#ghost loves rose

[ghost-proofbaby]

me: i can be normal about another jq character with a name that starts with e. i swear i can.

rose: you fuckin THOUGHT

no, but seriously. how do you write like this??? how do you write in a way that feels like a slow creeping fire??? like a hug you never want to end??? TEACH ME YOUR SECRETS SOUP.

i fucking lost it at the billie holiday admission, and all that picturing slow dancing with him. a literal cavern of yearning just opened up in my chest. DAMN YOU. DAMN HIM. DAMN EVERYTHING.

but actually not damn you, and not damn this. this was incredible. thank you 🖤🖤🖤

easy living

pairing: eric (a quiet place: day one) x fem!reader

summary: You ran into Eric on accident. Now you're facing the end of the world together. How do you get to know someone when you can't make a sound?

tags: smut, oral (f receiving), dry humping, piv sex, silent fucking, angst, hurt/comfort, survival, discussions of trauma, slight suicidal ideation by reader, words of affirmation as a love language, stay silent or die (obviously), strangers to lovers, apocalyptic, the cheesiest ending bc it's me writing, billie holiday lyrics bc it's also me writing

a/n: here it is, the silent fucking fic i promised y'all a year ago when this movie was announced. it was supposed to be like 1-2k words of plain smut but then I got too into the theory of what one does when you can't show affection through words and I genuinely discovered a tidbit of trauma I didn't know I had while writing it so I will be talking to a therapist about it, and also I'm literally out here baring my soul lol.

i also want to thank @bigtiddythanos @raraeavesmoriendi and @maximoffwxnda for supporting me throughout this writing process <3 this fic literally would not have been finished or published without y'all

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

The rain has ended. Morose, you stare up at the ceiling, wondering when you’ll get something close to free reign with your voice again. 

Of course the world had to end while you were at fucking Whole Foods.

You’ll miss certain things. Things you always took for granted, that you never even considered made a lot of noise until now. Typing on the computer. Making stir fry. Microwaving a burrito at 3am. Lighting a match, washing your face. Taking a shower.

And other things, too, that are more obvious, like singing while making cookies. Slurping the bottom of a milkshake. You’ll never be able to have a pet bird. You’ll never be able to see another concert again, and damn it if you didn’t really want those Glastonbury tickets a month ago. But it all just seems trivial, now. You don’t see why you shouldn’t just lay here on the couch forever. 

On the other side of the coffee table there’s a gentle shuffling. Eric rouses as quietly as he can; at the very least, your apartment creates a hospitable enough environment that he isn’t startled awake. It’s so silent in the apartment that you can hear the slight shift in his intake of breath, the rustle of the pillow as he turns his head to look at you. 

You want to look at him, but you fear that you’ll end up wanting to talk. So, you say nothing. You do nothing. You stare at the white paint on the ceiling and you wonder whether it would be better to get on one of the boats headed out into the water, or to move inland, away from people, away from sound. There has to be somewhere far enough away from the city that the… creatures won’t go, right?

Eric waves his hand in your periphery, so that you have no choice but to acknowledge that you know he’s awake. You have no choice but to turn your head and look into the depths of his eyes, and feel all the pain of the last 48 hours return to you. You’d been able to talk last night, just enough, in time with the rain and the thunder– enough to learn that he has family across the world. 

You can’t imagine knowing that somewhere, across an ocean and half a world away, your parents may or may not be dead. No way to contact them, no way to know what’s become of them. You can’t even begin to fathom the fear that he’s feeling, as much as you’re despairing. 

Eric’s big eyes tell you everything. Sadness and fear, and trying to grasp at the smallest hint of normalcy he can get. He blinks at you, and mouths, You okay?

No, you’re definitely not okay. Things are not okay. Things are broken and can’t be fixed. Things will never be the same again. He knows that, as much as you know that. But you nod anyway, even though you feel your heart beat a little bit slower than usual, like it wants to just go ahead and give up already. Tears prick at your eyes, and you have to close them before you let on that you’re lying.

Eric knows you’re lying, of course. How could anyone be okay, in this kind of situation? But he waits until you open your eyes, and then he mouths, Coffee?

You let out a small sigh of relief, and a smile that’s indescribably warm crosses your face. Even though he can’t make a sound, he knows exactly what to say.

You don’t have a coffee maker that doesn’t also make a ton of noise. But through some kind of witchcraft, Eric quietly empties two k-cups into a glass measuring cup and boils a soup pot full of water on the stove, and suddenly you have hot coffee in front of you. 

On a notepad left on the counter, you write, Wish I had some tea for you. 

Eric’s lips turn up at the edges, and he takes the pen from you. You’re able to doctor your coffee for about one second before he slides the notepad back to you.

Bloody American.

Your ensuing huff of a laugh is enough to make him turn pink around the ears, and he turns to place the dirty measuring cup into the sink. He reaches for the faucet, but then thinks better of it. You’ll have to figure out how to wash the dishes later.

You both drink your coffee in silence on the couch. You never considered yourself uncomfortable with silence; you’ve lived alone, you’ve gone for weeks without uttering a word before. But it’s so difficult to be sitting next to someone– someone you feel you could really get to like– and not be able to say a word. To make a sound, laugh or cry or snort or grunt. 

