hi tumblr! if you're a fan or mutual please read this...if you care about this kind stuff...
i will be archiving this blog! the past year has been so fun and i've come a long way in terms of my writing (as i like to believe) but it's time for a refresh. if you've been here from the beginning hi i love you and thank you and if you've just followed recently hi i love you as well. i will be moving onto a different blog in the near future when writing doesn't feel like such a chore and life isn't taking me by the throat (iykyk)!!!
my series: heaven sent, say you will, natural, lmlylaw (and maybe the runaway bride) will be continuting on ao3 only, but for now consider them to be on a hiatus.
please remember that writing is a hobby for many of us, and naturally we phase in and out of these things. right now, as much as i'd love to write my heart out there's many things demanding my attention and care. this blog saw the start of me trying to take writing a bit more seriously and i am very grateful for that!
anyways this probably isn't at all that deep and i will probably link my new (side)blog here once i make it if you would like to keep following along...my main will stay the same!
hi tumblr! if you're a fan or mutual please read this...if you care about this kind stuff...
i will be archiving this blog! the past year has been so fun and i've come a long way in terms of my writing (as i like to believe) but it's time for a refresh. if you've been here from the beginning hi i love you and thank you and if you've just followed recently hi i love you as well. i will be moving onto a different blog in the near future when writing doesn't feel like such a chore and life isn't taking me by the throat (iykyk)!!!
my series: heaven sent, say you will, natural, lmlylaw (and maybe the runaway bride) will be continuting on ao3 only, but for now consider them to be on a hiatus.
please remember that writing is a hobby for many of us, and naturally we phase in and out of these things. right now, as much as i'd love to write my heart out there's many things demanding my attention and care. this blog saw the start of me trying to take writing a bit more seriously and i am very grateful for that!
anyways this probably isn't at all that deep and i will probably link my new (side)blog here once i make it if you would like to keep following along...my main will stay the same!
hi tumblr! if you're a fan or mutual please read this...if you care about this kind stuff...
i will be archiving this blog! the past year has been so fun and i've come a long way in terms of my writing (as i like to believe) but it's time for a refresh. if you've been here from the beginning hi i love you and thank you and if you've just followed recently hi i love you as well. i will be moving onto a different blog in the near future when writing doesn't feel like such a chore and life isn't taking me by the throat (iykyk)!!!
my series: heaven sent, say you will, natural, lmlylaw (and maybe the runaway bride) will be continuting on ao3 only, but for now consider them to be on a hiatus.
please remember that writing is a hobby for many of us, and naturally we phase in and out of these things. right now, as much as i'd love to write my heart out there's many things demanding my attention and care. this blog saw the start of me trying to take writing a bit more seriously and i am very grateful for that!
anyways this probably isn't at all that deep and i will probably link my new (side)blog here once i make it if you would like to keep following along...my main will stay the same!
CW: pregnancy discussion, smut, angst, hurt no comfort
Masterlist 🦊
How does he tell you?
Certainly, not like this.
Not now as you're spent, draped over him like thick wool. Itching in spots, where your fingers still draw abstract circles at his sides. Warm in others, where your breath puffs over his sweat-slick skin.
There's no way around it, no way that won't crack you open. Leave you bare like a carcass in the woods, ready to be eaten by greedy vultures, peckish wolves.
He can kiss you to alleviate the blow, he can fuck you until you're sated. Full. Perhaps leave an everlasting piece of him within you—with you.
Just a heartbeat at first, then a piercing cry. Utter joy crafted in a perfect patchwork of you and him, and crammed into a tiny, tiny thing who will grow to have your eyes, he hopes.
Like he promised.
A family. You and him, and two more feet padding down the hall. Small hands holding onto thumbs. Lips babbling tender nonsense. His hair, your nose.
Like he promised.
To see your running out of the bathroom and into his arms, plastic stick in hand. Beaming like sunlight, showing two faint lines peeking from that small window carved into the thing—the most beautiful view, the most beautiful landscape.
A pipe dream.
Instead, his hand snakes between your bodies, curls at the base of his softening cock. It's sticky with him, with you. He's not sure he can go again, physically speaking, but he'll bloody well try.
"What are you doing?" You slur, eyes half closed as you rest on his chest.
"Gimme one more, baby," he breathes a sigh, hand pumping a slow rhythm around his shaft. "Jus' one more."
You comply, despite murmuring something about being sleepy, something about him being insatiable, almost greedy.
His cock isn't hard enough when he pushes it inside of you, slipping in easily just because you're still wet, just because there's still his spend dripping out and pooling at his pelvis. The overstimulation is enough to shock his muscles stiff; he feels it, the needle-sharp pain piercing his forehead. Shivers trickle down his spine, a glorious mixture of pleasure and burning pain.
