a little cold and blunt. He was tall and broad, clearly well built despite the fact that he usually wore a hoodie that hid his biceps from view. You’d gotten glimpses of his tattoos when you had knocked on his door one evening and asked him if he knew anything about water heaters because your hot water had been out for nearly a month in the dead of winter and the apartment manager hadn’t done anything to help you.

Simon had kindly come to your apartment, even though it was nearing midnight, rolled his sleeves up and fixed your problem within the hour. You had baked him cookies as a thank you that following weekend.

“How is everyone doing..?” you venture to ask, leaning against the doorjamb as a breeze flows into your apartment from the open door.

He casts a glance down the hallway, almost like he’s thinking before sighing, “Few people are sick. They’ve been…” he hesitates for a moment, “Quarantined.”

“Probably for the best,” you respond, “Keep them from hurting anyone when they…turn.”

It feels so surreal to be talking about confining people to keep them from literally eating the healthy people. But it seems that’s where you’re all at now.

“I’m going to barricade our floor,” he says suddenly, “Keep anyone from comin’ in that’s not supposed to come in.”

“What if we need to leave?” you ask, concerned, “We’re only going to have finite food and resources between us. The power’s also going to go out sooner rather than later, Simon.”

“I know,” he sighs, “But we should stay indoors for as long as possible. When the power runs out and we run out of supplies, we can figure out what to do next,” he explains, “The military was on the ground here last I heard, you’ve heard the gunshots. I don’t believe they’ll last much longer but it’s not wise for us to go out while they’re tryin’ to eliminate as many of these…undead as they can.”

“I guess that makes sense…” you whisper before his words finally settle on you, “What do you mean you don’t think they’ll last much longer..?”

He levels a hard stare at you that makes your heart race in anxiety. Simon was always a serious individual by nature but this is how you imagine he looks when he’s on duty, “Hundreds of thousands of people are sick out there. The airborne strain no doubt got to hundreds of the soldiers meant to be protecting the civilians. Eventually, they’ll eat each other from the inside out –literally.”

“You mean even the military is going to collapse..?” you ask, horrified. You try not to let the tears fill your eyes but Simon’s words fill you with a dreadful sense of hopelessness.

“Communications are cut,” he says finally, “Radio’s been silent all day. Not sure what’s goin’ on but it’s not good.”

The tears quickly began to fall down your cheeks. Before you could wipe them away, a calloused thumb was doing it. You sniffled and looked up at him.

“I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you confessed softly, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive, Simon.”

“Don’t you worry about that, love,” he whispered, grabbing your chin gently to make you look up at him, “I’ll take care of you, yeah?”

“I don’t want to be a burden…” you explain, wrapping your arms protectively around yourself.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I took care of you,” he joked, though it held little humor, “You won’t be a burden. I’ll teach you what you need to know, alright?”

“You will?” he nods when you look up at him hopefully and you smile, “Thank you, Simon. I don’t really want to die by getting eaten by walking corpses.”

He chuckled under his mask, brown eyes crinkling around the edges a bit, “It is pretty fuckin’ mad, isn’t it?” You laugh, the first genuine smile you’ve cracked since before that first news broadcast, “Why don’t you come across the hall and stay with me, yeah?”

“Is that okay..?” You can’t deny the idea of being with company sounded more appealing than anything. You were definitely beginning to feel the ebbs of loneliness creeping in on you as the days of silence passed. Plus, Simon was…safe, “The news said not to…mingle in case of the disease spreading.”

He scoffed, “Rules like that don’t really apply anymore, love,” he mutters softly, “Plus, neither of us is sick so it’s not like we’ll spread it anyway. I can teach you some knife work and how to use a gun easier if we’re together, yeah?”

“Okay,” you smile, excitement surging in your chest, replacing the painful void of hopelessness you had, “Let me just get some things together and I’ll be right over, okay?”

“Sounds good, love,” you can tell he’s smiling under the mask. He gives you a pat on the shoulder before stepping away, “Just knock when you’re ready.”

You stand in your doorway until he disappears into his apartment. Once you’re alone, you cast a cursory glance around your living room, eyeballing everything you need to take before you dash into your bedroom. From the back of your closet, you grab a duffle bag that you have stowed away in the back of your closet from when you first moved in.

Navigating in the dark of your apartment was a bit of a challenge but you managed to stuff all the essentials into the bag. After slinging it over your shoulder, you step out of your apartment, making sure it was locked before knocking on Simon’s door.

He opened it quickly, still wearing the same hoodie, jeans, and balaclava as before – his hood still up as well. He stepped aside for you to enter.

Unlike you, his apartment was illuminated by lamps – but his windows were covered with blackout curtains so no light would seep outside. It was pretty plainly decorated, just the essentials and a few photographs on the walls; upon closer inspection it looked like him and, you assumed, his comrades.

You went to place your bag down but he stopped you, “I cleared out a drawer for you to put your clothes in for the time bein’.”

“Oh…” you gaped at him, surprised to hear that he had done something like that for you, “Thank you, Simon.”

He led you to his bedroom, standing in the hallway while you walked in. His bedroom was darkly decorated, black out curtains on the windows, navy blue sheets and a black comforter on his bed. His furniture was all dark toned as well.

It suited him, you thought.

There were two drawers open and empty, letting you know that those were yours for the taking. You knelt down and opened your duffle bag, carefully folding and placing your items inside. When you got to your undergarments, you cast a glance towards the door to find that he was no longer standing there. Breathing a sigh of relief, you quickly filled the top drawer with all of your delicates before closing the drawers and standing up.

Flicking on the light to his en suite bathroom, you placed your toothbrush and toothpaste alongside his, the sight making you blush before you went to add your belongings into the shower as well.

Realistically, you knew that the water was going to go out sooner or later but you planned to enjoy it for as long as you possibly could until then.

When you ventured into the living room, Simon was in the kitchen, the cabinets open as he scanned over all of his belongings.

“Is something wrong..?” you asked softly.

“Thinkin’ of how to ration,” he replied quickly, “Have you got any stuff over at yours still?”

You nod your head, “It’s not much but I have some canned food and like...rice and stuff if you want that.”

“Yeah, it’ll be good to consolidate all our supplies in the long run,” he explained, “You got your keys?”

“Yes!” you pull your keyring from your pocket and drop it into his open palm.

“I’ll be right back love, make yourself at home,” he gave you a gentle nudge towards the couch before leaving you there.

You took a seat on the couch, realizing just how tired you were. You hadn’t realized how tense you’re been for so long on your own. Now that you were safe and with company, you could almost feel the tension sliding right off of you. You rested your head against the back of the couch and closed your eyes, intending to just rest your eyes and enjoy the peace you felt.

You were startled awake by the sound of the door slamming shut. You nearly jumped out of your skin, wide eyes finding Simon’s who looked a little sheepish.

“Sorry, love,” he whispered, “Didn’t realize you’d be sleepin’.”

“Didn’t mean to…” you confess, standing up and stretching, watching Simon lug a bag of food into the kitchen.

“Haven’t been sleepin’ well?” he asked, his back to you as he began to stock up the cabinets.

“Not really…” with a sigh, you lean back against the counter with your arms crossed over your chest, “I’ve been stressed about this whole situation.”

“It is…” he pauses in his words, placing a bag of dried beans into the cabinet, “Nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“Society is really collapsing around us, isn’t it?” you bravely ask, although you were scared to hear the answer.

“Yeah, darlin’,” his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it and that brings a fresh wave of tears to your eyes.

“This is so fucked up,” you cry, burying your face in your hands, “Thank you, Simon. You didn’t have to offer to help me and I really owe you a lot.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he closes the cabinet, the bag he brought finally empty before turning to you, “I’ll make sure you know everything you need to know to survive.”

“I doubt I’ll be as good as you,” you joke, a crooked, wobbly smile on your face.

He steps forward and cups your chin, brushing his thumb against your cheek, “No one’s as good as me, sweetheart.”

You chuckle softly at his words.

This is what you needed – someone by your side to keep you sane as society collapsed and everyone that you knew died.

That night, you slept better than you had in days. Simon had given you his bed, offering to take the couch. You had argued, telling him that you couldn’t take his bed like that.

“I’m up most nights anyway, love,” he had assured you, “At least someone around here can get a good night’s sleep in that bed.”

When you woke up, fully rested you might add, Simon was already awake, drinking some tea. You sat down beside him, enjoying a nice quiet morning.

“How do you feel about learnin’ some basics today, love?” he asked when he was cleaning his mug.

“Sure!” you agreed, “I have to warn you though, I really know next to nothing…”

“That’s alright,” he chuckled, waving to you to follow him to the living room, “I’m a good teacher, I promise.”

“I don’t doubt that,” you watched as he stood up and went to a closet in the hallway, pulling out an assortment of bags and carriers.

He placed them down beside the couch and took a seat next to you. “I think it’s best if we start with you gettin’ comfortable with the feeling of holding a weapon in your hands,” he explained, pulling out a knife bigger than any you’ve seen, “This is a hunting knife.”

