zoeypurdy

[zoeypurdy]

[zoeypurdy]

soap dropping you off at your place after your first date, pointing out the weird guy very poorly hiding in the alleyway next to your building

it freaks you out to the point where you ask johnny to stay the night, your nerves running you ragged because what if this guy tries to break in after johnny leaves? it’s only natural that he calms you down with soft kisses and gentle sex

simon only leaves his place in the alley after he gets a text from johnny, a photo of your head on his chest, fast asleep and his fingers running through your hair

a few seconds later another picture comes through, a pair of frilly panties with a damp crotch

‘a bonus for your hard work :)���

[zoeypurdy]

Seconds. Ghost x f!Reader.

Tidal disruption events occur when a star passes too close to a supermassive black hole, and is pulled apart by the black hole's tidal force. AT2018fyk is the name of a tidal disruption event in which a supermassive black hole devoured a star, then came back for seconds.

He doesn't believe in fate, but he believes people are creatures of habit.

And what luck, she is.

She slips into the pub quietly, her arrival swiftly overshadowed by the crowd. Rainwater trickles off her jacket, puddling on the wood beneath her as she keeps her hood drawn, hiding her face until she finds her usual corner. There, at the end of the bar where it bends into the wall, she sits, peeling off the outer layer to reveal the dark, muted clothing beneath. Barely a sliver of skin exposed. A mouse, just as skittish and meek as he remembers.

The glasses are new. Thin frames, like a librarian. His fingers twitch with the thought of plucking them off her face. The thing in his chest purrs.

He could move. Let her see him, watch the fear bloom on that soft face of hers in real-time. But no. He's not in a rush. He's had days to settle, to breathe. To cram himself back into the worn shell of Simon.

No more adrenaline coursing through his veins, no caffeine pills burning his insides. Just paracetamol and ibuprofen dulling the ache in his bones. But there's an ache deeper than that, which no pill or tablet can touch.

She isn't supposed to be here. Not again. He told her that when he pulled out and rolled her over.

If I see you again, it's for keeps.

The hunger pulls. 

Rears its ugly head at the sight of her and gnashes its teeth.

Inevitable, inescapable, it tears him apart in violent tides. His ribs press too tight around what wants her, threatening to snap open like a steel trap. It pulls his reason gossamer thin, then shreds it. Patience crumbling into dust.

This mercy he's giving her? Letting her have one round in peace? It's the most of what he'll be able to give her.

He thought he'd had his fill. Thought she'd be smart enough to heed his warning. He had ripped her apart, drank down the heat of her, and left nothing but the cooling remnants of a weepy girl who could barely get the words thank you out of her mouth.

He remembers how she burned, coming undone in his hands. Whined about too much and too big. And yet, she lived.

Clever thing, piecing herself together while he rinsed off, turning tail out of the dingy motel room. Hurtled right out of his reach. 

He never had the chance to track her down, shipping out the next day. Never the chance to change his mind.

He shrugged it off. He could live with it. He'd learned to live with a lot of things he wished were different.

But his hunger is a thing with memory. And as soon as he sees her, nursing a drink with her nose in a book—he knows he's not done.

Some things circle back whether they mean to or not.

[zoeypurdy]

[zoeypurdy]

[zoeypurdy]

space cowboys // cw: trauma getting triggered prev: a, b, c, d

simon goes under.

it happened instantaneously, during a quiet afternoon. she’s on her side of the couch, engrossed in the book that she’s reading, and simon had been discreetly watching because something about taking in the silence with her settles what is repugnant within him, but one thing led to another, and the careful sounds of her flipping the pages start to fade, like his ears are stuffed with cotton, and simon—

simon is drowning.

his memories are coalescing, miasmic as they raze his mind. they are pressing into his skull, thudding, pulsing. a beating staccato; a mimicry of his heart. simon’s known fear before — he is not new to the haunting — but it remains a void, jagged and armed to the teeth, no matter how many times it’s torn him apart.

big man, boogeyman, still reduced to this — putrid and rotting. a wolf caught in a bear trap; beastly yet ruined by man’s creation.

no. no.

he is an abandoned slaughterhouse. ravenous and empty; peeling at the seams. decaying. there is blood in the air; blood on his skin, dripping like molten wax, carving. painting. so blistering.

drowning. simon is drowning.

simon is—

“—to me.”

trying to wade through the tides, overcoming the current, but tendrils slither around his limbs, pulling him taut, dragging him down. a beast in the waters. another horror to fight for survival.

“si, dear—”

he cannot breathe. he cannot think. there is another war tearing him apart; coiling around his joints, scooping out his flesh, leaving him as he is. scarred. broken. a man. a boy. food for the dogs; for the yawning.

“—come back—”

all at once, sound surges into simon’s ears.

a blaring noise, tearing through the fog. a riptide, serrated with teeth, screeching. hissing. loud and angry and encroaching; unimaginable. uncontainable. unbearable—

simon is—

simon breathes.

he breathes.

one shaky drag at a time, pulling it from the edges of his lungs, grasping with a dizzying focus. he feels it spread through him, weaving within his bloodstream, like a trickle of a river. of hope. of life. of something so simple and kind and continuous.

of something grounding.

he breathes, blinking his eyes off the blur. the haze lifts, light filters in, once again, like curtains are peeled back to let the sun dance close, serpentine rays beaming with softness, like dawn is just about to break and spring is already whispering in his doorsteps.

like—

warmth.

pulsing underneath his palms, beating a faint song of a heartbeat that isn’t his. simon shakes his mind awake, feeling the haunting dissipate with every rasped breath he takes in, and tries to tear his eyes from the blanketing darkness to see. a memory licks at the back of his skull; it is a name. a face.

her.

simon surges back into his body, his shaking soul locking into the cages of his skeleton, and feels how he has pressed the both of them down to the cushions. he searches for her eyes, the words tripping over each other on his tongue, and he doesn’t know what first to say, then he finds her.

he sees the worry, her normally calm face awash by anguish so loud, he almost didn’t recognize her. his wife, in all but name and sanctity, gazes up at him with something so reverberating that simon feels his lips wobble, the backs of his eyes prickling with something he doesn’t have a word for.

he shapes her name in his mouth, trying to sound it out because what if she isn’t real? what if this is part of the haunting — a taunting of what could be?

but, she says his name first. she says it like it’s a prayer; like it’s something to revere.

