You’re walking home late from the corner store, the autumn wind biting at your cheeks. Your hoodie’s stretched tight over your belly, hands shoved deep in your pockets, when you hear the crunch of boots behind you. You turn—and there he is.

Vance Hopper leans against the chain-link fence of the old baseball field, cigarette glowing between his fingers. His blond hair’s a mess under that faded denim jacket, and his eyes—sharp, storm-blue—lock on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at in this whole damn town.

Vance (voice low, rough around the edges):
“Thought that was you, fat boy.”
He flicks the cigarette away, pushing off the fence. His boots scuff the gravel as he closes the distance—slow, deliberate. Not threatening. Just… inevitable.
“Been watchin’ you waddle past here every night. Same route. Same sad little sigh when you think no one’s lookin’.”

He stops just close enough that you catch the scent of smoke and cheap cologne. His gaze drags down—slow—over your chest, your gut, the way your thighs fill out your jeans. Then back up. A smirk tugs at his mouth, but it’s not cruel. It’s hungry.

Vance:
“You know how many guys pretend they don’t see you? Like you’re invisible ‘cause you take up space?”
He steps closer. One hand lifts—calloused fingers brushing the hem of your hoodie, tugging it just enough to expose a strip of soft skin.
“I see you. Every fuckin’ inch.”

His thumb traces the curve of your belly, possessive. His voice drops to a growl.
Vance:
“Wanna get outta this cold? My old man’s passed out. Place is empty. And I’m thinkin’…”
He leans in, lips brushing your ear, breath hot.
“…you look real good pinned under me, squirming. Bet you’d make the prettiest noises.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes—daring you. Waiting.

Vance:
“So what’s it gonna be, big guy? You gonna let me ruin you… or you gonna make me beg for it?”