He handed it towards you, his fingers confidently gripping the blade between two fingers. You wrapped your hand around the handle, testing its weight in your hands. It was dangerous and nerve-wracking, holding a weapon in your hands.

“I know it’s scary,” he assured, “But when you’re comfortable holding knives then you can learn to use them properly to protect yourself.”

“What about guns..?” you find yourself asking, still gripping the knife in your hands, turning it over and adjusting your grip just to desensitize yourself to it.

“We’ll tackle guns when you get used to knives,” he replied.

“So you have guns?” you ask, letting him pull the hunting knife from your hands.

“Of course I do,” he reaches into a bag by his feet, pulling out a pistol.

Your eyes go wide as you watch him handle it effortlessly, checking the chamber and moving it around in his hands like it wasn’t a dangerous weapon.

“When you’re ready, I’ll teach you to properly use one so you can use it in case of an emergency,” he explained, placing the pistol on the table carefully.

“I’m going to have to kill other people…” you mutter to yourself.

Simon pulled out another knife, passing it into your hands, “Combat knife,” he supplied simply, “And you’ll have to kill them but…I don’t think they’re people anymore, love.”

“I guess that’s true…” you mutter, holding the knife with a firm grip, “I’ve only seen them on the news before it stopped broadcasting. What about you?”

“Haven’t seen ‘em in person either,” he replies with a shrug, “Some of my…teammates,” the words seem awkward coming from his mouth but he continued, “Were givin’ me some information before they went radio silent.”

“What happened to them?” you couldn’t help but ask.

A brief flash of sadness flashed over his eyes but he quickly sobered up, leaning back against the couch with a sigh, “Not a clue. I guess there’s no way for me to know. I just know it was getting bad. Dangerous.”

“I’m sorry about your teammates,” was all you could find in supply of an answer.

Simon didn’t respond, simply letting his gaze fall back on the knife, “Let me show you some handling techniques for you to practice.”

Realizing that he didn’t want to talk about the world outside anymore, you let him lead you through a crash course on knife handling and knife safety. He took the time to teach you the different kinds of knives in his possession and you nodded along as best you could but if you’re being honest – it was primarily lost on you.

You’re not sure if Simon knew that but he seemed to enjoy teaching you, so you let him ramble on to his heart’s content.

By the end of the day, you were confident enough in at least not accidentally cutting yourself on the sharp blades.

In order to repay him, you made dinner for the both of you – though, really, it was just some heated up canned soup-- and did the dishes for him so he didn’t have to.

By the end of the night, you both found yourselves on the couch, watching a movie he had put on. With there being no way to watch anything else, you were grateful he had a collection of movies to his name – you simply streamed your favorite shows and movies and called it a day.

It ticked late into the night and before you knew it, you were falling asleep on the couch, leaned against his shoulder. You could feel him shift and knew you should open your eyes, but the tugs of sleep at the edges of your subconscious kept you from doing so. Suddenly, you felt the soft beat of his heart against your ear and the heavy weight of his arm laid across you. You briefly registered that you were now wrapped in his arms before the final tug of sleep pulled you under.

When you woke up, you were in bed.

And Simon wasn’t in the apartment.

“Simon..?” you called, looking around everywhere for him – to no avail.

You ventured to the door, carefully pulling it open and stepping out. You looked down the hall towards the stairwell before you heard a grunt of effort from the other end.

“Simon!” you called, making him look up.

“What’re you doin’ out here?” he asked, pausing in his task of pushing a large bookcase towards the elevator.

“You weren’t inside…” you mutter, wandering down the hall towards him, “What’re you doing?”

“Barricading this elevator,” he replied, giving the heavy object another push with a grunt of effort.

“Oh, right, you mentioned you wanted to do that,” you mumbled, taking a moment to look over him.

He wasn’t wearing his hoodie for once, instead wearing a tight black t-shirt that was sticking to his skin with sweat. He wore his jeans with a holster and gun on his hip as well.

“Do you need any help?” you asked but he shook his head.

“No, you can’t help with this, love,” he grunted, giving the bookcase one final, heavy push before it was flush against the elevator doors.

It was then that you noticed the straps nailed to the wall. He took them and secured them to the other side of the elevators, making sure the bookcase was fastened firmly.

“Enough people push this and it’ll come down but at least it’s secure enough,” he explained, giving his work a final once over.

“Do you know where the others are?” you find yourself asking as he makes his way to the other end of the hallway

He pauses at that, seemingly thinking of his next words carefully, “I checked door to door. Most of our neighbors got the hell out to go see their families when everything went to shit. A few…were sick and turned in their apartments so I had to…put them down.”

You cringed at his wording, you knew he was trying to phrase it delicately for you but you weren’t sure if you would have preferred him to just say he killed them. ‘Put them down’ made it sound like they were rabid dogs and not people you once knew and smiled at in the halls.

“Found some notes in some of them,” Simon said suddenly, waving you to follow him back to the apartment – to safety, “Guess we can only hope they made it to their families in one piece.”

“I hope so,” you muttered optimistically, slipping past him when he opened the front door for you.

You quickly realize how difficult it is to tell how much time is passing with Simon’s blackout curtains, which he refused to allow you to open for fear of attracting any unwanted attention. With there being no more news broadcasts or anything on TV, you didn’t even know the date anymore and you were too scared to ask for fear of knowing how long you’ve been living like this. Your food rations were slowly dwindling but neither of you talked about it.

You know you’re still waking up in the mornings and sleeping at night – Simon seems to run on an extremely specific schedule. When you asked him about it, he told you it was from the military, which made sense. Either way, you were grateful to him for helping you keep on track.

The water and power were both still on, but Simon kept telling you not to keep your hopes up about it lasting long.

You spent your days learning knife etiquette and practicing stabbing various targets that Simon made for you. You’ve grown much more confident. Of course, you would be no match for your teacher himself but against a bumbling walking corpse? You were sure you would be able to at least buy yourself time to escape if you needed.

Eventually, Simon decided it was time to move onto what you were most scared of – guns.

“I’m going to tell you a few things before I let you hold this,” he said, eyes hardened to show how serious he was as he held a pistol in his hands, “Are you paying attention?”

“Of course,” you breathe, wringing your hands in front of you as you eye the weapon.

“You can’t be scared of your weapons,” he advises, “You need to be confident and sure with every movement you make. It’s not a toy.”

“Hard not to be scared of it…” you confess, “What if I hurt someone with it or…I don’t know.”

“That’s why I’m teaching you all this,” he says, “You’ll get confident and less scared the more you handle them. We’re startin’ you off simple and you can build up to bigger and badder guns. For now…pistols will do.”

“Okay,” you swallow around the nervous lump in your throat, “Tell me what I need to know.”

“That’s the spirit,” he praises, holding the pistol up for you to see how he grips it, “First, never put your finger on the trigger unless you’re going to shoot. Just rest your finger on the side like this, see,” he turns his hand and lets you see the way he keeps his finger hovering beside the trigger rather than on it.

You nod your head, “Got it.”

“Take it,” he says, “Carefully.”

You stare at the offered weapon for just a moment before you reach out and delicately take it from his hands, “Next, never point it at anyone you don’t intend to shoot. Whether it’s loaded or not, keep it pointed away from people and yourself.”

You mimic his grip, grimacing when you realize it's actually much heavier than you thought it would be. It was definitely going to take practice before you built up the ability to hold it for long periods. You follow his instructions and keep it pointed to the ground – albeit awkwardly.

“Here,” he suddenly steps behind you.

You feel your heart catch in your chest when you feel him press against your back. He’s incredibly warm and firm as you lean against him. He carefully takes your hands in his, supporting your hands and holding the gun eye level.

“Just practice lining up your sight and lookin at a target,” he says.

His face is so close to yours, his voice right in your ear, deep and gravelly with that heavy accent. You struggle to process his words, hoping to god he doesn’t hear how fast your heart has started racing.

You close one eye and focus on aiming at a photo on his wall, a small picture frame. His large, gloved hands dwarf your own and you’re suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of him. He smells like cigarettes and the body wash you may have taken a quick whiff of when you used his shower for the first time. You find yourself wondering when he has time to smoke since you’ve never actually seen him do it.

Your mind is blank beyond anything other than him. How big and warm he is, how safe you feel with him wrapped around you, how good he smells and how much you love his voice as he utters tips and commands into your ear – sickly sweet in that way he always seems to talk to you.

If you focused too much on it, you’d slowly come to the realization that you may have a crush on him. But you quickly dash that thought from your head and focus back on his gun lesson as he teaches you how to eject a magazine with ease.

This is about survival. Neither of you have time to dwell on a silly crush.

A few days later, you’re standing in the eerie hallway with him. He had offered for you to just stay in the apartment and relax while he did the work but you honestly didn’t want to be alone so you opted to sit with him as he worked.