“simon,” she says like his name is a gift. “are you—” she continues, but simon crumbles, and falls towards her.

she grunts, not expecting his bulk, but simon can’t sound out his sorry’s, feeling the way his throat is lodged with a lump that he can’t swallow down. all he can do is press his face to her neck, not minding the way his nose got snagged by the hood of her jumper, and breathes her in.

she doesn’t smell like all the other girls who he used to fall to the bed with, the ones with roses and apples and cinnamon dusting their soft points, or his mates who ground him with their scents of gunpowder and soot and tobacco. she smells like his shampoo, still, and her drugstore lotion of cocoa butter and vanilla, and ozone, the cloudy air of the city sticking to her still, but it’s to this that simon’s body uncoils.

it unfurls, the tension leaving him in heaps. and this, just like this, she smells like his home.

an anchor to his storm. a ship to his current. a light in the abyss.

alive and his.

[zoeypurdy]

Barry Sloane as Joe 'Bear' Graves in SIX (2017).

[zoeypurdy]

[zoeypurdy]

fucking shy!simon for the first time

shy!simon who overthinks it to death. it’s not that he doesn’t want it, he does,. he wants it so badly the thought of your sweet, tight cunt keeps him up at night—but he gets stuck in his own head. he’s big and oafish, maybe a little dumb in this department, rough around the edges, and this is you. he’s terrified of messing it up, of ruining something he doesn’t even know how to name.

shy!simon who (when you finally, FINALLY corner him in the mess and drag him back to your quarters) hesitates every time his hands skim over your skin, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. and when you don’t, when you lean into him instead, he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

shy!simon who freezes the first time your tiny, warm hands slip under his shirt and skim over his bare skin. muscles tensing, breath catching, eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart. he’s shaking and he swears under his breath, cheeks burning, but he doesn’t stop you.

shy!simon who still asks, "you sure?" when his cock is lined up with your dripping hole, in this quiet, almost broken way, because some part of him still doesn’t believe this is real. and when you tell him—beg him "please just put it in", when you tug his chest flush to yours in instead of pushing him away, something in him finally gives.

shy!simon who starts off so damn careful, like he’s convinced he’ll hurt you if he’s not. you take him easily despite his girth because you just need him that badly, but despite that, he thrusts so slow and hesitant into you, like he’s waiting for some kind of sign to let go.

shy!simon who is absolutely weak for praise. tell him how good his cock feels , that you want him, that you've never been fucked this good before in your life (even though he's barely moving. he's just the perfect size) and he completely loses himself in you, lips letting loose as he babbles your name into the crooks of your neck, grip tightening around your waist and ass as he slobbers against your skin like he can't help it.

shy!simon who is completely gone, pussydrunk off you within minutes. whatever restraint he had disappears, replaced by something raw and aching. he’s still careful, still treating you like something worth holding onto, but now he’s just desperate with it, humping his cock into you until you're whining from overstimulation and until he cums deep inside your tummy with a shudder and wet eyelashes.

shy!simon who doesn’t say much after, but his hands never stop moving, tracing slow circles against your hips, fingers running through your hair. he might not be able to tell you how much he loves you yet, but the way his thumb brushes over your cheek says it all.

[zoeypurdy]

TIME FOR A NEW PHOTO DUMPPP

(once again it’s mostly vi🧍‍♀️and some cait :3 mwahahaha)

MY FAVORITE ONEEEEEEE AAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH 👇😼

[zoeypurdy]

Tw eating disorder

I don’t know why but I like to imagine John being the safest place for you after an inpatient stint. When the voices get too loud, when the mirror is too violent, when the nausea rages, he’s there. Warm, strong hands on your shoulders, your hand in his. Sits quietly at the kitchen table and goes over paperwork while you eat. Supporting, supervising, but holding firm to your boundary. He doesn’t watch you, he doesn’t count your bites, he only takes your dishes when you’re done with a murmur- “did so good” the praise never fails to light you up, warm you, and you bask in it, leaning into his touch, calloused palm cupping your cheek.

At night, when your stomach turns sour and it’s too hard to tune out the voice telling you you’re disgusting, he turns it all off, brings you to the edge of pleasure and pain, makes you come until you’re crying, letting it all go as he holds you. “Daddy’s so proud of you, sweet girl. I know it’s hard, but you’re doing so well.”

[zoeypurdy]

[zoeypurdy]

[zoeypurdy]

[zoeypurdy]

[zoeypurdy]

[zoeypurdy]

“If you are going to be successful in creating the life of your dreams, you have to believe that you are capable of making it happen. Whether you call it self-esteem, self-confidence or self-assurance, it is a deep-seated belief that you have what it takes; the abilities, inner resources, talents and skills to create your desired results.”

— Auliq Ice