x-stoleurdiscord - Tumblr blog

x-stoleurdiscord · 5 days ago

Text

"I don't need time, I need you." (Part V)

(ANGST, slow burn, another man tries to touch you at a work event and you call Simon for help…

also the next part will be the last and I thought about incorporating some soft nsfw?? would you be ok with that?)

⋆｡°✩✮⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩✮⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩✮⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩✮⋆｡°✩

The city is already dusk-blue by the time you step out of your apartment. You decided to wear the long, low-backed navy dress. The neckline’s soft, the fabric velvet-like, hugging and skimming you in all the right ways. You hadn’t planned on going initially, not until Emma practically guilt-tripped you at lunch yesterday.

“You can’t keep going from work to home and back again, y/n. Come on. Just for an hour. Dress up and have a drink,“ she said with pleading eyes.

What really pushed you to say yes, tough, wasn't the party or the networking that comes with it. It was the thought that you'd forgotten what feeling like yourself even means lately.

The venue is all low light and clean glass, warm chatter echoing off modern lines. People from the firm are already milling about with wine and small plates. You shed your coat near the entrance, suddenly feeling bare in the dress, like it’s a little too honest about your shape. Your skin hums with sudden awareness. It's not shame, but vulnerability.

Emma finds you quickly, complimenting you on your dress, while she grabs your arm and pulls you toward the crowd. There aren't many people you know on a deeper level... it's more of a networking event. But then there’s Shawn.

He’s at the bar, sleeves rolled, collar undone like he’s in permanent soft-focus. He notices you immediately and you see it, the slight double take. The look that says, Oh.

And then he walks over.

“Wow,” he says, handing you a fresh glass of wine without asking, eyes sweeping once down, then respectfully back up. “You look like you’re trying to ruin people.”

That catches you off-guard, but you smile politely. “That's dramatic.”

“It's observant,” Shawn counters, taking a sip of his wine. “I was starting to think you might ghost us tonight. Emma said you needed convincing to come.”

You shrug, trying not to look toward the entrance again. “I'm here, aren't I?”

“Let's see for how long,” he teases.

You don’t answer. Instead, you press out a grin and take a sip of your wine.

Shawn shifts a little closer, not inappropriate, but enough to be noticed. The bar is getting crowded and the music shifts into something with a pulse. He leans in, voice pitched low near your ear.

“You know, I was gonna ask if you wanted to grab a drink sometime…,“ he says with a grin.

There’s nothing wrong with Shawn. In fact, on another night, in another life, maybe you would even say yes. But you feel it like a pinched nerve: this isn’t that life. That man isn’t yours. Your man is someone else, somewhere else. Your man kissed you in your kitchen two nights ago like he’d die if he didn’t.

And right now, you can’t stop wondering where he is or what he’d think if he saw you like this, lit by low lights, dressed like a temptation and a man leaning just a little too close. You're dressed in a way you only ever used to dress for him. Your spine straightens a little.

You smile at Shawn, gracious but vague. “This drink’s enough for me tonight,“ you say, trying to make it sound like teasing.

The evening drags along with meaningless conversation and Shawn trying to impress you at every opportunity that presents itself. You've been sipping the same glass of wine for over an hour now.

Shawn hasn’t overstepped, he’s charming, polite and he laughs when people laugh, listens when he should. But every time you catch him watching you, there’s a possessiveness in his gaze that tightens your shoulders. It isn’t him that repells you, but rather what he represents. A direction you aren't walking toward and never will.

You drift away after a while, slowly and quietly. It’s not hard. Shawn is caught in conversation with one of the senior partner and you use the moment to vanish into the moving tide of laughter and cocktails. You find Emma near the buffet, chatting with two other women.

“Hey,” you say and Emma lights up, clearly relieved.

“There you are. I thought Shawn had swept you into some corner office,” she teases, elbow nudging gently.

“Thankfully not,“ you say as you smooth your hand along your arm, fingertips brushing goosebumps you can’t quite explain.

Emma tilts her head, noticing something shift behind your eyes but not pressing it. “Do you want me to stick with you?”

But it’s too late, Shawn's voice carries across the clink of glass and buzz of music, loud enough for you to flinch.

“Honestly, can you blame me?” he says to one of the corporate guys and though he doesn’t name you, everyone knows who he means. “I mean, look at her. She shows up looking like that and expects me to act normal?” A few light, male chuckles fill the room.