Your back was against the wall, sipping a cup of instant coffee you had made. Simon was silent as he worked on barricading the door to the stairwell. You both agreed that it was best if it was still accessible just in case something happened, but you didn’t want any unnecessary visitors making their way into the safe little haven you’ve both made for yourselves.

“We should think about looting the empty apartments,” you said suddenly, trying to keep your eyes off of his bulging biceps as he yanked on a strap that was attached to the doorknob to keep the door from being opened.

“That’s a good idea,” he grunted, stepping back to admire his handiwork when he finally finished testing its durability, “Let’s do it.”

He offered his hand and you smiled, taking it and letting him pull you to your feet. You brushed off imaginary dust in an effort to hide how flustered just holding his hand for that brief second made you.

You started at the other end of the hallway from your shared apartment. Simon displayed a disturbing aptitude for opening up very locked doors. You chose not to comment on it, instead silently being thankful that he was able to do it at all.

“How about we make a loot pile in the hallway so we can bring it all inside when we’re ready?” you suggest.

“Alright,” he responds, eyes scanning over the cabinets in the kitchen, “Food is our main priority but it wouldn’t hurt to have some medical supplies.”

You agreed and started helping him pick things out, filling your arms full of canned goods and pill bottles which you then deposited in the hallway by your apartment.

The two of you made it through a handful of apartments, securing a nice resource pile for the two of you. You were feeling good, hopeful, as you stared at your future right there in the silent hallway.

It wasn’t until you opened one in particular— it belonged to a shy, college kid, you remember— that it seems everything changes for you. He couldn’t have been but 18, away from home for the first time and living in his first apartment on his own.

Simon is busy looting the kitchen, you can hear him placing cans on the counter, consolidating whatever it is he chooses to bring with him. You check the bedroom, looking through the drawers and pocketing a bottle of aspirin and nausea medication before you move to the bathroom.

The second you push open the door, you’re met with the force of another person shoving into you. You cry out as you hit the ground, the person falling on top of you. You panic and scramble out from under them, their coughing and wheezing forcing you to look at them.

It’s the kid who lives there. He’s deathly pale, dark circles under his eyes which are bloodshot. His lips are crusty and dry, seemingly struggling with finding something to say.

“Pl-” he starts to whisper before you see movement in the corner of your eye.

“Simon, wait!” you cry when you see the knife.

But it’s too late, the hunting knife you had held with your own two hands more times than you could count, is embedded in the kids skull, spraying blood all over you. All you can do is make a pathetic squeak, fear and panic rendering you unable to say anything as you watch his now lifeless body flop onto the ground beside you, his still warm blood soaking into your clothes as it runs out of the gaping hole in his head.

“The fuck were you thinkin’?!” Simon suddenly shouts, storming over to you and yanking you to your feet roughly.

You stumble up, bumping into him as you stare at the dead body on the floor, “He..He was alive…I…”

“He was sick!” Simon snarls, roughly wrapping his hand around your throat, forcing you to look at him. There was a fire in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before, making you cower, “You’re lucky he didn’t bite you! Fuckin’ hell, are you stupid?!”

“H-He was talking, he was just sick, Simon!” you argued, tears filling your eyes as you stared up at him, “W-We could have given him medicine, could have–”

“He was a dead man walking,” he shouts, the volume making you flinch, “He was going to turn. Are you a fuckin’ idiot? Thinkin’ we could save him?”

The tears you were holding fell down your cheeks at his cruel words and you glared up at him, “I-I’m not stupid, I just…h-he talked to me!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Simon’s eyes narrow, “He was a threat. A liability. Don’t fuckin’ worry about him, worry about yourself.”

He releases you with a rough shove, taking out some of his anger on you. He continues to glare at you for a long minute before turning his back on you and stalking out of the room, muttering about how stupid it was that you could have killed yourself over some random kid.

Your eyes fall on said kid, no more blood coming from the wound, simply coagulating on the floor around him, “Y-You’re a monster.”

The words come out of your mouth before you can stop them, quiet and shaky. But Simon hears them clear, freezing on the other side of the doorway, in the hall.

“I’m a monster..?” he asks, voice suddenly eerily calm. He turns around, his large body taking up an obscene amount of the doorway. You can tell he’s intentionally trying to intimidate you, a punishment that makes your cheeks heat up in anger, “I’ve been breakin’ my back to keep your stupid ass alive and I’m a monster? Because I put down some fucker that was gonna turn rabid in a day?” he glares at you, squinting through the mask and drawing his dark eyebrows together, “You think it’s easy for me? I’m doin’ everything I can to keep you safe!” he shouts so loud that your ears ring and you flinch from the sound alone, “But if you can’t appreciate that then maybe you should be on your fuckin’ own and see how long it takes before you’re ripped apart by those feral bastards!”

He storms off at that, loudly slamming the front door, indicating his final exit from the apartment. You hastily wipe the tears from your cheeks only for more to replace them and you sniffle, casting a sorrowful glance at the dead kid before creeping out of the apartment yourself.

Simon is nowhere in the hall but the supplies you both gathered are still there.

You carefully open the door to Simon’s apartment and peek inside, finding it completely silent and still. You’re not sure where he went but you decide to busy yourself with loading all your looted items into the kitchen and sorting them all for when he returns.

You’re not sure how long you take to finish but Simon still isn’t back and you become worried.

He had said you should be on your own but surely he didn’t actually just leave the building, did he?

You wander over to his supplies and find a handful of his weapons gone. Your heart shoots into your throat and more tears prick at your eyes before you’re dashing out of the apartment once again.

The door to the stairwell is no longer held shut, indicating that Simon had, in fact, gone that way. You curse yourself. If you had checked sooner then he would have at least been somewhere close but if he really left, he would be long out of the building by now.

You creep towards the door and slowly push it open. You hadn’t even left the floor since before this whole thing started. It was eerily quiet, but if you listened close you could hear some muffled shuffling from somewhere.

You crept out, quickly realizing how dark it was. You pulled out your keychain which held a tiny flashlight that you used to navigate when it was dark in the apartment.

You crept down the stairs, holding your breath with every step until you finally reached the floor below you. You can hear muffled sounds from beyond the door and slowly push it open, flashing the light down the hallway.

It's too small and weak to penetrate the stifling darkness. The power was not on on this floor for some reason and that immediately set you on edge. You could still hear some shuffling and strange, raspy noises from within the darkness.

“Simon..?” you call into the impenetrable, oppressive darkness. The noises stop for a moment and you swallow around the nervous lump in your throat, “Simon?” you call again, louder.

The noises return, shuffling, heavy footsteps advance on you. You strain your eyes to see past the weak illumination that your flashlight provides. You’re breathing heavily, you realize, anxiety making your lungs feel constricted as the footsteps get closer and closer.

All of the sudden, a disgusting, rotted face appears in your sights, arms outstretched towards you. You scream out in unbridled terror as it grabs you, its bony, sickening fingers latching onto your shoulders. You attempt to push it away and run but you trip over your own two feet in your panic. Your flashlight flies out of sight, its dim illumination casting down the hallway, leaving you to push at the undead corpse as it collapses on top of you. Its weight is more than you thought it would be, leaving your arms trembling as you struggle to keep it from falling on top of you. It fights your resistance and chomps its disgusting teeth at your face, attempting to get a bite out of your flesh.

It reeks, you realize, like the smell of a dead animal you pass by on the street. It makes your stomach turn and you fear you’re going to throw up from the smell alone. The rotting skin of its chest slips and pulls away from the bone and muscle and you gag, tears coming to your eyes as you realize the very real and terrifying danger you’re in.

You have no way to get out of this.

As you look down the hall, where the light barely pierced the inky depths, you can see more figures emerging from further down the hall, shuffling and rasping in interest at your fight with the one on top of you.

Tears fall down your temples and a sob bursts from your chest as you slowly come to terms that this is how you’re going to die. You can’t hold the sheer weight of the undead above you for much longer.

“S-Simon…” you call out, weak and strained. You know even if he’s nearby he won’t hear you. You have to try harder, get your voice out, shout for him. You swallow around your tears and panic, taking a full breath before shouting, “Simon! Please! Simon, help me!”

You don’t even register the door opening behind you. But you do notice when the weight of the corpse is gone, a knife stabbing into its skull before a large hand grabs you by the back of the shirt and drags you back into the stairwell. The undead follow after you, slamming themselves against the door as soon as it slams closed.

You’re trembling and unable to blink or breathe as the shock of what just happened washes over you.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” Simon all but screams, grabbing you by the front of your shirt, dragging you onto unsteady feet that can’t hold you up before slamming you against the wall. You can still hear those zombies slamming against the door. Your ears are ringing and you barely register Simon shouting at you.

He shakes you and it finally draws your attention to him. His eyes are wide, irises darting back and forth over your face. He doesn’t look nearly as angry as you would expect. Instead he looks…concerned. Scared.