You’ll never be able to know what Eric’s laugh sounds like, or listen to his favorite song with him, or watch some stupid rerun of Friends with him while ignoring your responsibilities. He’s right there next to you, he’s risked his life to save you once already, and yet he’s so far away. You’ll never get to know him in all the ways you want to. Will you ever really know him at all?

He’d created a diversion when one of the fucking things had you trapped in a corner, between a dumpster and a brick wall. He chucked a rock at a car and set off an alarm, and then ran with you down an alleyway, his arm wrapped tight around your waist. Eric looked so sad, following you like a lost puppy. He was fucking drenched, too, so you know he’d probably been through one hell of a morning. And then the rain started, and the creatures were confused and… well, you weren’t just gonna leave him, scared and alone.

You, too, were scared and alone.

Eric’s hand appears to brush away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek, betraying your internal monologue. You look to him with puffy eyes, and he pulls his hand away, suddenly unsure of whether you’re okay with such an intimate gesture. 

Your coffee cup meets the table with a quiet tap. You’re slow to move, but you scoot towards him, his arm still outstretched towards you, his eyes wide. Eric has the prettiest eyes in the world, you think. You want to tell him so.

But you’re a little too choked up to form words, anyways. Your forehead meets Eric’s shoulder, and his arm comes around you before you can huff the first silent sob that brims up. He coos softly into your hair, so softly that you can barely hear it, but it conveys enough. It does enough. 

The world is fucked. Your life is fucked. You have tunnel vision and you can only see things getting worse from here on; the only good thing you know anymore is holding you and caressing your head so gently that it pushes your tears out for you. 

You’ll never get to see a movie in a theater, and smell the stale popcorn again. You’ll never drive down the highway with the wind in your hair. You’ll never ride a roller coaster or sing karaoke. You’ll never go to a club and have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger in a bathroom.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” You whisper, so faintly that it’s barely above a breath, your lips pressed to the shell of his ear. “To try to exist in a world where you have to pretend like you don’t exist?”

Eric pauses, holding you to him. You can see the wheels turning in his head, while he tries to figure out what to say. Then he turns his face to put his lips against your ear, the same way you’d done to him. 

“I think it’s worth it to try to survive.” His breath tickles your skin when he whispers, “So survive with me, yeah?”

You nod solemnly, your tears threatening to rise up again. “I can’t stand not talking to you.” It’s so hard to keep your voice from cracking, from rising above the merest hint of a whisper, directly to him and no one or nothing else. 

Eric takes it in stride. “You are talking to me.” He pulls back and bats his eyelashes, and you think, he oughta fucking know what that does to me. 

“Not like this,” you breathe to him, because that’s really what it is– it’s a breath. A sigh. A gust of air and nothing else, barely anything that registers on your vocal chords. Your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. His hand, tightening on the middle of your back, holding you there. “I want to talk– I want to get to know you.” 

“Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Eric turns his head. His forehead nudges yours at the temple, and you swear you see a flash of a smile on his face. “What do you want to know?” 

His forefinger traces up and down, up and down, a gentle pattern that keeps you grounded. You bite your lip, trying to keep from letting the sounds come out too loud. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Easy Living. Billie Holiday.” 

“You’re kidding.” You’re blushing, hot in the cheeks. You’re imagining it; slow dancing in the kitchen with him while oldies plays on the radio. You didn’t think such an innocent question would send you spiraling like this, but it hurts worse to know that it will probably never happen.

“Absolutely not.” 

“Somehow… I can’t picture you listening to jazz.” 

“Picture it all you want,” he whispers. Eric swallows, and continues, “My granddad used to have these records, and we used to play them on Christmas. But when– when he died, the records went missing. I couldn’t find the song until a couple years ago,” he explains, and his voice cracks just slightly into a murmur. 

You both freeze. You wait for the sound of creatures coming down the hallway, busting down the walls… nothing happens. You let out a breath, and you pull his face closer to yours. His eyes flick over your face, and you put your lips against his ear. 

“You have to be so quiet. Can you do that for me?” Eric nods in your hands. “I wish we could do anything but this. I wish that we could have met in better circumstances. I wish… I wish I had known you before all of this. I think we would have had a lot of fun. But if this is the only way I can get to know you, and hear your voice now, I’ll take it.” You’re nodding as well now, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “I’m telling you this because I don’t know how long we have. Together, I mean. And I don’t want to waste it passing notes. Okay?” 

“Okay.” He sounds clipped. His hand fidgets on your back, and you pull away to find him misty-eyed, his brows turned up. He fishes for words that don’t come, and then he nods. “Okay.” 

Neither of you move. The atmosphere around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing in on all sides. Eric’s hand slides up your back and to your face, and you remember that you’re still holding his. You’re near sitting in his lap with how close you’ve become, and the realization of that feels like a punch to the gut.

You think you should pull away. You don’t. 

Eric’s thumb traces a gentle arc across your bottom lip. It’s so featherlight it’s barely there– his eyes are honed in on your mouth, clearly lost in thought. You’d let him stay there as long as he wants, but you want every minute you can get. “Eric–”

He closes the gap and kisses you. The way you’d said his name– or not said it, rather, you sort of mouthed it against his thumb– had done the job you wanted it to. It feels like this was the obvious conclusion to the system you’d worked out, the close proximity and your shared fears. He’s scared, he said as much last night. You’re scared, you said so just now. 