You stiffen immediately.

It’s not overtly crude, but it cuts. He said that... publicly. You're public now, being looked at and talked about. Suddenly your dress feels more revealing than confident.

You don’t say anything, you don't even turn to look at Emma, you just move, quickly.

You haste through the crowd, past the main room, toward the hallway that runs behind the event space. There’s a quiet alcove near the kitchen, it's low-lit and stacked with storage crates. It’s not a hiding place, but it’s private enough for you to catch your breath.

You lean back against the wall, while your hands grip the edge of the small service table beside you. Your heart is thudding, not because of Shawn's comment, but because of the storm it brings up inside you.

Suddenly, you think of Simon. The way he had firmly said, that he didn’t want to see you near that man again. And now you're here, in a tempting dress, standing in a hallway, hiding, because Shawn looked at you like you were his to want.

You squeeze your eyes shut and breathe in slowly. You wish Simon were here. You don’t know what he’d do or what he’d say, but you know that you would feel... safe.

You focus on your breathing. In, then out, slow and controlled. Your spine now presses flat to the cool wall behind you, trying to anchor yourself in the stillness, to let the discomfort of the humiliation wash off.

You don’t hear him at first. The sound of his steps is unsteady, too quiet to be casual, too deliberate to be harmless. But it isn’t until you see his silhouette at the edge of the hallway that your body tenses.

Shawn sways a little in the soft light, one hand braced on the wall as he looks at you, that same look he’s had a few too many times now. Lazy, half-lidded and possessive.

“There you are,” he says, voice slurred at the edges. “You kinda ran off on me.”

You straighten a little, but you don’t move. Your fingers curl around the hem of your dress. “I just needed a minute.”

He grins. “What, from me?” he says, laughing like it’s a joke, like it’s charming, but it isn’t. His steps bring him closer, too close.

“Shawn," you say, tone low and measured, “maybe you should go back to the party.”

But he doesn’t, he keeps walking until he’s only a breath away. You flinch slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he sees it and misreads it entirely. His hand reaches out, fingertips brushing your arm, then sliding too confidently to your waist. He slips it lower and it rests on your inner thigh.

Your body locks immediately.

“You look really, really good tonight,” he murmurs, leaning in and his breath is hot against your cheek, the press of his fingers insistent, uninvited. “You know that, right? Don’t act like you don’t know.”

You turn your face away and your hands press against his chest instinctively, not hard, but there’s resistance there. “Shawn,” you say again, firmer this time. “You’re drunk.”

He chuckles, low and stupid. “Not that drunk.”

His other hand lifts and you see it coming before it happens, the way his gaze drops to your mouth and the way his body angles forward. You jerk your face to the side again, but his hand is already forcefully sliding up toward your jaw, his thumb grazing the edge of your cheek. His other hand presses dangerously close to your…

“No,” you say, sharper now, a tremor of fear rising in your chest.

He doesn’t listen. Instead he pushes his body against yours and leans in for a kiss. You can feel his erection on your thigh. That’s when you push him away. Hard, with your flat palms to his chest.

“Stop it," you breathe out and your voice cuts through the corridor, quiet but hard-edged. It's final.

He stumbles a step back, blinking in surprise. You're shaking, but your eyes are clear. You stare at him: disgusted, disappointed and done.

“Don’t touch me,” you say with a firm voice, it's trembling only at the end. “Don’t ever touch me.”

Shawn blinks, clearly registering, finally, what just happened.

You slip past him fast, your body buzzing with adrenaline. Behind you, you hear him call after you.

"y/n, wait, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..,“ he mumbles, but your heels click sharply against the marble floor as you continue walking away. Your skin is still crawling from what just happened.

You don’t know where you're going, not yet. You just need to get away. Maybe outside to get some fresh air, maybe even...

God. A thought slams into you like a wave. Simon‘s voice and the weight behind it, when he said, “I better not see that man near you again.”

You hadn’t listened, you hadn’t known. How could you possibly have known?

Now you do. Now you ache for the one man who would’ve never let anything like this happen. For the man whose presence alone would’ve sent Shawn ten feet in the other direction. You swallow back the tightness in your throat.