“Simon…” you whisper, the tears not stopping as they fall down your cheeks. He’s the only thing holding you up right now, hands balled in the material of your shirt, keeping you pinned to the wall, “I-I was…I was looking for you…”

He’s panting, shoulders rising and falling as he struggles to compose himself, “Lookin’ for me?”

“Y-You said you were leaving and I…” you whimper, “I-I didn’t want you to go so…I went to find you…I didn’t think that…”

You see his jaw tense through his mask before he slowly lets go of your shirt. Your knees tremble under your own weight and your hands find purchase against his chest.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he mutters, stepping away from you with a heavy sigh, “Just don’t…do that again, got it?”

You nod your head, sniffling as you feel your tears slowly come to a stop, “Th-Thank you, Simon…for saving me…”

“Yeah,” he grunts, turning his back to you, storming back up the stairs to your floor.

You unsteadily follow behind him, still a shaky and anxious mess. When you get into the apartment, Simon is in the kitchen, barely sparing you a glance.

“Go take a shower,” he orders you.

You linger in the doorway for a moment, hoping that he’ll look at you even for a second. But he doesn’t and you hang your head, skulking off to take your shower with a heavy heart.

The night rolls around and Simon hasn’t said a word, putting you more on edge with each passing minute. He sits, manspreading on the couch with a glass of Kentucky bourbon in a glass, sipping on it and watching some old movie that he put on play. Usually, he asks you if you’d like to watch with him, but this time he didn’t and that just makes your heart ache even more.

“Simon…” you venture to ask, casting a glance at him. His hard gaze doesn’t move from the TV, “I-I want to apologize–”

“For what?” he asks, the first words he’s spoken to you in hours. They’re cold and make you wince.

“F-For what I said…” you mutter, tucking your legs underneath you as you turn to look at him, “I…I was mean. I know you’re doing all you can for me and it wasn’t fair of me to get angry at you…I was just…startled, I guess.”

“You were naive,” he snaps, finally looking at you with a harsh glare, “You had no fuckin’ idea what those monsters were and you almost got yourself killed because of it.”

“Y-You’re right…” you whisper, feeling the tears pricking your eyes for the millionth time that day, “I’m sorry, Simon.”

He doesn’t respond, simply throwing back his glass of bourbon, downing it all before he stands up, “Sleep on the couch.”

The last thing you hear from him is his bedroom door slamming shut. You lay down that night, quietly crying into the pillow until you finally fell back asleep.

“Wake up!” a barking voice is what draws you out of your slumber.

Still shaken up from yesterday’s previous events, you sit straight up, wild, fearful eyes looking around before your gaze falls upon Simon. He stands in front of the couch, dressed in full tactical gear. Even his balaclava is different, with a hard plate in the shape of a skull covering the front. He looks intimidating.

“Wh-What’re you doing?” you ask, turning yourself so your feet are on the floor.

“We’re trainin’, get up,” he commands and you have no choice but to follow.

You find yourself following him out of the apartment and into the dimly lit hallway. It’s eerily quiet as always and you feel more intimidated than ever standing before him in nothing but some flimsy pajamas while he wears full gear. Even his gaze is different through that skull mask, hard and cold, looking down at you like you’re insignificant.

It’s so different from before. He was so kind and patient with you before and you can tell that now he’s going to really train you.

“What’re we doing today..?” you timidly ask, wringing your hands in front of yourself.

“Escaping,” he responds.

“Escaping?” you parrot back dumbly.

His glare narrows down at you, “You’re going to try to get away from me and make it towards that exit.”

He points to the other end of the hallway, to the stairwell. You glance up at him, where he stands between you and your exit.

“Okay…” you lick your lips nervously, “Do you want me to just run past you?”

“For now,” he drawls. He sounds almost bored, hands wrapped around the straps of his tactical vest.

You take a deep breath and attempt to bolt past him but his reflexes are frighteningly fast. His arm shoots out before you even realize it, catching you around your middle and halting you immediately.

The air is punched out of your lungs from the force of his arms and you stumble back with a groan.

“You’re goin’ to have to do better than that,” he says, looking down his nose at you like you had offended him with your poor attempt.

You brace yourself again and attempt to run past him. This time, you attempt to fake him out and run in the other direction but it ends the same with his arm grappling around your middle and you still not any closer to the exit.

“Again!” he barks and you can’t help but wonder if this was how he was when he was training recruits in the military.

You try again and again to run past him, duck under his arm, avoid his reach – everything to no avail. After several attempts, you’re left panting and frustrated. Simon is still as cool as a cucumber, staring at you in pure boredom as he awaits your next move.

You run again, making rough contact with his arm once again. But this time you start fighting against his hold. You push with all your might, shoving at his arm and his side in an attempt to slip past him.

“There you go,” he says, though it sounds more condescending than proud, “Fight me.”

You slam your fist down over his arm, successfully knocking it out of the way and giving you a chance to bolt past him. You have a clear view of the stairwell door and you can almost taste the success.

But you’re stopped suddenly when a rough hand grabs the back of your shirt. You cry out in shock when he yanks you back towards him, carelessly tossing you to the floor. You hit the rough carpet harshly, the coarse material skinning your hands and knees and you cry out at the pain.

“Simon!” you chastise him, glaring up at him when he comes to stand in front of you, “That fucking hurt!”

“Oh, it hurt?” he sneers, squatting beside you, behemoth form still dwarfing your own as he gets down on your level, “It’s not supposed to feel good. This is training. You’re supposed to try and survive, not whine and cry because you fell on the floor.”

You sit on your burning knees and glare at him. He glares back at you, neither of you backing down.

“Get up,” he commands, standing up, “Go again.”

By the time he allowed the training to be called off, your body was sore and bruised from the amount of times you’d been thrown to the floor. Your knees burn and ache from where the skin had been rubbed off and you fight back tears as you watch the dried blood crust on your skin.

Simon is no more rough for wear than he was before – all your hitting, kicking, pushing, and biting hadn’t deterred him in the slightest. He wasn’t even winded.

Worse more, you hadn’t made it anywhere near the door.

You weren’t sure how Simon felt about it. If he was mad or disappointed, he didn’t say. As soon as you got into the apartment, he went about making dinner after ordering you to wash up.

When you got out of the shower, he tossed a first aid kit to you and silently sat down in the kitchen to eat.

Usually, you would sit with him but you found yourself deciding to eat on the couch by yourself. A sense of loneliness settled upon you that you hadn’t felt since before you had moved into this apartment with him and you find yourself hiding your tears in your food.

Once again, you’re sleeping on the couch. You wouldn’t have minded it if it didn’t feel so much like a punishment. You felt like a dog banished to sleep in the dog house and you can’t help but curl in on yourself at the cold, empty feeling that it causes.

The next morning follows much the same with Simon startling you awake with a barked order. Your body aches and your wounds sting with every movement you make as you drag yourself behind him to the hallway.

“Do we have to do this again today, Simon?” you ask hopelessly, “I’m really tired…”

“Do you think those undead freaks are going to care if you’re tired?” he snaps at you, arms crossed, making him appear even bigger than he already was, “You’re goin’ to learn how to escape from holds.”

“Simon…” you start to complain but a sharp look from him has the words dying on your tongue and you hand your head in defeat.

He’s no more gentle than he was yesterday with you, rough grips and manhandling you around to fit his needs. He barks in your ear, ordering what you need to do and when to break various holds that he has on your body.

He feels so much stronger and more powerful than those zombies had. At least they were mindless and slow. Simon was fast and smart.

“Put your hand under mine to break the hold!” he shouts, clearly frustrated the more you fuck up breaking his holds.

“Not like that! Are you daft?” he grits through clenched teeth, “You’re goin’ to fuckin wind up dead if you keep this up!”

You feel your heart rate speed up and you find yourself almost panicking under his completely oppressive energy. His shouting only sets you more on edge and the tears begin to prick at your eyes once again.

“None of those fuckin’ tears,” he snarls, tightening his hold on you when you squirm and attempt to rid his body weight off of yours, “Do what I told you! You can break the hold if you just fuckin’ focus!”

“Simon, I-I don’t want to do this anymore!” you cry, the tears tumbling down your cheeks as you cry out the words. Your cheeks feel hot and you can barely catch your breath as you weakly punch at his chest.

“There’s no tappin’ out,” he snaps, tightening his grip on you even more. Your body aches where he holds and you know you’re going to be feeling those bruises for days to come.

“Simon!” you practically screech, freeing one hand and harshly slamming your fist down over the hard faceplate.

It seems to startle him enough into loosening his hold and you manage to kick back away from him in your panic, foot hitting him square in the chest in an effort to propel yourself away – putting as much distance as fast as you can between the two of you.

“Simon…” you whimper, voice wobbling, “I am not one of your soldiers. You need to stop trying to train me like I am!”

You watch him adjust his jaw through his mask before he pops his neck. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you and every hair on your body stands up in pure fear.