Nowhere to go, nothing else to do except be right here, living. Alive, together. Kissing Eric, and him pulling you close by the waist, so that you do swing your leg and seat yourself in his lap. And as much as you love talking, and it breaks your heart that you can’t jabber at him, there are some things you just can’t put into words. Like the way that his hand on the back of your neck lights you up inside, or that you can’t think of anything other than all the areas where his skin is touching yours, and how you suddenly wish there was way more of them.

It’s stupid how much you like him already, really. You can feel your nonexistent friends clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, saying, “One day? That’s all it takes? You find some guy at the end of the world and you fall in love in 24 hours?” And they’d be right– maybe it’s not love. Not yet, anyways. But you could see it easily becoming that. And that fact scares you even more.

Your hands find Eric’s chest and the frantic beating of his heart tells you nearly the same thing. You break the kiss, trying to quietly catch your breath without gasping like you’re half-drowning. It’s harder than you expected. 

“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Eric whispers. And just like that you’re falling again, faster this time, like he’s just melted your wings right off and sent you plummeting.

You struggle to keep from gasping aloud when he kisses your jaw, just beneath your ear. It’s the lightest touch but you swear it burns, sears your skin. 

Your hands find the back of the couch, twitchy fingers digging in to keep you steady. Your mouth finds his again, his tongue tasting of coffee, and Eric kisses you a bit harder now, a bit sloppier. 

Breaking away, you open your eyes to find his wide, starstruck, his mouth hanging open like he’s been shocked beyond belief. You didn’t honestly intend for this to happen– you wanted to talk. But somehow this seems better, more appropriate. 

How do you get your feelings across when talking isn’t really an option? When innocent attraction becomes… whatever this is? 

You press a single finger to his plush lips, signaling exactly what you mean without a word. Quiet. 

Eric purses his lips, kisses your finger without breaking eye contact. His pupils are blown out so far that the barest hint of golden brown surrounds them, glinting in the sunlight from the window. 

You lean forward, until your mouth touches his ear. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Eric,” you whisper to him, and your teeth latch onto his earlobe to tug gently. You can’t help it– you grind your hips down into his lap, without even thinking of doing it. “You’re so pretty.”

Eric whimpers. It’s a soft sound, hollow in the back of his throat, but it’s still too loud for the world that you’re in. You clamp your hand down over his mouth, and his breath comes out sharp and hot over your knuckles as he tries to regain composure.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask him, whispering gently in his ear. Against you, he shakes his head no. “Want me to keep going?” Eric nods his head yes. 

He’s shaking under you, his fingertips digging into your lower back like he can’t hold onto you hard enough. At the thought, your pulse pounds, blood positively humming through your veins. 

You nuzzle his cheek, and give him the sweetest kiss you can while your hand is still clamped over his mouth insistently. “You have to be. Fucking. Silent. Do you understand?” He nods. “We can’t make a sound. Okay?” 

Eric nods again, and keeps nodding until you let him go. If the rain was still pouring like earlier, you could tell him how much you want him, too. How you don’t want to be mean, you just don’t want to get hurt. This is a bad idea, all things considered. But Eric slides his hand down and cups your ass to lift you up a bit, and the words bad and idea suddenly fucking vanish from your vocabulary.

You stand long enough to kick off your sweats, your day old panties going down with them. You hadn’t dressed to be sexy yesterday, you dressed to get groceries. You don’t necessarily want Eric to see your faded cotton underwear with the stretched out elastic and multiple frayed holes. You don’t think it would add to your sex appeal right now. 

He doesn’t notice the lack of a strip tease– he’s already taking you by the hips, not even waiting for you to shuck your t-shirt. He pulls until you’re stood in front of him, and then hooks your leg over his shoulder. 

So. Eric doesn’t need to be asked to go down on you, he just does. The gentleman. His hands are firm on your ass as he nuzzles into the patch of hair between your legs, and the precarious balancing act makes you snatch onto the back of the couch again. 

His tongue glides through the folds of your pussy slowly, methodically. You aren’t sure if he wants to take his time, or if he’s going slow so that he doesn’t make too much noise when doing it, but he latches onto your clit and sucks agonizingly softly, like he knows he should do it harder but won’t risk making you moan. 

It’s so gentle, and it builds. Pretty soon, you’re having a tough time keeping your whimpers in, even when he’s basically just teasing you, flicking his tongue over your clit with even the barest pressure. Your head has fallen back on your shoulders, your hand now clasped over your own mouth to stifle your sighs. 

Then, Eric’s hand glides up to splay across your lower back, and he sucks long and hard at your clit, and your hand squeezes murderously at the back of the couch while you ride out your orgasm on his tongue. 

Knees buckling, you collapse into Eric’s lap. He has a doe-eyed look on his face that’s way too innocent after what he just did to you. With panting breath and shaking hands, you cup his rosy cheeks in your palms, shaking your head in disbelief. 

Eric’s brows tilt in worry, like he did something wrong. He opens his mouth, but you put your fingers against his lips to silence him, and lean forward to breathe, “You’re too sweet for me, Eric.” 

He traces his fingers lightly up your spine, and turns his head. “Maybe one day I won’t have to be sweet. Maybe then I can really fuck you.” 

The sound of his whispering voice in your ear makes you shiver, your lust reaching a boiling point. The idea of him really fucking you– that this isn’t even him as normal, that he’s having to hold so much back– makes you burn hot all at once. That this isn’t something he’s planning on doing once. That there’s a ‘one day’ that he sees in the future with you in it. 