Pain he deserves, so one he takes. He takes every spark that ignites the fire, he takes every blister it'll leave. Every painful twitch of his fingers, dimpling the fat on your hips. Every groan that leaves him when you squeeze around him.
Trembling fingers reach for your clit as you ride him in selfless bliss, sliding up and down to make him feel good instead of you—unbeknownst to you, beautiful girl, that every movement you make is like the crack of a whip. Leaves him bleeding, drowning in pain so good he's not sure whether to curse or pray.
"Fuck," he croaks, perhaps doing both.
He anchors you, then. Flattens his palms in the creases of your hips, where the sharp bone softens at the fat of your thighs, and pushes down. Breath is knocked out of you, head thrown back at the sudden shock.
His cock is hard now. He's felt it grow full of blood as you rode him, engorged inside of you until your cunt turned into a tight fit. Still, his tip feels raw, like he's just dipped it into a fire. And with how dutifully you're taking him, like that's what you were fucking born to do, it just makes it worse.
Maybe it isn't even the overstimulation that weighs him, that turns each stroke you deliver into absolute, searing pain.
It's the guilt.
He starts drawing slow circles on your clit, as his voice instructs your next moves. How to angle your hips and grind them in the way you like. That he wants to see you roll your eyes, pant his name, feel your fingernails rip his chest into shreds.
"Don't want ya to fuck me," he rumbles. "I want ya to fuck yourself on me, alrigh'?"
You follow suit, docile like those soldiers who trailed behind him when he was on the field.
All dead, they are. All of 'em, every single one. Ghosts that haunt him, ghosts that linger in the corner of his eye, gurgling as they choke on acidic jealousy. He's alive, they aren't—why? Their teeth grit constantly, corroded by anger—strident like nails on a chalkboard, constant tinnitus in his ears.
Those days feel so far away, ever since he turned his back to the Crown's wishes, preferring to fulfil yours instead. Give you the life you deserved as he selfishly got the life he's secretly always wanted.
And yet it was all a lie, wasn't it?
You drag your hips along his pelvis, swollen clit right under his thumb—soaked, throbbing, as the skin wrinkles on his pad.
Crescents grow on his chest, left in the wake of your hunger, of your obedience. Perfectly placed, as if you already know where his scars lie—what parts of him you can mark that aren’t already torn.
He hears you curse. A breathless "Shit," that inevitably grows in frequency, rises in pitch. Your brows tighten, jaw hanging open, eyes squished closed.
Telltale signs. He burns it in his retinas, pins it to his brain.
My beautiful girl.
"Yeah, that's it." He breathes. "Go on, love. That's it."
You whimper something, speech too slurred for him to discern what it is. Only when you repeat it does it click.
"'m gonna cum," you moan.
He hums a groan deep from his chest. "Mhmh?"
Your reply is a muted scream that never makes it through.
Your orgasm hits you beautifully. He sees it rise from your thighs to your cheeks, like a rushing river replenishing the soil and branching all the way to your eyes, rolled back.
"There we go." He can only praise you, thumb steadfast on your clit. "Fuckin' gorgeous."
It takes Simon a few jerks of his hips before he's cumming too, while you're still rippling around him in the aftershock of your own bliss.
Though his orgasm isn't as satisfying as yours: to him, it feels like he's drowning in mud instead of syrup. Like he's breathing in sulfur instead of the scent of peaches that he so often associates with you.
You collapse on him, lips finding each other in a clash. He's still inside you as you kiss him, panting in his mouth. Breasts flush to his chest, searing hot and glistening with sweat.
"I love you," you say,
just as he whispers,
"I gotta go."
Horrible timing. Life’s cruel joke. It took everything from him, but it never managed to tear his loyalty from his grasp. A loyalty he longed to swear to you, but had already offered to a greater cause—one that would most likely leave him to bleed out, just another nameless corpse.
He sees it, the flicker of terror in your eyes, masked by the resolve you steel your shoulders with.
"What?"
"I gotta go, swee'heart." He whispers, knuckles to your cheek.
You move away, leaving his hand cold and his heart frozen.
Your eyes are glossy with a sadness so unfathomably deep he can feel it spill inside of him. Yet you don't give it a chance for it to surface—a salted lake utterly vaporized by boiling anger.
Not as gently as he entered you, you pull him out. His dick flops pathetically on his belly, as you crawl backwards and sit between his legs.
Your knees come to touch your chest, and you hide from him, curling your arms at your shins like a shield.