He’s on top of you before you even have the chance to say another word. You cry out when the force of his body forces you back and your head cracks harshly against the floor. Your vision blacks out from the force and you groan in pain but he doesn’t stop, a rough forearm pinning against your throat, cutting off your air.

“That was good,” he says, voice cold and devoid of any emotion, “You managed to escape, now do it again!”

Your hands push weakly against him, but you’re worn out and your head is starting to hurt like hell. You open your mouth to say something but his hold on your throat ceases any words from escaping.

You reach up to his face and his cold gaze narrows at you, “You already tried that. It won’t work again.”

But instead of hitting him, your fingers wrap around the face plate and you attempt to push it off – hoping that it’ll obscure his vision enough but he shakes you off with ease.

He catches your gaze and what he sees gives him pause. Wide, teary eyes, red rimmed and filled to the brim with fear. Tears wet your cheeks and he finally notices the way your entire body is tense and trembling beneath him.

“P-Please,” you finally find your voice when his weight eases a bit off of your throat, “I-I don’t want to do this anymore, Simon, please.”

That has his own eyes widening and you take his slackened hold as an opportunity to run away. He watches you scramble up from your spot on the floor and stumble back to the apartment, disappearing within with a slam that makes him flinch. He looks down at his own hands and finds that he can’t conjure up any thoughts that aren’t about you.

You hear him enter the apartment, his heavy footfalls pacing around the living room. You’re hiding in the bathroom, leaning against the door with your knees against your chest to muffle your cries.

He enters the bedroom and pauses, no doubt looking for you before he approaches the bathroom and you feel a brief ping of fear that he’s going to open the door but instead he softly knocks.

“Will you come out so we can talk?” he asks, voice holding none of the cold, harshness that it had for the last few days.

“G-Go away, Simon,” you sniffle.

You can hear him sigh before he follows your request and steps away from the door. You can hear him linger in the bedroom for several more minutes, kicking his boots off before he’s quietly closing the bedroom door and leaving.

The silence and loneliness sinks in once more and you find yourself sobbing into your knees all over again. Your head kills and you feel almost nauseous through your cries from the headache but you can’t stop yourself.

You have no idea how long you cry for but before you know it, the bedroom door opens once again and you can hear the floorboards creak under his weight as he approaches the bathroom door once again.

“I made something for you to eat,” he says through the door, “Figured you might be hungry.” At the idea of food, your stomach growls, “It’ll be waiting for you at the table when you want it.”

You listen to him walk away and you know this is his way of luring you out of the bathroom. Part of you desperately wants to spite him for being so mean to you and refuse his food but the growling in your stomach is too much to bear and you can’t help but clamber to your feet and quietly pull the door open.

When you reach the living room, Simon is facing the TV, giving no indication that he realizes you’ve come out of your hiding place. You sneak into the kitchen to see a bowl of soup sitting nicely at an empty spot. You take a seat and quickly devour the entire bowl, barely taking a break to breathe before it’s completely empty.

You place it in the sink and carefully sneak back out of the kitchen, intending to slide right past him but in your haste you fail to notice that he’s no longer sitting on the couch. Instead, you come face to face with him sitting at the foot of his bed, clearly waiting for you.

You freeze when you see him and all too soon that headache comes racing back to the forefront of your mind.

Simon’s no longer wearing the skull plate and instead wears his usual black balaclava with the skull print on it. He wears a t-shirt and sweatpants, obviously having let himself get comfortable while you hid in the bathroom earlier.

He looks up at you the second you step into the room and the two of you halt in a stalemate, simply staring at one another while you wait for the other to make the first move.

You’re the first to break eye contact when a heavy throb goes through your head, making you close your eyes and bring your hand to your head until it passes. You hear the bed creak when Simon stands up before his hands are cupping your cheeks.

“You hit your head, didn’t you?” he asks, soft and gentle.

You can’t stop yourself from glaring and snapping, “No thanks to you.”

His gaze softens as his hand finds its way to the back of your head, ever so softly prodding at the sizable bump that’s there, “I’m sorry, love.”

“If you’re sorry then why did you do it?” you find those damned tears returning all over again as you continue to glare up at him, “I told you I didn’t like it and I wanted to stop.”

“I know…” he whispers, hands once again cupping your cheeks, thumbing your tears away.

“What was your problem, Simon?” you tearfully ask, sniffling pathetically, “You hurt me. You were scary – scarier than those stupid zombies downstairs. Why did you do that?”

“I got…I was…” he struggled to find the right words before he stepped away from you with a troubled expression, “I was angry— scared. I just—I don’t know.”

“You were scared?” you scoff, “I’m the one who got attacked.”

“You think that wasn’t scary for me?” he asks in disbelief, “You almost got eaten alive on my watch.”

“You sure have a funny way of showing it,” you sniffle, angrily storming over to the bed, letting yourself flop down on the comfortable mattress for the first time in days.

“I know,” he whispers, “Just let me explain, okay?”

You lay there silently, listening to his weight shift where he stands. You take notice of how his scent lingers much more on the blankets now that he’s slept on it. It smells good, you note, musky and delicate. He doesn’t wear anything that smells particularly overpowering.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, “Ever since this shit happened, I’ve been driving myself crazy. I lost contact with my team, my friends. I’m not able to get anymore information on what's goin’ on outside. I’m worried about you, I’m trying my hardest to make sure you can go out there and survive on your own if you need to. I feel like I’m going crazy and I’m scared because I’ve never felt this out of control before.”

You sit up and turn to face him, “How long have you been feeling like this, Simon..?”

“A while,” he mutters, turning his back on you when your gaze starts to feel like too much, “And then you called me a monster and I just…” he trails off, seemingly unsure of how to explain his feelings properly.

“I’m sorry for that, Simon,” you mutter sincerely, reaching out to grab his arm, urging him to turn around, “I never should have said that. And I didn’t mean it, really.”

“Well, you were right, weren’t you?” he scoffs, “I am a monster. Fuck, look at what I did to you – how I treated you. I was punishing you and I never should have.”

“We both made mistakes,” you compromise with a wobbly smile, “We’re dealing with a lot, right? The fucking world is ending and we’ve been trapped in this godforsaken building for who knows how long. It’ll get easier.”

He stares at you for a long moment, lashes fluttering as his gaze softens. You can’t find it in yourself to break eye contact. After a long moment, he seems to decide on something before reaching up and yanking the mask covering his face off.

You feel your breath halt in your chest as your eyes widen, taking in every inch of his newly revealed face. His soft, brown eyes are a juxtaposition to the rest of his ruggedly handsome face. You stand up, never letting your eyes stray from him, a feeling of pure awe coming over you.

“You’re so handsome, Si,” you whisper, reaching forward to brush your fingers over a scar that cuts through his eyebrow to his eyelid, “It’s nice to finally see you.”

“I wanted you to see the real me,” he whispers, “Not the asshole soldier I was.”

“I’m glad you’ve trusted me with this,” you let your fingers wander along his skin, feeling the stubble on his jaw that he hadn’t yet shaved.

“I need to tell you,” he sounds breathy, reaching up and catching your hand in his, pressing your palm flat against his cheek, “I was so scared when I heard you callin’ for me. I thought I was goin’ to be too late and I’d watch you die. I was terrified that I would lose you.”

“Simon…” you whisper in awe, watching how his soft, brown eyes display every tumultuous emotion that he experiences, “I’m sorry. I won’t do anything to worry you again.”

“I want you by my side for as long as you’re able,” he whispers, throat moving as he swallows.

“I won’t go anywhere,” you agree, stepping closer to him, “I promise.”

He leans in at the same time as you, meeting you for a sweet, tender kiss. It lasts only a second before you’re both pulling back to look in each other's eyes. Then, you’re both surging forward for a hungry, heated kiss.

His hands grip your waist, squeezing there as he deepens the kiss. You whimper under his touch, standing on your tip-toes to match the intensity of his kiss.

He moves you backwards, your knees hitting the edge of the bed, causing you to topple down. Simon follows, catching himself on his hands on either side of your head. He only breaks the kiss for a moment to move you further up the bed, easily manhandling you so your head is in the pillows before he’s kissing you all over again.

His hands are rough as they travel over your body, slipping your shirt up just enough to let him touch your bare sides. You quickly realize you’re still wearing your sleep clothes and that you don’t have a bra on.

Clearly, Simon was aware because his hand quickly cups your bare breast with a rough, callused hand. His thumb finds your nipple, flicking over the bud as you whine into his mouth.

He pulls back suddenly, cheeks flushed before he’s fumbling with the hem of your shirt.

“Arms up, sweetheart,” he coos, sickly sweet.

You follow his orders and eagerly lift your arms up for him to tug the fabric of your shirt over your head. Once your breasts are bared to him, he’s leaning down to wrap his lips around one perked nipple while his fingers busy themselves with the other.

