http-paprika

[http-paprika]

every building soap destroys without clearance, ghost gets 1+ paperwork and 3+ hours of migraines

[http-paprika]

Request for Price smiling and I can't resist this dilf

[http-paprika]

Simon never heard his father say sorry, or please, or thank-you, or I love you.

In their house, when his mama would put down hot, heavy casseroles, her skin damp with sweat, eyes darting for some sweet words, his father never said one word of thanks, let alone 'some'. Only waved his thick, impatient hand.

His father never took the plates to the sink. Never noticed when she stayed up at night to sort the screws by size and purpose—organizing the chaos he left behind just to find one damn hammer.

His father never said ‘please can you—’ only grunted with that bitter mouth, glared with those unkind eyes when he needed something.

Simon never heard him say I love you. And he couldn’t believe his eyes the day his father plucked out his baby brother from his mama's arm, and didn’t spare one glance for his Ma. She didn't deserved that, did she? Her weak frail body, cracked murmuring lips — she should be celebrated with adoration, comfort, love.

Love, and an infinite of it.

His father never sat beside her just to drink tea. Never told her about his day. Never asked about hers — what she did, or liked, or wanted. Never reached out his thumb, however calloused it was, to wipe away the sprout on her chin. That he was grateful she's next to him, that he loved her.

So when life happened, and Simon was left to pick up his pieces and place them in a way he wanted to be—he thought whomever he will be, anything, but his father.

Anything but him.

And then life happened again but this time it arranged itself in beautiful ways. Because you came with it this time. You and all your silly lovely ways, you who kissed your knee before resting your chin, you who cheered up catching up with fridge' light switching off, you so beautiful, so kind, made up of sundust. His sunshine — lighting up his world.

And God, he was so, so grateful. Every moment, every day !

“I love you,” he’d say the moment he wakes up next to you. Pressing his love on your lips, on your shoulder, on your neck.

“I love you,” when you spill milk in the morning daze and stare at it like it might disappear.

“I love you,” when he wipes your chin and kisses your forehead.

“I love you,” when he takes your hand in his and rubs it between his palm, why ? Because he'll spend his whole life keeping your hands warm than anything else.

“I love you.” because he loves, loves, and loves you so much that it hurts, so much that it heals, so much that it's everything sweet ever happened to him.

“I love you.” for all the ways his father failed, and Simon too, as a son, as a brother — failed to save his mama and lil' brother. I love you, because in loving you he is allowing himself to be loved.

Masterlist

[http-paprika]

SABRINA CARPENTER via Instagram — April 11, 2025

[http-paprika]

IF YOU NEED TO BE MEAN—

simon "ghost" riley x doe!reader/ the anthology

Families are meant to be comfort, yours brings none. But Simon does, and with him you can have a new family—

CW— mentions of family struggles, reader is neurodivergent but diagnosis never specified (I'm not a professional, but I'm writing from experience). lots of guilt and angst, a bit of a ramble.

He's heard it. The way you bite your tongue when mentioning your family. Father and mother said so frigidly, yet with an evident guilt written over your face with bright red letters.

Simon has only met two of your sisters, but he knows there's almost a whole clan tucked away in the countryside that you haven't visited. Since when? He doesn't know and he doesn't push, there's no reason to make you so uneasy. Especially since he doesn't open about his own familial woes. It's a subject that subconsciously the two of you decide not to speak on. No reason to open such wounds.

When he returned home later than usual, with take out from your favorite restaurant and a bouquet of flowers as an apology, his ears pricked up to the tight sound of your voice in the bathroom.

Never a good sign.

Disregarding the take out on the counter, he hunted you down and felt himself almost shrinking away at your body curled up on the cold tile. Phone pressed against your ear and vacant eyes that don't even look to find his as you speak. The word cuts like a knife falling from your lips, "—yes mum, I know. I'll try."

Though he cannot hear the words spilling out of the phone, Simon's certain it's cruel. His knees creak as he bends to meet you on the floor. Calloused, rough hand brushing over your hair with a gentle touch that makes you shiver. It breaks you from the cold call, a breath of warm air after a long frigid winter.