With a nod, your breath catches in your throat. You find your way to his mouth again, kissing him desperately. You can taste yourself lingering on his lips, and your hips rock forward against his again. 

Eric inhales sharply, stifling his own moan. You guess you have to take it just as slowly as he did, ease him into it. You work your hand beneath his unbuttoned fly and palm him, keeping your touch gentle against his hot skin. He shakes, his hands laid out against your spine, his eyes sparkling when he looks up at you. 

You push your forehead against his as you sink onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his size. His breath stutters as he tries to keep quiet, small puffs of air spilling out and meeting your electrified skin. You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, rocking your hips just barely, settling into his lap. 

This is more intimate than you can ever remember being with anyone, but right now it just feels right. Maybe it could be cathartic to fuck like a couple of animals in the face of doom, but Eric pulls your body flush against his, one strong forearm around your waist, and his nose nudges yours, and you think this is better. This is what you both need. Closeness. Sweetness. 

There isn’t a lot of movement– you can’t risk it. You and Eric seem to be in agreement on that, because as soon as you start trying to move in earnest, he just pulls you back to him, his arm around your waist and his hand petting the back of your head. 

Eric rocks his hips up into yours slowly, deeply, and it’s the depth of it and the slow sensuality that keeps you floating. Your clit catches on the patch of hair at the base of his cock each time you roll your hips with him, and you have to kiss him to keep from keening aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind it. 

You know he’s close when he tucks his face against your neck, his arm tightening around you. “Feels so fucking good,” comes his whine in your ear, and you gently shush him, your hand resting on the back of his head to keep him muffled against your shoulder. You want so badly to look at his face when he cums, but there’s that pesky issue of staying alive, and that hinges on whether or not he can keep quiet when he does. 

To his credit, he bites your shoulder and only whimpers a little bit. It’s just a squeak, but really, he could have been much louder about it, and then you would have both been in trouble. Imagine having to run for your life with your pants down. 

Ever the gentleman, he keeps you there even after he’s spent and sensitive, his hand clamped down on your thigh to prevent you from moving. His thumb finds your clit, and he lifts his head to watch you, his hooded eyes trained on your face as he brings you to the edge and over it again. He watches the way your brows tilt up, the way you struggle to keep your own eyes open, and the silent moan that threatens to break past your parted lips.

Eric claps his hand down over your mouth before it can. Your eyes fly open, your cunt clenches down around him, and he bares his teeth as you cum hard. It’s cyclical, comes in waves as he continues to stroke you through it, as he keeps his hand clamped down on your mouth to keep you quiet. 

To keep you quiet. 

Feverish and exhausted, you come down with your chest against his, Eric’s head flopped back onto the backrest of the couch. Your knees fucking hurt and you have yet to get off of him, and you sort of dread the moment when you have to. But this means your mouth is positioned right next to Eric’s ear, and you’re nothing if not a talker.

“Eric?” you whisper, and he turns his head just enough to let you know he heard you. “I’m glad that I met you when I did. Even if it’s terrible timing, I’m glad we met.”

A sweet, tired smile flits across Eric’s beautiful face. He nudges his nose against your temple. “I’m glad, too.” 

You shift off of him, and he squeezes your thigh just at the same time as he scrunches his face. He’s such a trooper about it, you kiss his cheek as you go, leaning over to grab a pair of earphones from the coffee table. 

You hand one ear bud to him, watching as confusion crosses his face. He watches you type on your phone as he tucks the bud into his ear, and you the other. 

On low volume, you listen to the soft piano and saxophone intro to an old jazz standard. Eric grins, his hand finding your cheek before he pulls you in for a kiss. 

And then, Billie Holiday’s voice plays for only you two to hear. 

Living for you is easy living, It’s easy to live when you’re in love And I’m so in love, There’s nothing in life but you.

[galactic-rhea]

More silly Luke Skysilverfoxwalker doodles

in my mind, almost nothing of the sequels is canon, but Luke is still grumpy and somewhat depressed, his dad tries to help tho

[disgustingtwitches]

A Rose in Harlem

Simon Riley is an enigma—a brooding, complex man with a shadowed past that he can’t escape. You’re just an ordinary person until he claws his way into your life and you can't help but give in to him. The only problem is that you try to keep things casual, while Simon's never been one to settle for that.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete, when no one else ever cared.

Masterlist

PART 3

(He longs to be) Close to you

***

You freeze, heart pounding, the moment shattered. Who the fuck is that? You think to yourself, panic creeping in. Another knock then a familiar, playful voice from the other side of the door.

“Bitch! I know you're home!”

“Oh my God. Ishta.”

You completely forgot about your little watch party with her. This can't be happening now. Of course it's happening right now.

“Hm, that a girlfriend I don't know about?”

Simon murmurs, nuzzling his face to your neck.

“You need to go.”

Your voice is low, urgent, but it only seems to amuse him. His hands wrap around your waist, pumping his hips upwards, rubbing himself against your soaked underwear.

“What, you're kicking me out? Just like that?”

He nips at your neck, making you yeep. He tightens his hold, long arms locking you in.

You tense, trying to wiggle from him but him and his stupidly defined arms aren't budging.

“I'm serious; you need to leave, now.”

You twist in his arms, your anxiety growing as Ishta's knocking gets louder. She's never been patient.

You can feel his lips curve into a smile.

“You're tense, should relax a bit.”