You cry out at the feeling of his teeth nipping at the sensitive bud, hands tangling in his soft, curly hair. He groans against your breast at the feeling of your pulling at his hair before he pulls back just a bit, breathlessly whispering, “Such perfect tits.”

“Simon…” you whimper, letting yourself relax into the bed as he switches to mouth at your other nipple, leaving the other to harden in the cool air before his hand travels down your stomach to your shorts, easily slipping underneath the fabric.

“Simon!” you call out again when you feel the heat of his hand cup your folds through your panties.

“Shh, just let me do the work, love,” he mumbled, muffled by the fact he refuses to part from suckling on your nipple.

His tongue drags over your breast, nipping and sucking marks into your skin. As he works the muscle, his hand in your panties remains stationary, just letting you feel the heat of it against your core. The teasing presence only makes you pulse and drool into your panties. You’re positive the fabric must be sticking to you by now from how wet you’ve become from playing with your breasts.

“Your tits are so sensitive,” he mumbles, almost to himself, “Does it feel good, darlin’?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, arching your back to offer up your chest to him all over again.

He grins, a crooked little smile that makes your heart flutter. It was so nice to finally see him smile.

But instead of mouthing at your breasts again, he leans back on his heels and pulls his hand from your panties. You whine at the loss but it’s cut short when he hooks his fingers into them and tugs them down your legs. You lift your hips to assist him but find yourself wincing when an ache goes through your body.

He notices and gently runs the palm of his hands up your thighs, urging you to relax.

“You sore, love?” he asks, voice filled with what you can only call guilt.

“A little…” you admit, biting your lip, “My thighs are killing me, actually.”

He shakes his head at himself and leans down, pressing a kiss next to the scrape on one of your knees as his hands slowly begin to knead the sore muscles in your thighs. You sigh and let your eyes flutter at the feeling.

With your eyes closed, you don’t realize he leans down until you feel a hot, wet tongue slide from your pubic bone to your sternum. Your cunt clenches pathetically at the feeling. When you open your eyes, Simon’s pretty, brown eyes are half-lidded and his tongue hangs out of his mouth. You can’t resist cupping the back of his head and pulling him for a kiss, whimpering and moaning against his mouth.

“Fingers or tongue?” he asks, muffled and messy against your lips.

“What?” your hazy mind can’t quite comprehend what he’s asking of you.

“Do you want my fingers or my tongue?” he reiterates, “I want to make you cum.”

You whimper at that, “B-Both!”

He scoffs, full brows furrowing, “Greedy.”

You find yourself blushing at that but he doesn’t deny your request. He sinks down your body, peppering kisses down your body on the way until he kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed.

He grabs your hips and effortlessly yanks you down so your legs hang off the edge of the bed.

He spreads your thighs apart and you find yourself holding your breath, watching through your lashes as he trails kisses up your thigh, getting closer to where you want him the most. You’re trembling under his attention and it makes you clench pathetically around absolutely nothing. You’re sure he can see the way your cunt drools and leaks with every small kiss he peppers against your skin.

Just when he gets close, he pulls back and kisses back down towards your knee. The teasing has you wound taut, feeling as if you’re almost on the edge without him ever properly touching you.

It feels like hours that he does it, kissing up and down your thighs. Occasionally, he nips at the skin there, swirling his tongue over the burning marks he leaves behind to soothe the sting. Finally, he moves his hand and you think he’s going to finally give you something but all he does is spread your folds apart with two fingers, exposing your hole and clit to the cool bedroom air. The action makes you whine but he pays you no mind.

He carries on kissing your thighs and nipping at your skin. No matter how much you rut your hips, hoping to entice him into touching you and giving you what you really need, he ignores it. He ignores your whines and the cries of his name, ignores the way your cunt clenches and drools around nothing, clit twitching from how much teasing you’re enduring.

The little bud aches, throbbing as it begs for anything – any little touch that he has to offer. He could blow air upon the nub right now and you’re sure you would explode in pure pleasure.

When you sob his name, broken and needier than you’ve ever heard yourself, he finally looks up. His eyelids are heavy, concealing half of his iris and it makes him look positively fucked out.

“Look at me,” he commands, licking his lips slowly, “Right in the eyes, let me see you properly.”

You force yourself to meet his penetrating gaze, almost struggling to compose yourself. You find yourself trapped in the eye contact, almost paralyzed under his intoxicating gaze. He holds you there for what feels like minutes but in reality is probably just a few seconds.

His fingers finally hone in on your clit, pressing against the twitching, hardened bud. You cum immediately, still locked in that intoxicating eye contact. You cry out, hands slapping against the bed as he draws the orgasm out of you with slow circles on the little bud, sticky clicking sounds filling the room and mixing with your wild cries of pleasure. It seems like the high never stops, more and more cum gushing from your cunt and dripping down to stain the comforter beneath you.

Simon watches you with keen attention, taking in every expression you make as he makes you cum against his fingers, the bud throbbing wildly until the orgasm finally dissipates.

When you finally sag against the bed, your thighs fall completely open as the post-orgasm exhaustion quickly hits. You’re left trembling and twitching through the aftershocks, pretty pussy still drooling with every clench of your walls.

Simon takes the opportunity of you coming down to strip himself. He tugs his shirt off over his head and lets his sweatpants drop the floor, carelessly kicking them away. His gaze never leaves you, never leaves that twitching little cunt between your legs.

There’s a slick film of your cum coating your folds and his mouth fucking waters.

Your eyes fly open, not even realizing that you had closed them, when he suddenly cups the back of your thighs and pins you wide open for him.

“Simon…” you pathetically coo, reaching down to tangle your fingers in his hair when he comes within reach.

“So sweet for me,” he coos, kissing your thigh once again and you’re scared that he’s going to tease you all over again, “A good orgasm got you nice and sweet, huh?”

“Mhm,” you mutter, dazedly looking at him as you feel his breath on your sensitive cunt.

That alone makes you clench around nothing. You nearly whimper out loud when you see his tongue fall from his mouth, glistening with spit before he licks a slow, wide stripe between your folds.

When he comes back up, he holds his tongue out and lets you see the creamy mess of your cum left behind. He makes a show of swallowing every drop in his mouth, making your cheeks flush in pure embarrassment at such a lewd display.

You had no idea Simon would be so fucking filthy in bed but the way his eyes roll back at your taste tells you all that you need to know.

He loudly slurps your clit between his lips, swirling his tongue around the sloppy bud as he whines and groans into your cunt. You tug harshly at his hair at the overwhelming feeling of having your clit doted on so expertly.

His hands keep you pinned open, allowing him to slip his tongue inside you, occasionally taking a moment to visibly swallow every drop of your slick so you can see the way he absolutely savors your taste.

He swirls that offending tongue around your clit again, slurping it back into his mouth before two fingers are prodding at your entrance. You clench against him, the excitement of finally being filled with something making you whimper. Just the sound of you so eager makes him almost want to cum completely untouched.

Your cum generously coats his face and he absolutely loves it. He pulls away suddenly, dark eyes locking onto your face as he pants from how lost he was in eating you out. He slowly presses two fingers inside you, letting them slide in, hugged by the plushness of your walls.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet, love,” he coos, moaning sympathetically when you cry out from the feeling of being stretched on his fingers, “And so warm too, fuck.”

He decides, in that moment, that he doesn’t care if the world is ending outside, he feels nothing but bliss with you. He never wants this to end, he wants to get completely lost in the pure intoxication of you.

He leans down, flattening his tongue against your clit once again. The feeling is heightened now that he’s got his thick fingers stuffed inside you. You clench around him at the feeling of his tongue on the sensitive bud once more.

He suddenly crooks his fingers and your legs helplessly kick in the air at the overwhelming feeling of him pressing and prodding against that gooey little spot inside you. Your hips rabbit up and you practically wail at the overwhelming sensations he’s attacking you with. You squeal his name so sweetly before he finally backs off a bit, letting you sink back into the soft cushions of the bed.

He’s completely drunk off of you, off the creamy cum you gush out for him to lick up, off the lovely sounds you let out from how good he makes you feel. His cock is so painfully hard and he wants so badly to wrap his hand around himself but he knows he’ll blow his load the second he does, so he refrains.

To distract himself from the ache in his cock, he doubles his focus on you and making you feel good. His fingers crook upwards again, prodding your g-spot again with renewed vigor. You cry out, your eyes rolling to the back of your head when he sucks your clit into his mouth, the suction making your thighs tremble.

“I-I wanna cum!” you cry out, fingers still tugging harshly at his hair.

He groans against you but doesn’t dare to part from you, too focused on bringing you to your high to actually goad you into it. His fingers move inside you, fucking you nice and deep, making sure he’s working that sweet little spot inside you as he continues to suck on your clit.

It doesn’t take long before your entire body stiffens and you toss your head back. The choked out cry is music to his ears and his own eyes roll back when he feels the way your walls tighten around him, soaking his fingers generously. Your clit throbs in his mouth before he releases his suction on it, instead choosing to lick the pulsing little bud with the flat of his tongue to gently ease you through the high.