"okay, yeah." He wants to pry your fingers away from your phone. The grip tight enough that your knuckles burn white. Wants to coax you off the tile, a place you only go when your body and mind are betraying you after a long day. The hard floor and surfaces that cut off all other senses, grounding you in a way that makes him hurt. Makes his resolve crumble.

When the words, "goodbye mum—" and the blunt dial tone that signals the woman on the other end of the line has hung up, he pulls you into his arms. You do not protest, you do not even squirm. Melting into the steadiness of his body.

"Sorry I was late." Don't mention the call Simon decides, not until you offer it that is. "Brought dinner."

You nod, his throat tightens and bites the urge to yell. Not at you, no. At your fucking mother, at whatever reason or thing had made you upset.

His doe, that's what his captain had labeled you. Small and soft compared to the wolf that he was seen as. His doe that Simon would bend and break the world if you'd ask. But you never ask, always holding back from something. The cryptic words left by your sisters makes him point the blame towards your parents. Caregiver wasn't an appropriate title with the way you spoke in hushed tones with your older sister, hand shaking as she consoles you.

"Come on, doe." The name that he'd agreed fit you so well tumbles from his mouth, split lipped, with adoration. Those same lips find your cheeks, kissing away at the salty, soft skin. Wanting to lick clean any crystal tears that spilled from your lashes. They flutter open and close like butterfly winters as you register his words. Recognition finally crossing your vacant face.

"They want me to come home—" You stop. No, not home. This apartment was your home, its walls and ceiling were what kept you out of the elements. The bed that has molded to the positions you and Simon fall into, like a dominos in place. The farm house hadn't been home since your girlhood and you had no other choice but it.

Simon recognizes the change, feels you incline your body closer to his. Listens to the long drawn out pause as you choose the right words that fits your feelings.

The words come out, a regurgitation of whatever your mum had said over the phone. Impersonal, unloving, only guilt and duty."They want me to join the rest of the family for Easter. It's fallen on my aunt's birthday this year and it's due time I visit anyway."

Who's due time, Simon does not know. Nor does he agree with. That term was just a way to guilt people like you, children who'd crawled away from the home with bloodied knees and heavy baggage, back into the place that had made them complacent. He would not let his doe return to that.

"Do you want to?" It's a simple question, but it is more than you used to receive. Or still receive now at work or with friends. When had someone last asked if you wanted to? Selfishness was a trait beaten out of you by your father, greed ridiculed from you by your mother.

"I should—"

"Didn't ask that, Doe. Asked if you wanted to." He cuts the obligation out, blotting it from the situation like misspelled words are covered with white-out. Simon didn't care about the shoulds, he should've done a lot over his life. But that doesn't mean he would, nor would you. "Do you want to spend your Easter holiday with them?"

Silence, he knows what you want to answer but can't find the strength to say. But Simon won't speak for you, so he slides his hand down to find yours. Flesh against flesh as he squeezes his grip, reassuring you and offering up a shred of strength. He'd offer it all up should you ask.

"Be selfish, Doe. Shouldn't waste your time on those who don't deserve it. Y'know that, love?" Simon reminds, letting his hand slip from yours to tilt your chin. Brown eyes that are the ocean you're sinking in, every day growing weaker yet somehow stronger from him. "We can enjoy the holiday on our own. Capt'n's wife extended a lunch invite to us. Or, stay in and sleep the day away."

His offer finds a resting place in your rib cage, the choices being tucked into a special place nestled between your heart and lungs. Simon was giving something that would seem so little to some, but so much to you.

"Yeah?" You finally speak, voice barely a whisper as your body comes to a still. Guilt falling away in your lover's arms. The ink on his arms binding you together in safe warmth.

Here he was, the escape you'd spent so long looking for. Teeth that graze but never bite, strength that builds but doesn't destroy you. Simon, for all his silence and flaws, was a looming shadow that you could rely on. The person who had become your home, where you had a place tucked under his chin. Your heels next to his boots, your trinkets next to his books, your body next to his body. Flesh on flesh. Love on love.