“Relax?! Oh my God, I'm gonna kill you.”

You snap in a hushed tone, yanking yourself free (well, more like he finally relents and lets you go). You tug your shorts up while he follows suit, much more leisurely than you. He quips while letting you drag him towards the fire escape,

“Can't believe I'm the other woman, thought I was special, angel.”

“You're not making this easy.”

“Mistresses rarely do.”

Simon smirks, while you pull him to the window. Ishta knocks again, louder this time.

“Stop jerking off, the ice cream is melting!”

Simon snickers and you push him through the window onto the fire escape. His large frame steps out, stretching out while he turns to you.

“What? No kiss goodbye?”

“Simon!”

He doesn't budge until you lean out the window, planting a quick, chaste kiss on his scared lips. His hand cups the back of your neck, practically shoving his tongue down your throat, before you wrench yourself away.

“Bye.”

The words come out harsher than you mean while you shut the window, watching him slip into his place, not trusting him to sneak back into yours.

Ishta's voice whines from behind your front door. You smooth out your clothes, pasting a sheepish, wide smile. You take a deep breath before opening your door.

“Hey girl! Sorry I-”

“Was jerking off thinking about your neighbor? I know girl. Get that nut in friend.”

She empties her tote, sets some wine bottles down and grabs two cups from the kitchen before bending to sit on the couch. You wince watching her try to sit where his bare ass was.

“Oh! No don't-”

She looks at you curiously, frozen mid-squat— your brain scrambling to find something remotely plausible.

“I spilled tuna juice there earlier.”

She narrows her eyes at you, searching your face. She must be satisfied with what she sees because she shrugs and moves to the other side.

“Can't smell fishy. Got a date later.”

She pops open a bottle, pouring a generous amount into each cup. You grab the one she offers and take a seat on the arm of the couch.

“A date, huh? Is it that finance guy from last month?”

She rolls her eyes, turning on the TV.

“Oh God, no. He was so fucking annoying, trust fund baby.”

You laugh a little, grateful for her not pressing you on the couch thing.

“So who's the lucky guy?”

She waves her hand vaguely, her attention already on the TV, looking for a show.

“Met him at the park. He was jogging—shirtless, obviously—and tripped over his own fucking shoelaces. Adorable. Total himbo vibes.”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling into your glass.

“Thought you liked nerds.”

“That's the thing,”

She turned to you, grinning like a fool.

“Ok so, we were talking about showers,”

“Naturally.”

“Naturally. Anyways, he starts going on about different hypotheses of 'the shower curtain effect' with this dumbass smile on his face. I'm trying not to stare at his tits and just ask him if he wants drinks before I start drooling. Obviously, he says yes, and here we are!”

She finishes her glass and helps herself to another. You lean closer to her.

“So what's the plan? Drinks, talk about nerdy shit, and then stumble into his place and ogle at his star wars figurines?”

“First off all,”

She raises a finger.

“He’s an artist, so get it right. And secondly, he's Scottish. So like, the accent makes everything hotter.”

You hum curiously.

“My apologies, I clearly underestimated his international flare.”

“You did. Also, you're welcome for letting you live vicariously through me, by the way.”

She flips her hair over her shoulder.

“Oh, oohh my goodness. Thank you for your graciousness.”

You say in mock appreciation, hand over your heart. Her eyes twinkle when she winks at you.

“Freely granted, my dear. I'll text you all the juicy details.”

“Lucky me.”

You say dryly, swirling your wine glass. Ishta lightly hits your knee.

“Look at us. You got your English guy, I got my Scottish one. Just gotta snatch up an Irish and Welsh one, and we've got a whole set!”

“Please be serious, girl. Also, he's not ‘my guy’, he's just a neighbor.”

“Uh-huh, keep telling yourself that. We'll see how long that lasts.”

***

You've been more moody lately. From Ishta unintentionally cock-blocking you, to work being particularly demanding, and finally, Simon terrorizing you relentlessly.

Ever since ‘the incident’ he's been on you like white on rice. He'll stop you in the mornings in the foyer and casually talk about how he came to the thought of you last night or stand behind you in the elevator and grind up against you, laxly apologizing.

“Sorry. It's just such a tight fit here, right angel?”

You silently thank God Simon has the sense to pull these stunts when no one else is around to witness his brand of debauchery (he doesn't, you just got lucky no one's there when he pulls that shit).

You're barely holding onto your patience. Every word he says, every deliberate touch grates on your nerves. He has you on edge, dangling by a thread. A simple nudge could send you tumbling— yet he never quite gives it. Instead, he leaves you like this, toeing the line.

Waiting. Waiting on you to make the jump.

It kind of surprises you, given the whole…incident. You expected him to follow you into your apartment one day and finally consummate whatever twisted, simmering thing you had going on. But he didn't. Seemed to enjoy making you squirm.

***

You could almost forget about him during the day. Almost. Work has been a circus lately, thanks to your boss—the museum curator who seems to thrive on chaos. She’s brilliant, yes, but she’s also impossible. Barking orders, demanding perfection, treating every missed detail like a personal betrayal. You spend your mornings running errands and your afternoons fielding phone calls from artists who need their egos stroked. The only moment of reprieve is when you’re in the gallery itself, away from the madness, the artwork pulling you into a quiet, timeless space.