That same body he's touched, kissed, worshipped, now foreign like that of a statue: carved in beautiful marble, made to admire, but not his to touch anymore. Never warm to his fingers again, forever distant. Forever cold.
"You said you were done." You spit his own words back at him, those he told you months back.
And fuck aren't they as sharp as your eyes.
Simon bleeds.
"I did." He nods, seemingly unperturbed. "Price called—"
"Fuck Price." You bellow. Your voice cracks. "You promised—"
A promise you set in stone. If only you knew how brittle the fortress he built for you was.
If only he knew.
"I can't—"
"—you handed over your guns—"
"Love—"
"—you said you'd stay for good. I put my life on hold for you, you—"
"Listen—"
"—bastard! You fuckin' bastard!"
There, he sits up. Quick like lightning.
His fingers grapple your forearm and he yanks you forward until you're kneeling between his legs.
His nose brushes yours, but not in the tender way he remembers: you're not smiling, you're snarling. Your eyes aren't beaming, they're crying.
Still glorious in your fury.
My beautiful girl.
Of loss.
It happens in a handful of seconds, perhaps even less. He screams in your face, like a roar that could shake the earth.
"I can't!"
His characteristic composure vanishes, giving way to a thunder that crackles with frustration. With fear.
You bite back with the same vigour.
He thought he'd gotten used to it. But truthfully, Simon knows you never really do.
You. Wonderful, resilient you—stronger than he's ever given you credit for.
"You can!" You snarl. "There's always a choice Simon, and it's about bloody time you make yours."
Time stills.
Even the clock seems to notice, each ticking subdued.
Rain patters against the window. Thunder cracks somewhere in the distance, flashing light through the room.
He imagines the crackles of a tree burning as it's split open—life exacerbated from it, ashes falling like snow.
"I'm sorry," is all he says.
Your eyes glaze over. A veil drops heavy, thicker than any wall he's ever built. It's exactly like he'd imagined, if not worse: the blood around you and your heart beating raw. Your chest cracked open and the vultures he left you to.
"You never are."
The world shatters—his world does. Ripped open by his own hands, soil under his fingernails as proof.
You leave.
But Simon's not alone, no. He never is. Doomed to unwanted company: the ghosts in each corner, and the Ghost that he is.
cw. suggestive (18+). situationship. simon x f!reader. angst-ish? / requested and suggested piece
#03 shoot | masterlist | #05 guilty pleasure
There are better ways he could be spending his evening.
It’s the thought that runs through Simon’s head as he sits at the bar, opposite a woman that he thought would interest him more than her photos did. Everything she’s said so far has gone in one ear and straight out the other, and at this point he’s struggling to even bother showing his attention.
She chose a darker, lustier bar in the city centre. A place where the light doesn’t reach the corners yet holds a wall of liquors illuminated by a golden glow. The sweater he’s wearing—the nicest thing he owns beside his uniform—still sticks out like a sore thumb, plain compared to the dress she wears.
She's not bad looking. Her hair is done neatly and her tits are perky and her lips are stained a nice fuschia. Things that men should be attracted to. Things that he should find attractive.
Yet he’s completely unbothered by her looks, her personality, and it turns his mood plain. Apathetic. Looking over her shoulder every other minute to the exit.
The only thing he doesn’t feel sorry about is the neat whiskey in his glass, smooth down his throat as hums without thought at something she says.
“So,” she purrs, eyes low and feline, a perfectly manicured hand reaching for his bicep; fingers curling around it as she bites her lip. “What does a big guy like you do?”
Nausea settles at the base of his throat, threatening to spill over as Simon looks down to see her nails sinking, trying to get a grasp of him, squeezing as though the muscle will yield to her. He shifts so her hand falls away.
“Construction.”
The lie is perfectly curated, not a hint of him could give it away.
Her lips press into a thin line, eyes widening, nod slight as her eyes avert him for the first time tonight—unimpressed.
She gets in the Uber without so much as a glance cast his way.
Then it’s rolling down the road, speeding off into the night and away from the curb where Simon is left: confused.
Not because he thought he deserved more from her. The minimal effort and reluctance to recognise any of her preening makes that fact certain. He’d wondered how after two cocktails, the fuck-me-face she was making never seemed to disappear.
Simon is rattled because some part of him knows that he should be disappointed. He should be furious at himself for letting a pretty woman go. A woman who he’s sure has a whole line of men begging and waiting to go out with her; to spend a night making her feel good and then wake up in the bedsheets and think: fuck, she’s the one.
But Simon knows she's not the one. There's not an ounce of sorrow in his body as he takes to walking down the streets alone.