"Be selfish. Be blunt. Be mean to that mum of yours if you want."

Somehow, his words arouse a soft little laugh. Blushing your cheeks to replace the flushed color from before. A rose in bloom in spring in front of him.

Simon presses a kiss against your forehead, wishing his split lip was softer. Soft enough for you. But it's soft enough not to smother you, letting you breathe in the damp air. "Promise me that, Doe."

You look up, lips pressed in a line. That was a promise you didn't know if you could make.

"Promise me you'll be selfish sometimes? I can take it." He says with solid certainty, enough to make you sure.

"Promise."

So you spend the weekend with the man you now know to be your family. In the warmth of your colorful flat, under the covers and on the sofa. Skin to skin. Love to love. Man to woman. Wolf to doe.

[http-paprika]

simon loyal dog, muzzled cur

as i imagine him in houndtooth

[http-paprika]

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Simon Riley has a picture of you in his wallet.

On one of the few occasions where Simon went out to the pub with the rest of the task force, he insisted he had to leave early. He had business.

He had you waiting at home.

So, he took out his wallet to pay for the two beers he’d allowed himself to have, not wanting to be drunk by the time he’d gotten home to you.

Johnny noticed it first.

“Who’s that?” Johnny asks, pointing to the picture of you and Simon, grinning like a cheshire cat.

Kyle looks over at the photo and grins. Price was curious too, but made no move to be as nosy as the other two.

“My wife.”

Simon puts the money down on the table, ignoring the flabbergasted look on Johnny’s face and the laugh Kyle gave upon seeing it, Price even gave an amused smile.

“What do you mean ‘wife’?!” “Why’d ya never say anythin’!”

Simon walked out of the pub, dead set on returning to his wife.

To you.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

[http-paprika]

Farmer!Simon who takes reader in as his pretty little wife but turns out to have some nasty secrets? But don't worry dearie, here's a rabbit, here's a lamb, grow some flowers, bake some bread. Don't worry about where your husband goes for hours on end. What he does when he's away won't hurt you, right? The shed is locked tight to keep out wildlife. And don't pay too close attention to the fact that your rabbits all have the same eyes as him...

This is what happens when all you read is horror romance novels...

[http-paprika]

[http-paprika]

Say hello to mommy, son

[http-paprika]

i don’t think we talk enough about the dichotomy of both the apollonian and dionysian sides of price and how that translates to him loving the fall of icarus (gaz) even more than the manipulation of the assent. how he takes prophesy so far as to force the sun down gaz’s throat and make an oracle of him for himself

[http-paprika]

Can- can you draw ghost big cheesin’ too? 🥺

I would draw anyone big cheesing...

[http-paprika]

Alex Keller is a flirt. Shy eye contact, lopsided smile, and those endearing whispers that become filthier as he gets closer.

[http-paprika]

Fucking beautifully eerie. I love a good southern Gothic story and I absolutely love this!

Phillip Graves x Reader who comes out only at night, smiling a little too wide for him to relax, never coming into the house, disappearing when he’s not looking.

Phillip Graves who starts living in Appalachians, a job forcing him and Shadows to go off the grid, forcing them into places with signs “tonight these mountains will be just as cold as they were 2,000 years ago”, his boys not in awe from the impromptu trip.

Old superstitions dying hard even in men like them.

Phillip who goes out for a smoke in the middle of the night and notices a pretty thing watching him.

Eyes too sharp, smile too wide, face a little too perfect. It makes his spine itch, it makes him want to curl in on himself, it makes him want to cry.

Reader that stalks just on the edge of their property, watching him and Shadows, making small talk with some of them. Asking their names.

Asking where they come from. Asking if they are alone.

Asking if anyone knows they are out here.

Reader who never actually comes close enough to properly look at them, always in the corner of their vision, slipping away when they try to look closer.

Careful and friendly, chirping “hey Phillip”, chirping “how’s it going, boys?”, chirping “you look good enough to eat”.