The moment you step outside, the cold hits you like a slap. You don’t notice it at first, not with your heart still hammering in your chest, your palms damp and your breath coming in uneven bursts that fog in the night air. But when the shiver finally hits you, it does so all at once, crawling up your spine, setting your teeth on edge.

You slowly wrap your arms around yourself tightly, as if that tiny embrace could shield you from the world. The city hums, taxis pass and people laugh just around the corner.

Your mind races and you not only think about what just happened, but what could have happened. The look in Shawn's eyes... it was clear what he wanted to do. You still feel his hand press against your inner thigh, dangerously close to the part of you that screams Simons name for over three months now.

Your stomach turns and a fresh wave of nausea rises. Your body just won’t stop trembling. He touched you. God. He was going to... You swallow hard, dragging in a shaky breath, but it feels like your lungs won’t expand, like the moment is still trapped in them. Your skin still feels tainted with his hands. You pace a few steps, but it won't do. Nothing helps to stop the shaking.

You fumble in your purse with numb fingers, digging for your phone like it’s your lifeline. Your vision blurs for a second and you don’t even realize you're crying until you feel the wet chill on your cheek.

There’s only one number your mind reaches for and you don't think. You just call. The line rings twice, then you finally hear his voice and your body relaxes.

“y/n?,“ his voice is rough with sleep. It's so familiar and grounding, you close your eyes for a second.

You don't say anything, you can't yet. You hear him sitting up and the rustling of the sheets.

“’s almost midnight,” he says gently. “You alright?”

„Simon…,“ you plead, voice breaking.

The silence that follows is immediate and sharp. He’s alert now. Fully awake.

“Something...,“ you say as your throat tightens. “Something happened. Can you... I... I need you.” You can’t even string the sentence together. “Can you come get me?”

His answer is instant. “On my way," he says, no questions, no hesitation.

You exhale loudly, like you've been holding your breath for hours. He hears it through the phone and tenses.

“Where are you?”

You give him the name of the place and he hums in acknowledgment, already moving. You hear him putting his jeans on by the sound of his belt.

“I’ll be there in ten,” he adds and his voice is tense with that quiet urgency that only ever comes out when it’s about you.

The call ends and you're left frozen in place, arms hugging yourself tightly again, but the fact that he's coming is enough to keep you grounded.

---------

Seven minutes later he parks half up on the curb, barely cutting the engine before he’s out of the car.

You stand there under the streetlamp, shivering with your arms crossed. Your lips are pale and your eyes are blinking like you're still coming back into your body. The wind picks up your dress, but you don't seem to care.

Simon’s boots hit the pavement hard as he strides toward you. He doesn’t speak at first. He reaches out for you and the moment he's close enough, his hands find your arms with a gentle, concerned touch. He still doesn't say anything, he's simply scanning you.

He’s checking you for injuries. His eyes travel over your face, your arms, the shape of your collarbone, the way your dress clings too tightly to your body. His gaze sharpens as he zeroes in on a red mark at the edge of your jaw. His body stiffens.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice low and controlled. “Anywhere?”

You blink up at him, eyes glossy. “No. I.. no, I’m okay.”

But you're not okay. Of course he knows that. He sees it in the way you're trembling and in the way your voice cracks around the edges.

“I just didn’t know who else to call,” you add, voice shaky.

The steel around his expression softens instantly and his eyes lose their edge. He's wearing the mask.

“You don’t ever need a reason to call me. Y'know that," he says gently but urgently.

You want to explain, but you cut yourself off with a small, choked sound. Your arms wrap tighter around yourself and he notices the way your shoulders shake.

Without a word, Simon pulls off his hoodie, one of those soft, oversized ones he always wears, warm from him still. "Here," he says, as he guides your arms through the sleeves. It swallows you completely.

“Better?” he murmurs.

You nod with big, glossy eyes.

He adjusts your hood gently. "Smell's not too bad?" he asks, half trying to get a smile out of you.

You shake your head quickly, burying yourself inside his hoodie. He knows you love his smell.

“I was sleeping,” he mumbles. “Didn’t even take much time to change. Just… came straight ‘ere.”

Suddenly you start mumbling.

“I... I didn’t think it’d be like that,” you blurt with a shaking voice. “It was just a work event but he... he was... he followed me into this back hallway and I told him no, I pushed him away but he... he still tried, and I...,“ you stutter.