But even that doesn’t last. Today, you spent hours installing a new piece—a massive, fragile sculpture—and as soon as it was in place, she decided it needed to be moved six inches to the left. Six inches. By the time you got home, your nerves were frayed, your patience long gone.

He’d been waiting in the lobby when you arrived, as if he knew you’d had a long day. His presence suffocating, his voice a low murmur in your ear as he stood too close, his hand brushing your hip when you reached for the elevator button.

“You look tense, angel.”

“Simon, please.”

“‘Please?’ Wow, must've been really bad today.”

He chuckles to himself, like he's so fucking funny.

You rub your eyes, the tired dryness a reminder of the day you'd had. He sees this as an invitation to step behind you and wrap his arms around you. Large frame towering over you, long arms sliding around you.

“Not in the mood for this today, Simon.”

You mutter, void of its usual bite.

You don't even have the energy to push him away when he plants a kiss on the side of your neck, softer than the last time his lips touched your skin.

“So sweet when you're tired out. Wonder if you're like this after-”

The elevator dings and you pull away, pushing his head off your shoulder and trudging to your place. At this point, you're too drained to care about his games, too tired to rise to the bait.

If he wasn't going to stop playing, wasn't going to do anything but pussyfoot around, you had better things to do—like collapse on your bed and sleep for 12 hours straight.

You reach your door and fumble with your keys, cursing under your breath when they decide now is the perfect time to be elusive in your bag.

“Need help?”

You don’t jump. You’re too used to that voice coming from behind you, low and amused. His words echo in your head more than you’d like to admit these days.

“No.”

You say, sharp enough to bite through the air as you finally fish the keys out and shove one into the lock.

It sticks. Of course, it sticks.

He says something you ignore while he leans against the side of the doorframe, watching you struggle. Your head lands on the door with a soft thud, forehead pressing against the cool metal.

“You’ve been quiet tonight. Not like you to let me have the last word.”

“I’m too tired for this.”

“For what?”

“For your bullshit.”

You spit, jiggling the key rougher than necessary.

Simon hums, entertained.

“There she is. Was worried I lost you for a minute.”

The key refuses to turn. Between him looking over your shoulder and the fucking door mocking you, your patience starts to shred, gossamer-thin.

When the door finally opens, you turn to him.

“Do you ever shut up?”

He shrugs.

“Not when I’m having this much fun.”

“You call this fun?”

“Watching you fight with a door? Yeah, a little bit. Had my money on the door though, unfortunately.”

You swear his grin is almost audible under that mask.

Your eyes narrow, heated.

“Don't you have somewhere else to be?”

He doesn't miss a beat.

“No, actually. Not tonight.”

“Of course not, when do you ever?”

You mutter, yanking your keys out of the lock.

“Just keeping the schedule free for you, love.”

“Free to annoy me?”

“Something like that.”

Your eyes drift from his face down to his arms crossed over his chest. His compression shirt doesn't help, the material stretching in a way that feels obscene.

Then while he watches you stare, he flexes subtly.

It pulls a laugh out of you, the sound slipping out before you can help it,

“Whore.”

He pulls his mask down, showing off his own smile. His canines sharp and slightly crooked, but somehow it makes him more attractive. Like he doesn't just accept his imperfections, but wears them proudly, fully aware of their charm.

“Just for you, angel.”

“Your persistence is coming off pathetic.”

You huff half-hearted, crossing your arms.

“Doesn't seem to bother you much.”

Simon goads. You think this is the happiest you've ever seen him.

“It does.”

You lick your teeth, feigning irritation. He mirrors the movement, finishing it off with a smile that makes your face hot.

“Go on then,”

His voice drops lower, thick and languid, molasses poured slow on a hot day.

“Tell me how you really feel.”

It's quiet for a moment. He tilts his head, eyes glinting and the edge you've been teetering on crumbles underneath you, all reservations and restraint gone. You grip the strings of his hoodie and pull him down to your face.

“You're insufferable.”

“Yes.”

“A tease.”

“Mhm.”

“Worst neighbor I've ever had.”

“Ouch.”

He says, though his tone is anything but wounded. If anything, it sounds downright gleeful.

“Makes me wanna do awful things to you.”

You say in a hushed tone, a newfound energy pumping through your veins. The space between you grows smaller as you tug him even closer, his hands instinctively finding your waist, steadying both of you.

“Yeah,”

His voice is low, molten. A scorching heat that flows from his mouth down your chest and stomach.

“Probably use those pretty little hands, leave marks. Bruises I'd feel every time I breathe.”

You twirl the strings around your fingers, leading him into your place. It feels like tugging on a leash tied to a dangerous dog— wild and unpredictable, tethered to you and you only. He catches the door before it slams shut, closing it without looking, dark eyes honed in on you. Makes your stomach do flips.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

His silence is answer enough, a smirk playing on his face. You muse, shoving him toward the couch with a playful push,

“Maybe I'd keep it simple, knife to the heart. If I could find it.”

He spreads out on the cushions, pulling you to him, making you straddle one of his thick thighs.

“Sounds painful, tell me more.”

“Maybe I'd tie you up. Make you beg for your life.”

When you say that, he groans— an honest-to-god groan and his grip on your hips tightens.

“It’d be hard, getting through all that muscle and bone,”

He grabs your wrist, making you press two fingers on the hard, fast pulse right under his jaw.

“Be quicker and easier to hit it right here. Faster way to go out.”

You cock your head to the side, biting back a moan feeling the beat of the vein under his skin go impossibly fast when you hum.