It puts Shadows at ease and grates on Graves’s nerves.

He doesn’t like not knowing things, not being able to look in your face too long, not being able to get answers.

But to actually look at them Phillip or his team would need to leave the premises of the house, the safety it for some reason grants.

It’s few weeks later when they get a little accustomed to the strange thing lurking outside, some of them going as far as to have a little flirty banter or share few jokes when out smoking.

After all, they never come close to the Reader and the Reader themselves are never outright hostile. Just unnerving. Smiling like they know how it ends.

Smiling like they are waiting for something.

Phillip doesn’t like it. Phillip doesn’t like it at all, he doesn’t like watching some of his men return half delirious after going out to “smoke” — eyes a little too wild, chests heaving, lips wet.

But there’s little they can actually do and as it was said, whoever pretty thing that took liking to his team and him is…they aren’t attacking.

But the tension is palpable in the air, cracking between all of them, like the storm is coming and the primal instinct deep inside of them makes them restless. That’s the only reason why Phillip gives a green light to drink a little.

Just enough to take the edge off. After all, they need to be alert and ready if anything was to go down.

But some of them have a little too much and it makes air a little too light, tension draining from shoulders, legs getting stretched out as they are trading salacious stories and good-natured jokes.

And in the heat of the moment, on the peak of fun — one of them whistles.

Sound cuts through the air like hot knife through the butter, sharp and high. A signal.

Multiple hands fly up quickly, old superstition to never whistle in the house especially not after sun goes down, rises their hackles.

And for a moment they don’t even notice another sound. A softer one.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Tap. Taptap. Tap-

It’s soft and rhythmic, vaguely familiar — pattern recognition kicking in when it repeats.

Pattern recognition kicks in before his sense does and Phillip feels a chill run down his spine, sharp intake of breath near him just a very unfortunate confirmation.

His men stare behind his back and god, he hates things like that, that’s why he doesn’t fucking watch horror movies, that’s why he lived as long as he did in his line of work.

But the tapping repeats when he doesn’t turn around, cold sliding to his fingers, cooling him off, blood pumping in his ears and he fucking hates the way his brain made connection before he consciously did. Because the tapping repeats and he knows what it means.

Tap. Tap. Taptap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-

Because the first thing they teach you is fucking Morse Code.

Phillip slowly turns around, finally able to see your face but it doesn’t feel like a victory.

It feels like defeat.

Because you are smiling too wide, eyes squinting from light — shadows on your face sharp and wrong and too fucking dark.

You tap a finger against the glass of their window again and Phillip forces himself not to look away, not to curl in on himself, not to wail because your smile splits your face and humans surely don’t have this many teeth.

Phillip finally knows what you were waiting for. Not for them to come out to you, not for them to slip and let you snatch them like naive lambs into the forest and stuff your belly.

You were waiting for an entirely different thing.

You tilt your head to the side, flashing him sharp points of your canines, leaning in, watching him through the glass.

Smile too wide and eyes too sharp, none of them moving a fucking inch of their bodies, blood flowing back to the head, leaving limbs cold and them shivering.

But you tap on the glass again. Soft, rhythmic sound that makes their hearts pound harder.

“Open up”

[http-paprika]

simon riley x pretty bird f!reader

i went sunbathing for the first time this spring and daydreamed up this

warning(s): illusions to smut, breeding kink, and pregnancy. READER'S DISCRETION ADVISED MDNI

Thinking about Simon coming home earlier one sunny afternoon, wandering around the house to find his pretty bird stretched out like a cat on a blanket, bathing in the sun in just a small bikini. Her skin glowing under the warm light he can't help but picture himself going out to join her and taking her right there in the grass of their hedged in backyard. Warm bodies melting together like one flesh of lust and love until he was satisfied to know that the next time he catches her sunbathing, her skin has a different glow and her soft belly has turned swollen and firm.