Simon’s face changes, like a switch being flipped: His jaw tightens again, his shoulders straighten, his breath deepens. That low, quiet fire behind his expression, it’s there again, hotter than before. It’s a version of him you've only seen a few times before. The one that comes out when you're in danger or when someone crosses a line.

“He still in there?” he asks. He's calm... too calm.

His body is already angled towards the building, as if he is getting himself ready. You step forward quickly, grab his arm and shake your head slowly, with teary eyes, as if to say: Please don't go inside. Please don't leave me here alone.

You feel his pulse and his heart is pounding. His body feels so unbelievably hot and you feel it, how he is vibrating with restraint. But when he looks at you again, all of that tension eases just slightly. You're still trembling and your eyes are still too glossy to fake composure. You're not okay and he knows it. So instead of turning toward that building, he turns toward you.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you in the car.”

You let him guide you across the sidewalk and to the car, with one hand pressed gently to your back. He opens the door for you and shields you from the world with his massive frame, as he waits until you're seated before closing it with quiet finality.

When he slides into the car, he doesn’t start the engine right away.

“Want me to drive you home?” he asks softly, his hand already on the wheel.

You nod, throat tightening. “Please,“ you whisper.

The car hums to life and as Simon shifts into gear, you lean back into the seat, wrapped in his hoodie, the sleeves too long, the scent of him wrapped around you like a shield. For the first time tonight, you feel warm and safe.

Beside you, Simon drives silently, with a storm raging inside his mind. He doesn’t let go of you once the car stops in your driveway.

"You sure, you're alright?", he asks, one hand still on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh.

"Mhm," you breathe, as you reach for the door handle with a shaking hand. He's obviously not convinced.

“’m walking you up,” he says, his voice low and final, but never sharp. It's a tone you've come to trust completely. A tone you're grateful for tonight.

You lean slightly into the handrail as you climb the stairs, his hand hovering just near your elbow. He's not touching you, but he is close enough to catch you if need be.

When you reach your apartment, you fumble with the key. Simon gently takes it from your hand, unlocks the door and opens it for you like he’s done a thousand times before. Inside, the familiar dimness of your apartment finally folds around you.

He settles you on the couch without a word, grabbing a blanket from the armrest and draping it over your knees. Then he just stands there by the door, big and awkward in your small apartment, like a shadow that doesn’t know where to rest. His hands hover at his sides and his eyes flick over you again. Scanning again, looking for signs of injuries.

You try to smile. “I’m okay. Really. You don’t have to worry, I.. I already feel bad for calling you this late.”

His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t move. “Don’t,” he cuts in. “Don't feel bad. I mean it.”

You look away, rubbing at your wrists, but he sees your shoulders still shaking slightly. How tense they still are.

He crosses the room slowly and sinks down in front of you, kneeling. His knees brush the carpet, while his hands reach up and gently take yours.

His touch is so careful. His palms warm and his fingers are curling around yours like muscle memory.

“y/n,” he starts and looks up at you, his voice is almost too gentle. Your core tightens when his thumb strokes across your knuckle. “You really okay with being alone tonight?”

Your gaze flicks back and forth between his eyes for a moment, searching. Then you nod a little too quickly. "Yes,“ you whisper.

He watches the way you say it, like you want to believe it. Still, he nods in agreement.

“Alright,“ he breathes out and stands up slowly, releasing your hands only when he absolutely has to. And then he turns, stepping toward the door, already planning to sleep in his car, already ready to pace the sidewalk outside like a silent guard dog.

You watch him walk toward the door with his back to you. Your eyes glide over his massive frame, broad shoulders and strong back. Suddenly you feel nauseous at the thought of him leaving you.

He’s just reaching for the doorknob when your voice catches in the air.

“Simon," you cry out more desperately than you meant to.

He turns instantly and his eyes meet yours.

“Can you stay?” you whisper, eyes pleading. “I don’t… I don’t feel safe. Not without you.”

For a moment, he just stands there. Then he takes off his boots silently and moves toward you. He quietly pulls the blanket higher over your knees and sits down on the edge of the couch. He doesn't touch you, but he's close enough and you close the space by leaning your head gently against his arm.

You don’t say much after he settles in beside you. It's just past 2am now. The room is dim, the only light coming from the soft golden glow above the stove in the kitchen. The air is warm and still heavy from what happened hours earlier, but it's slowly loosening its grip.