The night chill is cold enough to leave his cheeks rosy, to have him tugging at the lapels of his jacket just to stop it from wrapping around his chest. Manchester is alive in all its dirt and glory; a group of drunk friends stumble about and sing, there's people walking to work and home from work, and the odd man—who like him—walk on the cracked pavements with no intention.
Simon can’t remember the last time he’d simply wandered around like this. Aimless like a fish lost at sea. Moving through crowds gathered around club entries and delivery drivers carrying bags full of food.
The liveliness of it all makes him guilty. Then it makes him yearn.
Price was right all along: Simon needs life beyond the four walls of his office on base and the transport taking him to and from counties which have all become a big blur. Lazy mornings, sleeping in until afternoon, shitty beer and football games at the pub. Company. In the form of a woman whose soft and all too knowing–
The exact one that he’d attempted to push away. Selfishly. One glimpse of you studying him, like you had already pieced together all the details that he had no intention of revealing to you, had him running.
Back to that stupid app. Back to trying to level his needs down purely to lust. His palms go clammy, his head goes dizzy. His throat tightens until it feels much too hard to breathe; suffocating in a penitence and frustration that slowly kills him.
Simon’s fingers are slippery when he digs around his pocket for his tobacco. Rolling it is a fighting effort, unmoving and steady fingers now shaking every few seconds, forcing him to take a deep breath.
The first drag is blissful relief.
Relief which just as quickly dissipates. Sours. The realisation turns his stomach, steps growing heavier, more sluggish as he walks down the amber-lit street. He searches around, trails his eyes over the shops and buildings and people and tries to find something he likes.
Another futile effort.
When he sees a family his eyes burn. When he sees a couple he looks ahead, anywhere else. When he sees another man walking alone he only notices the same lonely despair which has shut him out from the rest of the world for so long.
He doesn’t really notice himself reaching for his phone, swiping through the notifications until he reaches the ones he’s left without reply. Thumb hovering over the screen, his breath catches in his throat as he reads them for the umpteenth time.
Sunday 18:37
> I had fun this weekend.
> Are you free Friday evening?
> Saw this cool pub I wanna go to, I think you might like it.
Tuesday 12:02
> On my lunch break right now. What are you up to?
> Have you thought about Friday?
Yesterday 00:54
> Just let me know what you decide.
In his own self-pity, Simon had said nothing.
But now? There are words on the tip of his tongue that he’s not quite sure how to form. Things that he’s not quite sure will make sense if he says them aloud. His chest is bursting with this strange need—the longing to have someone speak to him as an equal. As a friend.
It takes four rings for you to pick up.
“Hellll-o?” Your voice cracks in the speaker, but it still releases all the pressure building in his throat, gulping heavily on his end before he says anything.
“Hey.” He pauses for a second before deciding to add your name.
“Simon?” There's a crunch of something close to the speaker, a rustle of what sounds like plastic. He hums and then: “Shit– One second.”
Simon can hardly make out the sounds on the other end of the phone but he imagines you anyway: Curled on the sofa with a packet of crisps and a dip, one of those lousy reality shows droning on the TV, a blanket draped over your lap.
“Hey!” Your voice is a fluster, a whirlwind of energy. Simon sees you pushing a stray hair away from your face after failing to blow it away with your lips pursed. “Long time no speak, mister! I was beginning to think you were just like the others.”
I’m so much worse, he thinks. If only you knew.
“Sorry,” he says instead. “I got…busy.”
“Don’t suppose it was that job of yours?”
“No, no.” He sighs, pulls his cigarette again. “Personal stuff.”
“I see,” you drag the vowel, and it turns your tone contemplative; suspecting. It makes Simon impossibly jittery. “I’m sorry, I’m not really ready to go out if that’s why you called.”
“Don’t worry,” he rushes. “I didn't expect tha’–” The hand holding his nearly finished cigarette brushes over his forehead, nervous sweat gathered along the brow bone. “I should’ve replied.”
I just wanted to hear a voice that wasn’t my own.
“Ah, don’t stress yourself.” You huff a laugh which makes him feel just slightly lighter. “Have you had something to eat yet?”
“No.”
“Well why don’t you grab something and come over? There's a nice Chinese place down my road, and I'm just about to start a movie.”
The suggestion leaves him tongue-tied, speechless and nonplussed.
Today, tonight—hell, this past week—he’s been the worst to you. Ignored you and went out of his way to try and get with a different woman because he was too insecure to face the fact that the more time he spent with you, the more you would know him.