Simon shakes his head, grumbling to himself about being ridiculous. But he couldn't help it, she was just so beautiful. Like a ripe fruit in summer, rosy and ready for him to feast on. Instead, Simon collects himself and walks out into the backyard, putting his hands on his hips and looking down at her. His shadow blocking the sun from her view.

Her eyes open, blinking as they try to adjust to the change in light. A hint of blush spreading over her cheeks at his sudden appearance. "Simon—"

"So, this is what my pretty bird does when I'm away? Seems to me you need something to keep you busy."

[http-paprika]

Follow up to this post (sorryyyyyy this took like 300000 years) Simon Riley/Reader

You glance down at the list on your phone, slowly ambling along with the shopping trolley while Joey directs all of his focus towards the little tupperware of yogurt melts in the cupholder. He picks up another piece with his tiny thumb and forefinger, pushing it into his mouth and teething as is starts to dissolve. You could always trust him with food— ever since he'd been old enough to hold onto his snacks. He'd never spit things out or throw them to the floor. Simon never wasted food either.

A sigh leaves your lips as you're forced to recon with the price of cold medicine. You know you should get it now— it's snowing out, and it's be a pain in the ass to be caught without it. Well, you could probably make do, but you'd count yourself as a bad mama if you didn't at least keep some of the stuff for infants stocked. In the cart it goes, ticking up the total you're keeping in your head.

Joey makes a gurgle the calls your attention. You could be imagining it, but it seems like his hair is getting a little lighter— maybe he's taking after his father? The same dark eyes, too. You smile when you see him and all of the tiny little ways he's growing every day. But can't help but wonder if Simon might've stayed— if he'd known you were going to have such a pretty, sweet baby. Nothing short of angelic.

-x-

You look different. Of course, it wasn't as if Simon had expected you to look exactly the same. Truthfully, he wasn't expecting to see you ever again. You look, somehow, more beautiful than he remembered. Tired, but beautiful. The cute little fella in your cart doesn't hurt. While he knew he coudln't be the one to give them to you, he'd always known any baby that came from you would be gorgeous.

He wants to be happy that you'd found someone who could give you that. Someone who must've wanted the same thing you wanted. A better man than him, almost assuredly. He tugs the hood of his jacket up, as if that'll make his brick shithouse of a body any less conspicuous— he's wearing all black against the painful white of the flourescent light and linoleum floor. The jarring beep from the card reader you're using jerks him out of his self consciousness.

-x-

Fuck. Your paycheck must not've cleared just yet. You'd thought for sure it had, but you'd been wrong before and you'd be wrong again before the day was out, most likely. It was embarassing enough to have a card decline when you were alone, but with a baby in your cart? You hope to god no one's looking at you and thinking about calling social services. Just as you're about to take the world's deepest breathe to suck up what could potentially be a torrent of tears, a pale, tattoed arm glides into view and taps a beaten-up piece of plastic to the reader. You turn to see a familiar set of dark eyes perched above a black facemask.

You stutter out an unsteady th-thank you, almost in a daze. Joey picks that moment to mumble some vague simulacrum of the syllables you'd utter, trying to copy the intonation.

Simon had never been a chatterbox. Sometimes it was a relief, and sometimes it was agonizing. The silence that accompanies the three of you as he follows you to your car is somehow both. You put Joey, all bundled with his tiny striped hat pulled tight over his ears, into his car seat before anything else. Simon's already popped your trunk and started putting bags inside.

You walk around and turn the ignition, just to get the heat going for baby. And—

… there's nothing. You feel like the sound you release in frustration echoes in the snowy car park.

-x-

The energy in Simon's car was tense. He'd offered to jumpstart yours, of course, but you didn't want to have your baby waiting around in his car while you tried to make it work. Seemed a better option to just strap his car seat into Simon's car and have him drive you home. You'd go back for your car another time.

Meanwhile, Simon's starting to get more and more furious with whoever the father in this scenario is. It was becoming clearer and clearer that he wasn't in the picture— and why the hell not? You're beautiful, the baby is an angel— even if he hadn't been cut out for fatherhood, how could he do this to you? Leave the mother of his child without enough for groceries, and with that shitbox of a car? Before he knows it, Simon has a growing to-do list in his mind. Once he's got you home, he's going on a hunt.

