Afab!reader

afab!reader

telling simon to get a hobby was the worst piece of advice price had ever given him. or it could be the best, depending on who you ask.

it was his fault, after all, that simon went out for a walk that day. it was one of the better options that price had suggested to him. start writing, go for a walk, build a fucking birdhouse for all I care. you need to have something to focus on. for your own good.

the forest was quiet, lush greenery dripping from the canopy above him. the telltale sounds of birds and small animals in the leaves accompanied the crunch of rocks and the occasional twig beneath his boots. he had wandered far in, any sounds from the nearby roads had long faded away. it certainly was peaceful, he’d admit that. he was enjoying the solitude – until it was gone.

simon only spotted her because she was wearing a long red skirt, draped across her legs as she leaned with her back against a tree. her head was down, long hair obscuring her face and preventing her from taking notice of him. he stopped in place, a good bit down the trail from where she sat. a bag sat next to her alongside a couple of pencils. she was sketching and he couldn’t help but watch her carefully mapping out the lines of the forest in front of her. she lifted her hand to tuck her hair away from her face and simon ducked into the treeline. blending in seamlessly with the foliage was something that was second nature at this point. just like riding a bike.

from here he could get a glimpse of her face. soulful eyes squinted down at the paper. a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. long, slender nose above her lips, one of which she had pulled between her teeth in concentration. such a soft and delicate thing – and so fucking unaware. a pang of irritation unexpectedly hit him at the thought that someone, a worse man than him – was there one? – could just walk up and grab you, harm you.

something to focus on.

and focus he did. another 10 minutes passed before she started packing her things and heading back down the trail he had just come from. a frown tugged at his lips as she walked past where he was tucked away in the trees, too lost in her own world to notice the dangerous man standing just feet away. this simply would not do.

it was her own fault, he concluded. he wouldn’t have to watch her every day if she didn’t walk around with her head in the clouds as if there wasn’t a possibility of danger around every corner. he wouldn’t have to steal that spare key if she hadn’t kept it under the welcome mat, of all fucking places. he wouldn’t have had to dig a grave for the man he caught trying to pop your kitchen window open in the middle of the night, either.

now this…this was a hobby.

a/n: stalker simon riley the man that you are