Yet you’re here, on the other end of the line, offering an olive branch to him that you’re not even aware of. Saving him from a night of chewing at the insides of his cheeks and the thoughts torturing him. Is he enough? Did he do enough? Does he deserve any of this?
“Simon?” The call of his name sounds half-worried, something lingering around the syllables that he can’t pin point.
Simon takes the final drag of his cigarette, resigned as he chucks it to the floor and crushes it with his shoe; ignores the flicker of hope in his chest.
“I’ll be over in twenty minutes?”
Somehow he can hear your smile through the receiver.
“See you then.”
a/n. i'm gonna be so for real guys, this is not my best work but i can only hope it's substantial enough so i can get to the next part heh...reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3
hi there! some of you may have seen this poll before but i'm going to ask again since there's more people around reading say you will now...
giving "reader" an explicit job is helpful in terms of plot for some of the ideas i have in mind...and if it was voted vague there might still be times that the job i have in mind is alluded to....but i would just like to get a scope of what people think!
hi there! some of you may have seen this poll before but i'm going to ask again since there's more people around reading say you will now...
giving "reader" an explicit job is helpful in terms of plot for some of the ideas i have in mind...and if it was voted vague there might still be times that the job i have in mind is alluded to....but i would just like to get a scope of what people think!
thinking about Johnny’s bird being possessed by a succubus, and him needing a little extra help.
you’d been a good girl, too.
patient like a clock, the tail end of ribbons and made from the middles of cotton. wore a perfume because you noticed Johnny’s fondness for sunflowers and their scents.
a just barely prude. “not here, johnny, please.” you’d chide politely when he’d hold your thigh in public restaurants. look away when he’d fuck you, blush when he told you that you looked pretty.
so it came to him as a deep, albeit welcomed, surprise when you mounted him one evening, saying with all the bravado he never knew you had,
“I need your cum inside me, Johnny.”
and then it got weirder. sweet girl who went to church on sundays, now preferred to sleep in after a night of sex, before waking up and asking for another round. stopped wearing the perfume, but good god you started smelling even better without it.
he scoured the internet for answers. sent queries only to receive virtual pats on the back and “enjoy it, man. got lucky.”
his mother was the superstitious of the family, but it seeped into the forefront of his mind after the third week, when you started glowing when you came.
it was a clumsy way to find out. told you he filled the water bottle with holy water when it was millimeters away from your lips. when you dropped the bottle immediately, he squinted and asked what you were. you’d grinned, and answered in a way that made his stomach knot.
but he accepts it. you’re still there, if only half. appear in the new table flowers, or the kisses between rounds. does his best to navigate the new reality of his girlfriend sharing sentience with a demon.
realizes he cannot keep up.
ghost is first. bends you over the pillow he placed under your hips (his only nicety) before fucking you back to oblivion. gaz comes second, kissing you sweetly, a contradiction to the way his hips ruin your cunt in swift, harsh thrusts.
and john price, ever the patient, lets you ride your last grievances out on his cock in his office, cooing you through it all as his men watch from leather chair and nicotine respites.
the sticky routine lasts about a month, before the demon decides she’s had quiet enough, tuckered out and belly full of cum, and makes for an Irish goodbye.
but you, the poor, fawnish girl she left behind, still has four cocks primed for her cunt, and a need that she cannot put out.
johnny strokes you through your first (sentient) taking of simon, whispering in your ear,
“ken ye can do ‘t, hen. done it before, s’well, too.” you sob when he knobs the first inch in, and johnny drawls, “our little hellion.”
gaz fucking you stupid in prone position and then ♡creampie♡ (gn reader?)
goooodddddddd yeah.
the citrus is overwhelming.
not that you’re complaining, missed the thick scent of his body wash for the weeks he was gone. used it on yourself- must have been what set him off. he wanted to prove nothing measures up to when he’s got you on your stomach, arms caging you in as he grinds against your ass and it burns under your nostrils.
lowers his chest onto your back and you sob into the pillow. your hole is spent, shaking from an umpteenth orgasm as the sheets below you are soiled with slick and sweat. but much like everything else- his self restraint is smug. just like his voice when he says,
“aw baby, doin’ so well f’me. smell myself on you- missed this huh?”
his pace picks up and you grip the sheets like it’s the life line that could pull you back to sanity, but he yanks you back against his hips before you get close. “missed my cock, hm? needed a reminder of who fills you up?”
he groans when your hole squeezed him, hips bucking in a stutter, before he flattens himself on you and you feel his cock swell in your hole and-
“w-wait wait kyle..ah.. you’re gonna-“
“cmon now baby, know y’want it- need me outside as much as…fuck…you do..”
ropes of hot cum fill you up, and your moans swallow his.