“Think I'm gonna go easy on you?”

His response is instant, almost desperate if you thought he was capable of that emotion.

“I hope to God not.”

He wraps himself around you, pressing you up against his solid frame like he's trying to meld his body to yours.

***

He's been at this for long, too long. He hasn't even taken off either of your pants, all too happy to have you grinding your pants against his denim. It's got you so pent up, you're half crazed, panting in the crook of his neck and mumbling pleas for relief.

“Want you, Simon.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He shakes his head and you groan in frustration.

“Been a real brat lately, can't reward that kind of behavior.”

“Pleasepleaseplease-”

“Sound so pretty, begging for me.”

You're trying anything at this point. Anything but ripping his clothes off. Or yours.

“Don't you wanna feel good too?”

Your tone is so dulcet, it's almost too sweet in your mouth, words dripping with a carefully calculated innocence. You play with the waistband of his jeans, before you can get too far he takes hold of your wrist.

“I know what you're trying to do.”

There's a pause while you pull back to look at him, a sheepish smile on your face.

“Is it working?”

“Hmm…”

“Simon!”

You huff, almost whiny. He relents, only a little, bouncing you on his thigh once before forcing your hips to grind down harder on him. It makes you lean into him again, he presses a soft kiss on your temple, the kind of gesture that feels almost like he's mocking you with a false sense of soothing. As if he feels bad for you—his touch gentle but somehow condescending.

“Poor thing, could've gotten it sooner if you wanted to. Closed mouths don't get fed, you know?”

He sounds amused, lips still brushing against your temple. Your mouth finds its way to his neck, he lulls his head back, giving you more access to it. It's sweet, tender, starting at his collarbone and moving up slowly until you get to the artery he made you press up against earlier. The moment your teeth press up against it, he comes undone.

“Gaggin’ for it that bad?”

The sound of his belt clicking makes you downright giddy, you lick his neck, feeling his heartbeat under your tongue.

“Mhm…”

He grabs your hand to shove it down his pants and your brain goes static for a moment.

“Had me waiting all this time, and now you want it?”

It's growled into your ear, something about the way it's almost spat out, mean—it sends jolts of electricity between your legs.

“C'mon, show me how much you missed it.”

Your face heats up at his words and he lets out an entertained huff.

“He missed you too, ya know.”

A breathless giggle escapes you when he flexes, making his dick jump in your hands. You pull him out of his pants, eyes going wide. You've felt how big he was before, but seeing it was a whole different thing. Made it all real. Something about the way his pink tip peeked out made you laugh a little, a fleeting thought of him blushing everywhere, even on his dick.

“What?”

He furrows his brows a little, curious.

The truth tumbles out of you before you can stop it. You think you've made a mistake until you see him. His face is unreadable at first, and you brace for some sharp quip or a look of annoyance.

But instead, Simon’s reaction is… different. His ears go pink first, followed by a deep flush creeping up his neck. You want to laugh again but he creeps a hand up your spine to the back of your neck, guiding you into light kisses. You still manage to slip out a few giggles in-between, a smile creeping up across his face. It's such a warm moment, you almost forget about holding him until he twitches in your hands.

“Got the prettiest laugh.”

“Is there anything that you don't think is pretty about me?”

You ask, teasing him.

“No.”

His answer is quick, unwavering, and so serious that it makes your breath catch. You search his face, expecting the usual smirk or a sly remark, but there’s nothing there but honesty. He clears his throat, the faintest flicker of vulnerability flashing in his eyes before he tries to mask it.

“Right, let's get these off.”

He guides you off him so you can stand, he shimmies your pants and underwear off. Once you kick off the fabric pooled around your feet he leans forward, breath hot on your mons.

“Missed her.”

He says so quietly, almost to himself.

“Your pretty girl?”

You run a hand over his buzz cut, and he grips the sides of your bare thighs.

“Yeah…my pretty girl.”

A wet kiss on your most sensitive spot makes your legs tense up. He traces slow, indulgent circles, like this was more for him than you. The tension in your body mounting with every flick of his tongue.

He goes on like this until your knees almost give way from a quick, hard suck. He holds you up with a strong grip under the crease of your ass.

“Think you can stand on your own for a minute, love?”

You’re far past the point of throwing a smart remark his way, your body humming with the tension he’s left simmering under your skin. Instead, you nod quickly, eagerly.

“So good for me, angel. How'd I get so lucky, hm?”

It’s less a question and more an indulgence, the kind of thing he says to soak in the moment while he shoves his pants down to his thighs. When he pulls you towards him, guiding you to settle on his lap, just brushing his tip over your slick entrance, you follow without hesitation—soft, pliant, docile.

“Such a sweet thing. Only for me, right?”

Before you get to answer, he drags your hips down, pushing himself inside you. The stretch borders on discomfort—not just because it's been a while, but because he's thicker than anyone you've ever had before.

It's all so overwhelming— his voice, his touch, his body—all glut and heavy with want. The weight of it crashes over you, leaving you dizzy, untethered. Every word he speaks seeps into your skin, warm and lingering, while his hands, firm yet reverent, treat you like something both fragile and fiercely desired.

When he slides you down more, you tense up. Thighs flexing, clenching around him. It draws a curse from him,

“Fuck…yeah, only for me.”