Home. It wasn't his home anymore. You had gotten despondent, nervous, and he was terrified of not being what you wanted, what you needed.

He carries the groceries in for you, of course. He feels transfixed as he watches you handle your baby, setting him on you hip in a well-practiced motion while you dig out your keys and jam them into the lock. Must still be sticky, like it was when he left. Whether Simon knew it or not, he'd find himself offering to tend to that too.

You set Joey down on the old recliner by the door, tugging off his tiny boots, hat, and other winter accoutrements. They go onto the coatrack, though their size makes it look a little ridiculous. Like you have a fucking build-a-bear for a roommate. The empty hook stares back at Simon.

While you set your baby in his play pen, Simon finds himself falling into old habits. Putting away the groceries. Everything is more or less in the same place. There's a feeling in his diaphragm that wells up, empty and sorrowful at the knowledge none of this belongs to him, and as soon as these things are away, he should leave. Maybe threaten the landlord on his way out regarding the lock.

"I'm going to put on a cup of tea. Do you want one?"

He nods, feeling his words catch in his throat. You don't bother to ask him if he takes it the same way you remember. Some things never change.

The little table in the kitchen still has a slight wobble. He tags it in his mind as something that needs to be fixed. That mental list is a long one. Before long, you have a mug and an opened pack of Arnott's assorted biscuits in front of him. There's more scotch fingers than anything else. You never used to leave them for last.

When you're sat in front of him, after a few deep breaths and sips of your black tea (he'd watched you add the same metric fuckton of honey you always did), Simon finds himself feeling uncharacteristically… chatty. He has a million questions, most of which have answers that would probably hurt you to say and hurt him to hear.

"I don't know how to thank you… For the groceries, the ride, all of it. I'm not sure what I would've done. I wish there was more I could offer."

If you had to guess what he'd want in exchange for his kindness, you'd guess he'd want to be left alone. That you'd let him leave quietly again. But you don't know how to offer that without it sounding backhanded. He casts his gaze over to the playpen for a moment, and you follow it.

"'Ow old is he?" The question catches you off guard. It occurs to you for the first time that Simon might not know this is his baby.

"Eight months. His first birthday will be in March." He squints as if his eyes have the ability to zoom, watching as your son sucks on some silicone teething keys.

"Woulda thought he was… younger."

"He's kinda small. He was born premature and he still hasn't really caught up to where he's supposed to be, weight wise. But he's healthy otherwise. His name is Joseph, but I call him Joey. Hi Joey-bear," you say, waving towards the playpen as your baby gurgles happily. That's one thing he doesn't share with his father— the expressiveness.

Then again, Simon's currently got a look of concentration on his face as if he's helping mission control launch a rocket. He's doing mental math. And he suddenly feels ready to kick his own ass.

Premature. And you were alone.

"So he's mine." It's not a question. He may not have wanted to be a father, but he did love you. He trusted you. The baby couldn't have been anyone else's given the timing.

"Yes, he is. Biologically, at least." His jaw aches from how he clenches it.

"When did you find out that you were pregnant?"

"A few weeks before you left. I was trying to figure out how to tell you, and… I knew that the way you left… Well, you didn't leave like someone who wanted to be found."

He wants to ask why you didn't go after him. Call him up and tell him what a bastard he was and that he left you on your own with a baby. But he knows goddamn well why you didn't tell him.

Because you didn't think he'd want to know. That he wouldn't have wanted to help. That if he did come back to take responsibility that he'd end up hating you for trapping him and forcing him to turn into something he didn't want to be.

And you named the damned thing Joseph. He'd never told you about Joseph. What a way for fate to twist the long glass shard stabbed into his gut. It shatters from the torque and leaves a thousand little pieces churning inside him with infinite sharp edges grinding together.

"I always kind of had the feeling that you'd leave. At least this way… it was like I could hold onto a part of you."