You’re pushing his head away long before he’s ready to part but he willingly backs off nonetheless. His chin is wet with your cum, even dripping down his neck and the sight makes you flush. There’s a loud, squishy noise when he slowly pulls his fingers from the hot clutch of your cunt.

“Scoot back for me, darlin’,” he commands you, slurring a little before he pops his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean of the mess you left behind.

You do as he says, shakily pushing yourself back so you can lay your head in the pillows. With Simon standing at the foot of the bed, you finally get the chance to take a look at him.

He’s obviously incredibly well built, broad and firm in all the right places. Most notably, he has numerous scars, some that looked like bullet wounds and others that were long and thin.

“Are all those from the military?” you find yourself asking as he carefully crawls onto the bed, jostling you as the mattress moves under his weight.

“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning down to press his lips against yours.

You let him handle your body as he pleases, spreading your legs so he can comfortably situate himself between them. His cock, hard and heavy, rests against your folds and you find your eyes going wide at the sight of it.

“Somethin’ the matter?” he chuckles, like he can hear what you’re thinking.

“That’s not going to fit,” you breathe, unable to tear your gaze off the twitching, fat length of him.

“‘Course it will, love,” he breathes, pecking your lips again, letting his lips trail down over your jaw, “I worked you open real good, all you gotta do is relax and let me in.”

With a minute adjustment of his hips, the tip prods your entrance. He grips the base of his length, carefully pushing forward, mouth dropping open as he feels your hot, wet walls spread around the head of him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunts, “Jus’ let me do the work.”

Your hands fly down to grip his forearms, nails biting harder into the skin there the deeper he sinks into you. The middle of his cock is the fattest, giving you an almost painful stretch that makes your face pinch up in a way that Simon doesn’t like.

He brings one hand to his mouth, licking his thumb before carefully pressing the digit against that sensitive bud. You whimper at the feeling, cunt clutching tight around him, easing more of his length inside. He circles your clit a few more times, watching your face for any clear signs of discomfort. Before long, his hips meet yours, filling you absolutely full to the brim in a way no one ever had before.

He plants both hands on either side of your head, abandoning your clit in favor of simply rutting his hips against yours. His large body hovers over you, shielding you from anything outside of him and you find yourself completely lost in everything that is him – how full he makes you feel, how nice he smells, how safe you feel trapped beneath him like you are.

Your hands wind around his neck, pulling him down so his chest presses against yours. Your breasts squish against his chest and he finds his eyes flickering down just to look at them. The sight makes you smile despite yourself – it’s cute, you think.

Tangling your fingers in his soft curls once again, you bring him down for a kiss. He’s still slowly, carefully rutting his hips against yours, his lower abdomen sliding against your clit as his cock stirs inside you, stretching you and hitting every sweet little spot inside you.

You whimper into his mouth, gasping at the way he makes you feel so full and good while he barely does anything. Your knees bracket against his ribs, squeezing him so tightly you wonder if it hurts but he just continues to kiss you and circle his hips.

“Wanna feel you cum around me,” he whispers, barely parting from your lips to request it, “Just like this, cover my cock. Be good for me.”

You knew you wouldn’t be able to disobey even if you wanted to. With the way he stirs you up and drags against every tender spot inside you all while grinding against your clit the way he is, you don’t stand a chance. Your third orgasm creeps up on you and your back arches just as it washes over you.

Simon groans at the feeling of you cumming around him for the first time – the tight, wet clutch of your cunt feeling better than he ever could have dreamed. As he watches you writhe in his bed, moaning and whimpering his name, he’s overcome with a plethora of feelings that just melt his heart.

He can’t resist pulling you in for another kiss, cupping your jaw as he pulls his hips back until just the head of his cock remains buried in your cunt. You’re still working on coming down from the orgasm he just gave you but he’s greedy – he wants to feel it again. He wants to fuck the orgasm out of you, make you ride it out and gush all over him.

He needs to show you how good he can be for you, hoping that this alone can get across just how much you mean to him. He’s never been the best with words, so he can only hope that this is enough for now.

Your hands press against his chest, aimlessly pushing at him from the overwhelming way he fucks you. You’re so sensitive, pushed into cumming more times than anyone had ever made you before. But he doesn’t show any signs of slowing or stopping. He’s a machine, built for stamina and he’s on a fucking mission now – to make you feel as good as he possibly can.

You’re attempting to push him away, to give your poor, overstimulated body a chance to come down. But he’s having none of it.

“Hands off, love,” he commands breathlessly. But you just stare up at him with dazed, teary eyes, panting and sweaty. He clicks his tongue, “You ignorin’ me, sweetheart?”

He grapples your wrists in his one hand, pulling yours away from his chest and pinning them above your head. He uses this new hold as leverage to really fuck you, pulling back and sinking back in as deep as he possibly can. His tip kisses your cervix, making your thighs tense up at the twinge of pain that comes with having him so deep.

But the pain mixes so addictively with the pleasure that you find yourself getting completely lost in the slow, deep rhythm that he sets. Every time he sinks balls deep, his hips slap against yours and he rubs up deliciously against your clit. The pleasure on your bud doesn’t last long before he’s pulling back again, never allowing you to fully build up to another delicious high.

Simon is lost in the way you whimper and whine. He can swear that he’s never heard anything as incredible as you being denied the pleasure he had been so generous with so far. He likes the desperate look in your eyes; it makes him feel amazing to know that you need him to make you feel good. He’s in charge of your pleasure in that moment and he finds himself relishing in that feeling of control over you.

You look so sweet beneath him, pinned and helpless with teary eyes looking up at him. Your pupils are blown wide from the pleasure his cock brings you as he continues to fuck you nice and deep.

Usually, Simon is a fast and rough kind of guy, but he finds himself thinking that he could definitely get used to a pace like this more often. As long as it’s you that’s underneath him.

It doesn’t take you very long to break, those pretty tears falling down your cheeks as you breathlessly plead with him, “Please, Simon,” your voice cracks so cutely, “I want more!”

He chuckles under his breath and leans down, pressing a tender kiss against your temple before whispering, “What’s stoppin’ you from takin’ more?”

That seems to set you off. You’re bracing your feet on the bed, rutting your hips, rocking yourself against his cock. A moan rips from his chest at the sight of you using his cock like that. His heavy balls press against you and the feeling makes his cock throb, making him realize how badly he needs to cum. But he doesn’t want to give up this little show you’re putting on for him so soon.

You’re so, so wet that he can feel how your messy little cunt squishes around him. You shamelessly soak every inch of him the more you work your own pussy on his fat cock. You tug your hands free from his grip and he’s left clenching the pillows in his fist when he watches your fingers descend.

He thinks you’re going to go for your clit, to push yourself over the edge like you so deserved for being so good for him. But instead, you reach for your own tits. The breath punches out of his lungs as the sight of you meanly pinching and tweaking your nipples as you continue to rock yourself against him.

Simon feels his balls tighten at the sight and he almost thinks he’s going to cum but he suddenly pulls his cock out. You wail in complete misery at the loss, tearfully watching him wrap his hand around the base of his cock, pinching off the impending orgasm.

You flop back down onto the bed, sniffling pathetically as you glare at him for ruining the orgasm you were so beautifully working yourself up to. He smiles crookedly at you, cupping the backs of your knees, crudely pinning them to your chest so your pretty, wet cunt is open and vulnerable to the way he suddenly stuffs himself back inside.

With you completely pinned beneath him in a press, you can’t do anything except cry out and wail in pleasure as he finally fucks you fast and hard. His balls slap lewdly against your ass, your arousal dripping off of them.

His eyes are locked on the way you’re stretched so wide around the girth of him. You’re creaming around him, a milky ring left in your wake every time he pulls out. He doesn’t give you much chance to breathe or collect yours, simply fucking you with everything he has. It’s loud, wet, and fucking messy.

“F-Fuck,” he chokes on the word, voice breaking as it comes out. He’s so close that it hurts, “Play with yourself for me, love, rub your clit.”

Your hand flies down to do as you’re told without a second thought. It only takes a few, quick circles around the hard little bud before you’re cumming with a cute little squeal. Your feet kick helplessly in the air, toes curling from how hard you cum around him.

Simon groans at the sight and feeling of you losing yourself on his cock. You continue to swirl and tap at your clit, forcing yourself to cum harder and harder until you’re squirting around him with a choked off sob of his name.

Simon’s hips never still or falter, fucking you fast and deep to work you through the orgasm. Your cum splatters across his hips, thighs, and chest. It makes his eyes roll up into his head before he lets his head fall back. His jaw opens and he moans, loud and deep as his own orgasm finally washes over him.

His pace falters as you lay there twitching and crying, a few trembling thrusts of his hips as his cock spits rope after rope of cum inside you. He cums longer and harder than he has in a very long time. He continues with short, aborted little thrusts on his sensitive cock as he continues to cum.