Simon sits still on the couch, legs stretched out slightly, his body still humming with vigilance. At first he doesn’t lean back fully, not until he sees you stand up quietly, barefoot, taking of his hoodie and tugging the zipper of your dress down with trembling fingers.

You turn away, not out of shame, he's seen your body a thousand times before, he knows it like his own, but out of instinct. Then you slip out of the dress. It falls to the floor in a rustle of fabric. You put his hoodie back on, sleeves long past your fingers, the hem brushing your thighs and breathe in his scent again. You don’t say a word about it, you simply fold the dress neatly and place it on the armchair. When you return to the couch, you move slower, like your limbs are heavier now that you've let the pretense go.

He lifts your blanket without thinking and you slip under it. Then you’re splaying the blanket over him too and tucking yourself into his side without asking. Simon shifts slightly to make space for you, one strong arm wrapping around your shoulder, tucking you in with care. Your legs draw up, your bare feet nudging his jeans and you exhale. Your cheek rests just over his heart and he wonders if you can feel how fast it still beats.

Neither of you speaks and after a while, your breath starts to slow.

At one point, you murmur something too soft to make out and he hushes you gently, fingertips brushing your hairline. You settle again, your face nuzzled into the collar of his shirt. You smell like your perfume and something cold, like the night air still clings to you.

Simon’s eyes stay open. His gaze is fixed on the front door, sharp and unblinking. Every creak of the building, every shift of wind outside draws his attention. His body is still alert, coiled around you like a shield. He doesn’t trust the world right now. He doesn't trust what could find its way back into your life.

But slowly, after long minutes, your warmth and the rhythm of your sleeping breath starts to weigh on him. His hand around you loosens slightly and his jaw unclenches.

Finally, only once he’s sure you're deeply asleep he lets his head fall back against the couch, the tension bleeding from him in quiet waves. He falls asleep watching the door.

--------

The morning stretches slowly across the apartment. The city outside stirs faintly, but in here, it’s still. Simon is already awake.

He hasn’t moved much, not wanting to disturb you. You're still curled into his chest, your legs tangled with his under the blanket, your head tucked beneath his chin. The oversized hoodie has slipped slightly off to the side, exposing the curve of your collarbone to the morning air. His hand, large, calloused and still as stone, rests gently along the dip of your waist, guarding you.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d meant to watch the door all night, but sometime after the quiet of you breath evened out and your fingers stopped twitching from whatever haunted you earlier, he must’ve slipped under with you. And now, he just… doesn’t want to move.

You stir faintly and a small sound escapes your throat as you shift against him, face nuzzling into his chest like it’s instinct. You feel his hoodie, his scent and you're still warm and sleepy, wrapped in the echo of safety.

“God… I have to go to work," you grumble.

Simon’s eyes drop down to you immediately. Your lips are brushing the fabric of his shirt and he feels it like a spark across skin. His jaw clenches.

Work? So that guy will be there?

He doesn’t say it, he doesn’t even blink, but it flashes across his mind in jagged, hard-edged shapes: the image of that man’s hand on you, the way you shook last night, how fragile your voice had sounded on the phone.

Instead, he clears his throat. “I’ll drive you.”

Your brows furrow against his chest and you lift your head slowly, bleary-eyed. “You don’t have to..”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off gently. “Still gonna.”

There’s no room to argue in his tone. He's never aggressive with you, but it’s that quiet, immovable kind of firm that says 'don’t fight me on this'. He’s already untangling himself from the blanket, hands moving carefully to make sure you're warm before he slips out from beneath it. You watch him silently. Suddenly you feel a warmth erupt in your chest. Yesterday.. he's shown you again that he's the only person you have ever felt safe with.

Simon doesn’t say anything about Shawn, but it’s written in the tension in his shoulders, in the flick of his gaze as you get ready for work. Its in the way he keeps watching the clock. He's protective and devoted in a way that doesn’t ask for praise or attention. There is only one thing he demands: No one touches what’s his. Not ever again.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

taglist:

@preeyas-world

@succulambb

@izzycstairs

@mindsofjade

@simonexxx1

@lovelycurls

@clara-geekhime

@kylies-love-letter

@fruitymoonbeams-blog

@syphlno