Joey picks that moment to whine, starting to get fussy and squirming. You nearly spring up, speeding over to the playpen to lift him up and bounce him with a palm to his back. Simon gets an agonizingly good look at Joey's face while his head is perched on your shoulder, your back to the kitchen. He can't see himself in his face. Just you. Nervous-lipped and innocent.

And fuck, you just look like such a goddamn natural handling his son. That's the only way he can see it now.

"I have to— I'm gonna put him down for a nap, I think he's a little cranky. I'll be right back but, I… I don't want to keep you. Thank you again, Simon," you force out with the littlest crack in your voice, but it seems enormous to him.

The dark circles, the declined card, your car, the lock on your front door, and you're giving him an out. A chance to leave and forget this ever happened offered up on a silver platter. He follows you to the tiny spare room he used to use as some mockery of an at-home office. Now it's a rather quickly assembled nursery. All of it you'd done on your own.

The walls are yellow. There are pock marks from the way things had been mounted on the wall, before. Must've been in a rush to get things ready, hadn't had time to fill them in. He didn't need to know that you cried when the paint wouldn't fill in the gaps, not that you'd expected it to. It was just one of those days where you wanted something impossible to happen because it would've made life a little easier to bear.

You shush and coo at Joey, wrapping him up in his favorite blanket to help him settle. You scoop a plush lion off of the floor to tuck into his arms as soon as you set him down.

"Such a big day for my big guy," you say softly, "I'm sorry your mama keeps getting into trouble." You kiss your pointer and middle fingers, touching them to his forehead as he loses the fight to keep his eyes open. You gasp when you feel the once-familiar sensation of Simon's calloused hand slipping over yours. He pulls you, urges you, into the hall, softly shutting the door behind himself.

You're pulled against him as his restraint reaches its end, mouth hungry and wanting, the welling pit inside him black and empty without the thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips. He always was a nasty kisser— tongue running against your gums and tracing your teeth. Saliva strings between your panting mouths by the time he pulls away. You just barely manage to wrangle your synapses enough to swallow and clear your throat before speaking.

"Simon. We shouldn't— I won't do this. I can't. I can't handle having you for a night and being alone again. You can forget today happened if you want, forget that you ever found out about us, just don't do this to me."

"You wan' me on my hands and knees, then?" Your brows twist in a pained confusion.

"W-what are you talking about?"

"I'll beg. I'll beg if that's what it takes. If you let me be a part of this."

"A part of this what?"

"This family. I want it."

"You said you didn't—"

"I thought I didn't. I've never wanted to take something back more than that. I didn't… Didn't think anything that came from me could be good. Guess I forgot about your part of the equation. I left because I'm a fucking idiot and a coward. I thought you wanted me to be something I couldn't be." His hand circles the meat of your hip, thumb inching up the hem of your sweater. He feels a few more stretch marks than there were before. You grab his wrist as if to pull him away on instinct, but pause.

"I don't… It's not cute. How my body changed, that is. I don't… I don't think you'll find me all that attractive anymore." Rip out his heart and stomp on it, why don't you? You say it without a hint of bitterness. It wouldn't have hurt so bad if there'd been some venom in it, at least. But no, you say it like it's a fact. Plain and simple.

"Sayin' shite like that… S' like you want me to knock you up again to prove you wrong. Can't believe I missed out on seein' you all full and pregnant… I shoulda been here. Taking care of you."

It's hard not to melt against him. It always was. He's warm and encompassing and makes you feel sheltered.

"You have to promise you won't leave again. Not me, and not him." You've already pressed your cheek to the breast of his jacket. You don't know how you'll be able to live without this— if he decides it a promise he can't make.

He wants to tell you that you have cart blanche to kill him in whatever way you find most suitable if he does something that fucking stupid, but he knows that wouldn't make you happy right now.

"I promise, love. Never again."

[http-paprika]

LITERALLY STUNNINGGGG 😭🤩😭😭😭

graves when i catch you

when i catch you graves

reference for this study bellow ⬇