Stock photos of Basic Fun retro Totally Rad Firefly and Starshine! They have crimped hair, brighter colors (and a new pose in the case of Starshine), legwarmers, and a scrunchie!
The other two ponies in this set (Moonstone and Skydancer) are scheduled to be released in a later wave.
cw: Ghost lowkey being a creep, brief illusion to Ghost's backstory, death, blood, spit
Before Simon could trust you enough to pull up his mask, his kisses were always through the damn mask. It didn’t matter if the material scratched your skin or felt uncomfortable against your lips; nor did it matter if it leaves a dark damp spot around where his lips would be. He liked it even, leaving his mask on just to wear the smell of you like a cologne.
He huffed like a quiet silent laugh when you pointed it out, said he was being weird.
He shrugged.
There was something strangely intimate yet frustrating in the way he’d insist on kissing you through the mask at every opportunity he got. To your surprise, he does, in fact, love kissing, maybe even too much.
Sometimes he would open his jaw before he kisses you, holding your chin in place so you can see the way the wool stretches opened, his eyes are half-lidded but they’re focused on you.
Like a beast showing his fangs, except you don’t see them.
You feel them.
It pulls against the fabric, itching and struggle to fight against the barrier of the mask, sharp pointy surfaces dragged along your skin. He unhinges his jaw far enough to devour your lips whole, love it when you gasp and tried to pull away, only for him to grip your neck, palm squeezing your waist like a silent warning.
He growls and rumbled deep in his chest, the vibration sending shivers down your spine, he makes sure you feel it, pressing his body close to you, and he drags his head up and down across your face, huffing and nibbling your skin, leaving a wet trail behind.
Like a satiated wolf.
The day he finally lifted the mask to kiss you properly, you almost laughed from disbelief. For all the secrecy, for all the teasing his friends—the rowdy military bunch, his family, had thrown your way about the horrors his mask might conceal, his face was almost... ordinary. He looked like a regular bloke from Manchester, the kind you’d pass on the street without a second glance, often the ones who had the stare that makes your hair stand up. Sure, there were faint scars—a thin line across the bridge of his nose, a small nick on his forehead—but nothing like the grotesque imagery you’d imagined. His chin carried a hint of scruff, spiky and coarse, the kind that scratched against your skin when the angle was just a bit off. You stared at him, insulted by the simplicity of his appearance, and he gave you one of those smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkling as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.
“Disappointed, darlin’?”
When Simon kissed you after months away on deployment, it was as if he’d been wandering a desert, parched and hopeless, finally stumbling upon an oasis, a fresh pond of sweet nectar. You don't get a warning before his lips crashed into yours with a force that bordered on desperation, his hands slipping through your hair, tugging and pulling gently as if to tether himself to reality. All groans and grunt, all growls and bites, pulling away, watching the strings of saliva connecting them. He kissed like the world might end the second he pulled away.
It would. Something in his head said. Voices buzzing, repeating, leaking out his ears, the syllabus tightening around his neck, mumbling something like they'll end up like you, like your mother, you're pulling them into death, always ruining the lives of others—
When he had his fill, when the adrenaline, the noises in his head quiet down enough, he leans down and lays a gentle peck on your forehead, purring something like an apology.
Indeed, there are other times when his kisses were featherlight, tentative, as though afraid he might break you, that he was handling a precious glass sculpture that was you. It was this maddening duality that made you dizzy—the gentleness of a man who’d seen too much pain, juxtaposed with the raw hunger of someone who’d been starved of touch, of sweet things like you.
Then there was the peculiar way Simon fixated on your lower lip. You’ll know it when he pauses a few second too long, eyes blown out and his breath are slow and deep, heavy. He’d tug it gently into his mouth, rolling the soft flesh between his lips lazily. He’d hold your jaw, drifting his bare rough palm down the side of your jugular, squeezing, holding you still, guiding you into the position he wanted, breaking into a mean smile when you protest weakly and writhe around. Sometimes he’d suck on it like a pacifier, his tongue tracing its contour, making you squirm under his touch. Inevitably, saliva would gather and trickle down your jaw, but Simon never seemed to mind.
“Makin’ a mess f’ me, hm?” He grumbled, like he didn’t spit on your lips just seconds ago, mixing your taste with his, slobbering, sticky and disgusting.
Bastard, you think of him, the way he found a quiet kind of joy in this indulgence. Perhaps it was the way your lower lip would puff up, rosy and swollen, making you look extra pouty. Or maybe it was how your nose would scrunch in mild annoyance, your cheeks flushing under his teasing smirk. He loved riling you up, alternating between gently pulling your lip and giving it a playful bite, pulling it like a puppy with its favourite bone. His teeth would graze the tender flesh, leaving the faintest sting, just enough to make you gasp. He’d laugh at your reaction, his voice low and gravelly with a teasing lilt in his tone. For shits and giggles, he’d let you feel the faint scrape of his canines, murmuring something cheeky about marking you.
“My favourite chew toy.” he coos when you whined, clicking his tongue and tutting lowly, shaking his head before he goes back to biting your lips.
You try not to remember the feral glint in his eyes when he tasted copper one time, how he let out a guttural moan, licking away the red slowly, only stopping when you nudged him away.
You catch the same stare sometimes when he sunk his canine just a tad bit deeper, watching your reaction, as if waiting for your permission for him to draw blood again.