Even when the orgasm dissipates, he finds himself fucking into the creamy mess drooling out of your twitching cunt.

“S-Simon-!” you choke out, nails clawing down his shoulders, “S-Sensitive!”

“I know, love,” he pants, almost deliriously, “J-Just one more. G-Gotta fill you up again.”

You can’t do anything but lay back and let him use your cunt as he works to force another orgasm out of his overstimulated cock. He’s gasping and whining as he moves his hips, pulling his cock out only to stuff it back inside. A mixture of your cum and his drips down, soaking his cock, pelvis, and balls. It’s a heady, lewd mess that he can’t bring himself to worry about now but he knows it’ll be a pain to clean up later.

You’re trembling and twitching with every one of his movements, tears dried and new on your cheeks. He feels a pang of remorse for you, you’re tired and overstimulated but he just needs to wring this one last orgasm out and then he’ll let you rest.

“You can be good for me, huh?” he coos sweetly, “Just be sweet and let me, fuck, use this pretty little cunt, yeah?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whimper, nodding your head as your eyelids flutter in exhaustion.

Simon leans down, pressing his lips against yours. You both get lost in the kiss, with your arms wrapped around his neck. He loves how it feels to have you stuffed on his cock while your pretty, sweet body twitches and trembles beneath him. He knows it probably hurts by now and the fact you’re just laying there and letting him use you like this has him reaching his second high.

He chokes on a moan, gasping as he cums for the final time. It’s much more lackluster than his first one but he still fills you up just like you both needed. His cock twitches almost painfully inside you as he slowly rocks his hips, wincing at the overstimulation.

After a few, still moments, he pulls his length free from the soft plushness of your cunt and rolls off of you. You’re both panting, laying on your backs on the bed as you come back to yourselves.

You’re the first one to move, rolling onto your side and wrapping yourself around him. Simon finds himself smiling when he feels the sweet way you snuggle against him, seeking his comfort automatically.

You start shivering, the mess of cum and sweat on your body causing you to become cold. He urges you to sit up despite your protests.

“Let’s take a shower and sleep,” he offers sweetly, supporting your shaky body to the bathroom.

He continues to support you and hold you close through the shower. He finds himself grateful that there’s still hot water because you both certainly need it after such a messy tryst in his bed.

You’re the first to fall asleep, tucked against his chest with your arms wrapped around him like a little koala. His hand strokes up and down your back, just staring into the inky blackness of his bedroom.

Part of him feels like it’s all a dream, to have someone so sweet tucked against him, offering him comfort and feeling safe as they snooze peacefully. A sense of fierce protectiveness washes over him as he finds himself going through plans in his head – what the future may hold.

He’s torn from his thoughts when you shoot up from your deep sleep with a gasp. Your head wildly turns, looking around the room. His hand finds purchase on your back, making you jump before relaxing immediately in recognition.

“Bad dream?” he asks, tugging you gently to lay you back down against his chest.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “I dreamt that I was trapped with them in that hallway again.”

He hums, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, wrapping his arms tightly around you to make sure you feel secure. You go still for a long time and he thinks you fell asleep again but then you ask him a question that surprises him.

“Who are those people in the photos?” you quietly question, “In your living room.”

He hums, rubbing a rough hand up and down your shoulder and arm, “My teammates. Friends, I guess.”

“You guess?” you chuckle.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “Task Force 141; Captain John Price, and Seargets John ‘Soap’ MacTavish and Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick.”

“Soap is a silly name,” you comment, grinning up at him, resting your chin against his chest, “What about you?”

“Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley,” he responds with ease.

“Do you know where they are?” you ask.

It’s an innocent question but it sends a pang of hurt to his chest. If he were a weaker, less trained man, he may have felt tears pricking his eyes, “I don’t know,” he pauses for a moment before continuing, “I was in contact with Soap when everything started goin’ to shit. Lost contact with him though. He’s a tough bastard though, I’m sure he’s fine somewhere out there. I don’t know where the other two were or are.”

“If they’re even half as good as you, I’m sure they’re all fine,” you offer optimistically.

Simon hums again, reaching a hand up to brush a stray flyaway off of your forehead. His big hand cups your cheek, stroking his thumb over your lips which you offer a gentle kiss against.

“All I’m worried about now is you,” he confesses softly, “As long as you’re safe, I’ll be happy. I’ll do anything to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am,” you smile, laying back down to nuzzle against his chest, “I’m okay as long as you’re here.”

He wraps his arms around you again and closes his eyes, letting himself sleep peacefully with you held safe against him.

It’s not even a week later that you’re sitting on the couch with him, peacefully watching a movie with a full belly after cooking a quick dinner with him, that you hear a loud, mechanical thump and you’re plunged into complete silence and darkness. Your heart jumps and races in your chest, mindlessly grappling onto Simon’s arm as he sits still beside you.

“What happened?” you ask, whispering as if you’re scared to speak any louder.

“Power went out,” he responds, not sounding the least bit perturbed, “Knew it was comin’. Water’s probably out now too.”

“What do we do?” you ask, the tremor of fear in your voice practically breaking his heart.

He stands up and you whimper in fear when he’s out of your reach. You can hear him moving around in the dark before a bright, blinding light lands on you.

“We can’t stay here for much longer,” he responds, “We’ll have to move out and find somewhere with more resources.”

“How long have you been planning this?” you ask, getting to your feet to follow him down the hall to the bedroom.

“Ever since the news stopped reportin’,” he responds, grabbing a large backpack from the closet, “Let’s pack up.”

You linger beside him and he looks at you with a raised brow, “I’m scared, Simon.”

His gaze softens and he walks up to you, cupping your cheeks tenderly, “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises, “We’re goin’ to go out, find a small place to hunker down. We’ll look for a generator or a vehicle and get somewhere safe. You trust me, don’t you?”

You nod your head, “Of course I do.”

“Good,” he smiles, kissing your forehead, “Now take this backpack and fill it with what’s left of our canned food, alright? I’m goin’ to pack everything else we need, don’t worry about a thing.”

He offers you a flashlight, which you gratefully take and click on. You’re glad that he gives you an easy task to focus on. You take the smaller backpack he offers you and make your way to the kitchen. You only have about 5 cans of food left and you carefully place them inside the bag before opening the refrigerator to pack a few full bottles of water that you have stored in there. You make sure to toss in a can opener just in case before you place the backpack on the couch.

Simon emerges from the room with the large, military backpack slung over his shoulder.

“You get it all?” he asks, taking a seat to shove his boots onto his feet.

“Yeah and a couple water bottles,” you respond, approaching him slowly.

“That’s perfect,” he praises, looking over at you, “You should go get dressed. Jeans and a hoodie. Put your sneakers on and make sure they’re tight, got it?”

You nervously do as you’re told, disappearing into the bedroom to quickly dress yourself under the flashlight. You can hear Simon moving around in the living room, heavy boots thumping against the floor with every step he takes.

You toss the hoodie over your head and make your way back to Simon, who stands in the living room, looking out the window. The sun is just beginning to come up over the horizon, casting a dim amount of sunlight to come through.

He turns to look at you when he hears you approach.

“There you go,” he hums, pulling the hoodie up over your head and tightening the strings, “Keep your neck covered. We’ll find you some better clothing somewhere along the way.”

You nod your head and take a glance over his shoulder out the window. You can barely see the ground from your position but you can see people shuffling around on the streets below. A pang of fear goes through you as you realize that they’re most definitely not normal people – the streets are crawling with those undead freaks.

Simon leads you to the door and unsheaths a weapon for you – a machete he had taught you to wield with relative ease. You grip it in your hands, nervously twirling it around until you find a comfortable position. Simon nods his head and pulls out a combat knife, holding it low at his side before opening the door.

The descent to the lobby is relatively easy, you walk over the undead that have already been taken care of in the stairwell.

“I took care of these already,” he explains without you even having to ask, helping you jump over a pile of 3 zombies at the foot of the stairs.

“You got more kills under your belt than me,” you comment, mostly in jest to lighten your mood.

Simon huffs under his breath, slowly pushing open the door to the lobby, “You have no idea.”

You squint and turn off your flashlight when you step into the well lit lobby. The sun is now above the horizon, allowing you to see with ease once again.

Simon remains in front of you, making your way to the double front doors. You peek around him, heart racing in your chest as your grip on your weapon tightens.

“Are you ready?” he asks, casting a glance over his shoulder.

“No…” you confess, shuffling closer to him.

“Everything will be okay,” he promises firmly and you actually believe him.

When he pushes open the door, the groans of the undead fill your ears and you find your eyes darting frantically around the streets that you can now see with terrifying clarity.

Hundreds of undead swarm the streets, stumbling and groaning as they shuffle around aimlessly in search of food. Simon reaches down and takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You know it’s going to be the fight of your life but with Simon by your side, you have faith that you’re going to make it through and find somewhere safe together.

property of rowarn; do not modify, repost, or translate.

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