The moment is so much softer than you imagined it to be—aside from him trying to lick the inside of your mouth. It's coos and words of encouragement,

“Look at you, taking it like a big girl,”

“Bet you needed this as much as I did,”

Big, rough hands gliding up and down your body, squeezing gently. Slow, deep strokes sink into you until you're a shaking mess, arms wrapped around him, clinging onto him like he's your lifeline, mumbling nonsense into his neck. He's taking full advantage of the moment, of course, his voice low and dripping with amusement as he watches you come undone for him.

"Gonna be like this all the time now, pet?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Only like this for me, yeah?”

“Mhm.”

You whisper, the words spilling out as easily as your control.

“No one else gets to touch you like this, huh?”

“Uhn-uh.”

Your lips brushing against his neck, your heartbeat hammering against his chest, sweat slick against the skin.

And it goes on like this, making empty promises with the devil. Signing yourself away with no hesitation, no second thoughts. Because he kisses you so tenderly it makes you flutter everywhere. Because the way he lifts you up just to buck his hips up into you makes your brain leak out of your ears. Because here, pressed against him, drowning in his voice and touch, there's nowhere else you'd rather be.

He hits that spot that makes your nerves taught. You're a string wound up too tight, his name spilling from your mouth again and again, each time more ragged, a little more whiny and desperate, until it finally snaps. You shatter, the force knocking the air from your lungs while he throws his head back, your name leaking out like it's the only word he knows. You're overstimulated, thighs burning and shaking while he ruts into you. You're pushing him with flimsy arms, whining about how ‘it's too much’. That only seems to egg him on, though, spurring him to murmur filth between honeyed kisses,

“Gonna ruin you for anyone else,”

“Split you apart everyday and you'll fucking thank me for it, won't you?”

He doesn't even look for an answer from you, more than happy to bask in the mess he made of you. A few more strokes has him choking mid-sentence, sinking so deep inside you think he might've been serious about splitting you apart.

It's quiet for a moment, save for the heavy breaths shared between the two of you

“You with me, angel?”

He sighs, his lips press against the skin right over your heart. He lingers, sucking softly, the kind of pressure that's going to leave the skin tender for days—a reminder of him.

You nod, barely able to find your voice, but he waits-patient, his hands wrapping around yours.

"Yeah…”

You finally manage, squeezing a hand that completely engulfs yours, brushing against it with your thumb.

"Good,"

He whispers, his lips brushing against yours again.

"That's all I need.”

And in the back of your mind, as his touch lingers, there's a small fleeting thought:

Oh, you're fucked.

prev | next

[flovoid]

[cryptid-ghoulette]

Of course the first time I draw primo he’s just a cute old man with his roses. Anyways enjoy!

[giotanner]

I smoke my cigarette with style- Red Hood in mission, probably

(the entire video is on tiktok please support it)

instagram | ko-fi | prints

[s0fter-sin]

supernatural au where ghost is a flesh eating ghoul and soap is painfully human

in the middle of las almas, soaked in rain and blood that feels a little too close to soaked earth, soap asks - begs - ghost if he'll eat him if he dies here. ghost has to swallow the urge to promise that he will; that he'll savour him, let his body and his memory keep him warm and full as he mourns

not a drop would go to waste

and soap... soap needs to know that he won't be left in this place reeking of death and betrayal. the thought that he could fall in one of these back alleys and be left to rot and bloat, his ribs eventually cracking open and exposing his soft insides to the mexican heat fills him with a unique dread

he needs to know he'll be brought home

but scotland hasn't been home in a long time. england never came close; the various concrete bases he’s shuffled between no better than the blending walls of hotel rooms to his teenage eyes

ghost wouldn't drop him off at the nearest morgue to be planted a field with a cookie cutter headstone to be forgotten. he would consume him; piece by piece, bite by bite. it would probably take hours - days maybe - of slow, devoted feasting

but ghost is nothing if not persevering

ghost would give him a home and a duty to fulfil, even in death. he would make it so his body served a purpose just as he's served all his life

served his parents. served god. served the military. poor, aimless soap- always longing for a reason, a higher calling

what higher a calling is there than feeding a starved man?

[rosalie-starfall]

Hetty / Thor / Sam

Ghosts - The Christmas Spirit, Part One

[missholloween]

Yesterday Spotify did something funny

Yeah Rose and Samuel, tell me more about John's journal and all that's inside of it

[etinceelle]

"I will bend the entiere universe to stay with you."

Yeah I chose pain and hope for tonight's sketch.

[silkirose]

new pfp new me

[ninashiki]

i feel like almost everything in utena has sort of already been extensively discussed in the last two (almost three) decades of utena's existence (not that there aren't new interpretations to be made, there always are) besides black rose arc (mikage+mamiya+tokiko). which is why they're so much fun to think about. i think the need to read between the lines makes it unfortunately easy to misunderstand or look past obvious stuff if you don't pay attention, but to me it's always been really obvious that mikage's arc is a literal representation of the erasure of queerness in ohtori (society?) by akio/everything he represents. and that's so fucking tragic! nemuro was never able to find a name for his desires. he lived and died as a puppet in the shadows.

[breanna777]

Looks a tad bit similar

[zachbradleyphotography]

Can be very sweet when she needs a friend...

Yermo, California

[biggestqiblifan]

Hold Up.

Was I the only one who noticed this?

Those 2 excerpts were from House of Earth and Blood and Court of Mist and Fury.

make of it what you will.